“We come in peace,” he said quietly.

The man with the gun hawked and spat, then half-raised his weapon.

“Gold?” he said hoarsely.

“Only lead,” Don Ambrosio said in a quiet voice. He loosened the carbine that was holstered to his saddle with his left hand, his right hand resting on the pommel of his saddle. The bandit pointed his own gun in response.

With a motion too swift to follow the Don pulled the Colt.44 from his waistband and fired three quick shots.

The armed man was down, as was the second man. The third staggered, wounded, turned to flee. A fourth shot dropped him by the others.

“We must move quickly now,” Miguel said, kicking his mule forward. “If there are others close by, they will have heard the shots.”

“Who are they? Or perhaps, more correctly, who were they?”

“It does not matter. Hungry men with guns fill this poor land. We have had too many revolutions and rebellions, too much killing. Now, please, we must ride.”

“Take this,” Don Ambrosio said, pulling out the carbine, turning and throwing it to him. “I’ll go first.” He reloaded the pistol as he rode. “I’ll watch the path ahead — you watch the jungle on the side.”

If there were other bandits hiding in the undergrowth they wisely kept their distance. A few miles later the track finally emerged from the forest and passed by the corn fields of a small village. Don Ambrosio put his pistol away and Miguel once more led the way. But he still carried the carbine. Years of war, revolution and invasion had left the countryside well populated with bandits. And now there were others — who were far more of a threat than bandits. Don Ambrosio, riding high on his horse, could see further along the path.

“Dust!” he called out. “A lot of it up ahead.”

They reined up, looked around for cover. There was little of it here on the coastal plain.