Burroughs stood amongst the dead in the arroyo, hands on hips, deep in thought. Early morning, the camp emerging from a long night’s sleep. Munching down their breakfasts with gusto, Burroughs had not partaken, preferring to sit away from the others and enjoy a scalding hot cup of coffee. Now, with the day moving on, he looked at the bodies of his former comrades without a glimmer of conscience. It was not their deaths that troubled him. He was vaguely aware of people moving around him, but it was only when a hand came down on his shoulder that he started and snapped his head around. Before him was a swarthy looking individual, dressed in black jacket, pinstriped trousers, and knee-high riding boots. He wore two guns. Anyone who looked at him, however, could not help but be drawn to the mo
