Six Men of Evil

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THE torrid Mexican sun had set. The lingering rays from the distant horizon threw a faint afterglow that presaged a sweltering night. The gloom barely outlined a party of weary horsemen who were wending their slow way through patches of mesquite, heading northward.

The men were talking. Their voices were hushed as though the dimness of the arid plain held them in awe. Solitary wanderers in a deserted plain, they were temporarily traveling through a world peopled by themselves alone.

The voices faded. The horses dragged along through silence. The mounted figures were dimming in the gathering night. Then the tension broke as one of the plodders emitted a savage, growled oath.

The curse brought a coarse laugh from one of his companions. Grumbled mutterings followed from the others, with one exception. A single rider maintained his steadfast silence.

“We’ll get there before dawn,” growled the man who had cursed. “Yes — we’ll get there — and then what?”

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