The batwing doors creaked. A man in an expensive charro suit entered. He was clean-shaven, with soft hands and a crueler smile. His name was Don Rafael Mendoza.
Bruno Cruz walked out into the brutal sun, a dead man with nothing left to lose, heading toward the mountains where the coyotes would not dare follow. Behind him, Santa Miel returned to its dust. And El Libro Vaquero would remember his name for one more page. libro vaquero
His name was Bruno Cruz. Six years ago, he had been the sheriff. Now, his face was a map of old scars and his eyes were two dead coals. He wore a black hat, cracked with age, and a grey poncho that hid the handle of a Colt .45. The batwing doors creaked