Major Stiles, his left leg, arm, and the left side of his face shredded by the dynamite blast that disintegrated his horse beneath him, sat with his surviving men and listened to the exchange between Franchard, Chief Mangas, and the women of Magdalena.

“Hold on,” Stiles called out. “You can’t give us over to them redskin bastards. That ain’t no way for a soldier to die. It ain’t right.”

“It’s right as hell,” Franchard said. “And you ain’t a soldier, Stiles. You never were. You’re a murderer, robber, rapist, outlaw, and coward who got whupped by a passel of widows and a handful of Texans.”

“Did you boys really come all the way from Texas, just for us?” Stiles asked.

“We surely did,” Franchard said.

“What the hell for? We never messed with Texas.”

“A wise policy,” Franchard said, “but it won’t do you any good today.” He started to walk away.

“Hey, Ranger,” Stiles shouted, pain and desperation creeping into his voice. “You ain’t really gonna let them savages take our scalps and burn us alive, are you?”

“That’s the plan,” Franchard said.

“You can’t,” Stiles said. “We’re white men. It ain’t Christian to let us die like that.”

“After what you and your men did to us,” Maggie said, “you’re going to claim Christian mercy?”

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, bitch,” Stiles said.

“I’ve got one more favor to ask Chief Mangas,” Franchard said to Bina.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Can she,” Franchard pointed to Maggie, “light the fire?”

Bina translated the question to the Apache elder and received another nod in return.

“Probably would have been better off for you, Major,” Franchard said with a grin, “iffen you’d died outright, like most of your boys.” Stiles lowered his head. “Once them Apache commence to workin’ on you, I’m bettin’ you’re going to wish you’d never messed with New Mexico, neither.”

“Please,” one of the other wounded outlaws suddenly called out, “don’t burn us alive? I’ve seen men burn. I’m beggin’ you? Just shoot us or hang us. Please?”

One of the women stepped forward. “I recognize you,” she said to him. She was a pretty young woman with light-colored hair. “I remember begging you not to rape me. This, on the same day you buried my pa and my husband, down in that mine. Did you show me any mercy when me or any of the other womenfolk begged?”

“Please?” he whimpered again.

She spat on him. “There’s your mercy,” she said.

“Don’t beg for nuthin’ from these whores and cowards,” another captive outlaw said. He was a tall, skinny man in his late thirties, with a scar and a hole where his left eye should have been. He was uninjured, having only been knocked off his horse and rendered temporarily unconscious during one of the blasts.