The Mission War by Wesley Ellis Page A

could say; there was no other way but to walk right in there and hope for the opportunity to get Jessie away from those killers.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” Ki said. “You go on back to the shack or wherever you think you will be safest.”
    â€œThe mission church,” she replied without hesitation. “They will not find me there.”
    â€œAll right. Maria...” Ki’s eloquence deserted him. What could he say when he didn’t know if he would see her again, when he didn’t know if he would survive this day. She went to tiptoes and kissed him and then spun away almost in anger, walking toward the distant, high-walled mission church.
    Ki watched her for a moment. Then resolutely tugging his sombrero lower and hunching his back to make himself appear smaller, less athletic, he shuffled off through the empty, dusty streets of San Ignacio toward the cantina.
    He approached through the back alley. There was no one on the streets at all. A yellow dog, rail thin, watched Ki pass his resting place in the shade; otherwise Ki didn’t see a living thing.
    Until he saw Arturo.
    The bandit was perched on a barrel, dark sombrero worn over his eyes and rifle across his knees. Ki slowed his pulse and continued on, shuffling to where the ban dido sat.
    â€œWhat do you want, dog?” Arturo growled.
    â€œTo clean up, señor, to sweep as I always do.”
    Arturo tipped his hat back a little and with red, glassy eyes peered at the narrow, hunched peon before him. “All right,” he said at last, “but be careful you don’t wake anyone up. Mono is in there asleep. You know Mono, don’t you, dog?”
    â€œSí, señor.”
    â€œIf you wake Mono up, maybe he’ll clip your huevos off for you. Understand me?”
    â€œYes, I understand. Very quiet—but I must sweep.”
    Arturo grunted something, pulled his hat down again, and apparently went to sleep himself as Ki entered the back door, his rope-soled sandals shuffling along the corridor.
    Sanchez, exhausted from the night’s work and the tension, was behind the counter on a stool, his head resting on his arms. His head came up quickly, his eyes registering confusion.
    â€œWho ... ?”
    â€œIt is only me, Natividad,” Ki said. “Come to sweep up.”
    Sanchez’s eyes narrowed. Something about this stranger registered in the back of his mind, but Sanchez couldn’t put his finger on just what it was. Sanchez simply remained silent rather than stir up the bandits in any way. He watched without comment as the man who was pretending to be Natividad found a broom and began to work among the tables where the bandits sprawled, reeking of sour liquor and tobacco, of sweat and gunpowder.
    Mono’s eyes blinked open suddenly and the bandit chief glowered at Ki. Ki saw Mono’s body tense, saw his meaty hand drop toward his gun butt. It was over. The bandit king was going to kill him, carry his severed head off to the cartel, and have his way with Jessica Starbuck.
    But it didn’t happen that way. Mono didn’t recognize Ki any more than Sanchez did. He opened his bleary eyes, saw a peon sweeping the floor of the saloon, and closed his eyes again, letting his huge hand drop away from the butt of his Colt.
    Ki worked silently among the drunk, sleeping outlaws. His eyes measured each man, noted his position, and his sweeping took him closer and closer to the blond woman dozing in a comer chair.
    Ki looked around again, noticing that Diego Cardero was not around. With his broom he nudged the leg of Jessie’s chair, then nudged it again, harder yet.
    Her green eyes popped open.
    Maybe Sanchez and Mono didn’t recognize Ki, but Jessica Starbuck had been long on the trail with this man, this Ki, and she knew him instantly. Her lips parted automatically to speak, but she was awake enough to clamp them shut again.
    Her hands were tied, but her ankles were not: Looking