The Border Army Series
SLOW TRAIN TO SONORA
LOYD M. UGLOW
“The wrath of a king is as messengers of death.”
Rodolfo Escarra glanced across the opulent room at the massive grandfather clock. Five minutes to ten. The Old Man had said he’d come at ten, and punctuality was one of his virtues, even now. Ten it would certainly be.
Escarra shut his eyes. There was the hum of anxious conversation, that and the clink of ice in crystal glasses. Ice—a precious commodity in Veracruz in the month of May—but the Old Man had never let scarcity or cost stand in his way. He was, however, a man of relatively simple tastes. At least that had been Escarra’s experience with him, confirmed by the tales and whispers of others through the years.
Uncertainty permeated the room. It was plain on the faces of the other men. This was, after all, the changing of the guard, and the first time in thirty years. But they were lesser men.
Several stood near Escarra—too near. Trujillo from Morelos was talking nervously to two others. Really the alcohol was talking. The smell was in the air—that, and a feeling. Why did other men partake of liquor? In that, he and the Old Man were alike. He smiled just a fraction. There was that story years ago about the fellow who’d sent the Old Man a bottle of mescal, knowing full well that he didn’t drink. Had the fellow been allowed to live? It was impossible to remember. But, my, what he would’ve done to such a man—what he had done to more than one. Men learned not to joke at his expense. Yes, he was like the Old Man in that, too.
He walked over by a window, where the others weren’t so close. A white-gloved steward appeared before him with a tray of drinks. The man kept his eyes down and seemed thankful to depart when Escarra shook his head.
The window was heavily curtained in lush velvet, drawn back to admit the morning sun across the waters of the Gulf. Escarra glanced at the street below. The crowds were there, jostling one another in the warm, humid morning. This was their last chance.
The door opened, and all heads turned in that direction. A man, one of the secretaries, peeked in for a moment. A collective sigh escaped from the gathered men, and the guarded conversation resumed as the door closed. The clock read just a fraction before ten now. The second hand ticked toward twelve. It passed the mark—one, two, three—and the door came open wide. The majestic white head was the first thing visible past the crowd of suits.
The Old Man still cut a fine figure, even in the dark gray suit and tie, flanked by men a head taller. If he’d had the familiar uniform, resplendent with half the chest in medals, he’d have seemed almost like a god. The moustache was part of it, thick, snow white, and sweeping down in graceful arcs past the upper lip. But the eyes were the key—stern and commanding, eyes that had never taken no for an answer. Escarra feared no man—but there had been a time . . .
That was all in the past now. The Old Man had been ruthless—but Escarra had learned to be more so. Where the Old Man had been cruel, Escarra made himself demonic. The Old Man had used violence without hesitation, but Escarra trained himself to use it eagerly and in greater measure than his master. What had started so many years ago as an apprenticeship, and developed in his own eyes into a rivalry, had ultimately led to one result—at every turn he’d come to surpass his Jefe in the fine art of institutionalized terror.
The Old Man strode to the middle of the room and halted there, surveying his audience. They turned toward him like flowers to the sun. He didn’t smile. He seldom had, through the long decades. Now every eye looked to him as master still—but of a kingdom shrunk to the limits of a single room.
The Old Man sought out his favorites, those who’d shown themselves faithful, even unto death—the deaths of others, of course, rebels, traitors, and the inconvenient. He said a word to a trusted lieutenant; spoke a blessing of thanks to a companion in arms; gave one a warning against too much mercy when judgment was within the grasp.
Others he passed by, those who had too great a love for accommodation or too little steel. Silence from him at this final occasion must’ve stung them like a brand. And ever he moved, to one and another, like a dark priest dispensing deadly benedictions. Escarra bided his time. The Old Man would seek him out if he deemed him worthy. If not—then to hell with the Old Man. One could be a pupil for only so long. Then, it would be time to take his rightful place as master and let the Old Man become simply an old man.
At length he appeared before Escarra, face to face.
“Escarra, my trusted friend. You will be strong.” He squeezed Escarra’s shoulder with a powerful hand. “The game is not played out yet.”
Oh, but it was—for the Old Man. Escarra said, “Might I serve you where you’re going?”
“A man without a country travels too light for many companions. Stay. Work. Wait.”
Yes, yes. But not for the Old Man. His time was past.
The Old Man moved on, and when all in the room had been greeted or shunned, he found a spot where, his back to the wall, he could address them all one last time.
“They won’t push us from power so easily, eh?” This brought the shouts, the shaking heads, even from the more timid made bold by shared bravado.
From the window, Escarra looked down on the masses in the street, standing, waiting. They were there to cheer when the Old Man passed by. But was it for him or for his leaving?
“When I am gone,” the Old Man told them, “keep faith in the Acordada.” He held out an open hand to one of his confidants, who gave him a sheet of paper. The Old Man glanced over it and then handed it on to a tall, heavy man, one of the circle close around him. “You will know what to do with these. They have been troublesome.”
Escarra shifted his weight. They and many others.
The Old Man cleared his throat and looked across the group. “My time has come. I have given myself for Mexico, and no one can claim otherwise.” He gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. “Madero has let the tiger loose. We will see if he can control it.”
He glanced at the grandfather clock and started toward the door. The assembly parted before him. When he reached the doorway, there was no delay, no turning for a final look—he strode through, erect and deliberate.
And from his place by the window, Rodolfo Escarra saw the promise of a whole new world as Porfirio Diaz departed the room for exile.
“Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men left-handed; every one could sling stones at a hair breadth, and not miss.” Judges 20:16
It came down to the last four rounds—two bullets for each man.
Lieutenant C. W. Langhorne wiped his thick moustache and relaxed in the prone position, waiting for his opponent, an infantry sergeant named Hambrick, to line up and take his shot. The man chambered his next-to-last round in the 1903 Springfield and settled into the firing position.
The sergeant’s shooting had been nearly flawless all afternoon. The competition was grueling, one of the toughest Langhorne had ever participated in, his own cavalry team trading shot for shot with the infantry team that Hambrick anchored. Now, with the score tied, those last four shots would determine the outcome—win, lose, or draw.
Catherine had never cared for guns. Langhorne blinked quickly—there’d be time to think of her later.
He wiped sweat from his eyes and looked over at Hambrick, then downrange at the target, a thousand yards away toward the shore of Lake Erie. Maybe it was time to think of getting out of these competitions—after all, a man might start to lose his touch by the time he reached forty-one.
But not yet.
It was easy to figure what was going through Hambrick’s mind—all the variables of wind, temperature, and humidity. Combined, they’d determine the unique point of aim at that one moment in time.
A man’s voice, young and indistinct, drifted across from somewhere behind him, and Langhorne scowled and glanced back. A junior officer, it seemed, was guiding a young lady up into the gallery back of the firing line. It would’ve been nice with no spectators, only the marksmen themselves, but the annual competitions here at Camp Perry, Ohio, had become popular. Too popular. Apparently, some of the crowd didn’t realize the intense concentration it took to hit a three-foot bull’s eye at a thousand yards. Maybe they just didn’t care.
Hambrick held rock steady and fired. The crack from his rifle wasn’t particularly loud. Langhorne stared downrange, waiting for the result of the shot. There it was—a white disk lifted up from the men in the pits, a bull’s eye. Five more points for the infantry.
Langhorne peered through his spotting telescope and began his own calculations. They’d become second nature over years of long-range shooting since he’d first put on the uniform in 1898. The red wind flags down near the targets showed a light breeze from right to left, matching the wind at his position. Heat waves shimmered under a late summer sun. And it was getting hotter. Not enough to call for lowering his barrel on this shot, though. Maybe on the final shot. His uniform was soaked with sweat from the humidity and the pressure. The dry desert heat of El Paso and Fort Bliss, home to him and the Fourth Cavalry, would feel so much better, but no sense wishing for what wouldn’t come. At least the humidity had remained fairly constant throughout the day—no need to change elevation for that factor, either.
Langhorne chambered his round and threaded his left arm through the sling, drawing it tight. He laid his cheek along the stock and took a slow, deep breath, then held it. He brought the sights onto the target, held firm for the space of a couple seconds while his index finger took all the slack out of the trigger, then continued the pressure and fired.
The shot felt good—that usually meant a bull’s eye. Moments later, the white disk confirmed it. Still a tie.
Now it was two bullets.
Langhorne relaxed a little as Hambrick prepared for his final shot. The wind seemed to be picking up, and the sergeant peered through his own telescope. Langhorne looked, too. The flags stood out a bit more at times but then collapsed now and then. Bad news—erratic wind was harder to figure into the calculation.
He glanced back at his second-in-command on the team, Sergeant Stone of the Sixth Cavalry. Stone had shot his last round a few minutes before and was watching the final duel. Stone, Hambrick, the men on all the teams—it was easy to feel at home among them. Marksmen were a special breed, serious, unflappable, competing against themselves more than against the other contestants, striving for consistent excellence, match after match, shot after shot.
Hambrick’s shot came sooner than expected, and Langhorne looked toward the target—another bull’s eye. The pressure settled on him now like a sack of oats across his shoulders.
A tie was the best his team could get now. That wouldn’t sit well with Lieutenant-Colonel Stemmons, the regiment’s acting commanding officer. The colonel was a fierce competitor and an excellent athlete, having captained more than one athletic team as a cadet at West Point and competed in the 1900 Olympic Games in Paris—he’d recounted the whole story to Langhorne whenever he could force an opportunity. Although Langhorne’s rifle team represented the army’s entire cavalry arm, Stemmons had appointed himself something of an unofficial team sponsor and was quick to direct and criticize whenever he was present at practice or match. If he’d be unpleasant about a tie, there’d be the devil to pay if they actually lost the match.
Stemmons would be back there now, pacing like an angry tiger just behind the firing line. Langhorne didn’t look around—no, block out everything but the shot.
That shifting of the wind was troubling, and it seemed even more erratic now, just thirty seconds since Hambrick’s last shot. There was no way to foretell the sudden gusts and calms, so Langhorne settled on the general wind direction and speed. He made the barest adjustment on the wind gauge.
He loaded his last round, took one final look at conditions, then settled into firing position to wait for the breeze to steady again. He fought down the impulse to hurry, to get it over with. He waited, his hands grasping the weapon like a vise. The breeze seemed to steady from the right and hold for several seconds. He brought the sights onto the bull’s eye and began the steady squeeze that would bring the trigger back to the tripping point. Now was the time.
“Here, let me take a look at it, my dear.” The words floated across from the gallery a split second before Langhorne fired, and he tightened ever so slightly at the instant of firing. He didn’t flinch—it was much less than that. But it was movement nevertheless, maybe imperceptible to anyone watching, but movement.
Langhorne stood up, gathered his gear, and walked quietly over to Sergeant Stone. The sergeant peered downrange for the result of the shot, but Langhorne didn’t need to look—it would be no bull’s eye. A moment later, Stone confirmed it.
“Close four.” He frowned, looked Langhorne in the eye, and spoke softly. “Sorry, sir. I knew that jackass talking would throw you off. Couldn’t tell it by looking at you, but I knew.”
Langhorne had recognized the voice—the same young officer who’d spoken out earlier in the gallery. He was coming down from his seat now with the rest of the spectators, and chatting with an elegant young lady on his arm.
Hambrick and his infantry team approached Stone and Langhorne, and there was handshaking and sincere congratulations all around. It was tough to lose, tougher that it was his shot that lost it for his team, but he was still proud of them—and proud of the infantry team as well.
The officer in charge of that team, Captain Moore, nodded toward the milling spectators.
“That’s the one, Langhorne, that blond lieutenant over there with the girl.” He looked grim. “I tell you, there’s no excuse for what that fellow did. I’m gonna go over and chew on him for a while. We’ll see what his girl thinks of him then.”
“Sir, I’d rather—”
Moore was already moving, though, so Langhorne set down his gear and walked reluctantly along.
Moore slipped through the crowd on the trail of the blond lieutenant. As he and Langhorne came within fifteen feet, Moore called out.
“Lieutenant, stand fast there!”
The young officer, a cavalryman, halted and turned around, looking surprised and amused. “Are you addressing me, sir?” he asked, still holding the young lady lightly by the elbow. Langhorne heard Deep South in the fellow’s accent.
“I most certainly am,” Moore answered. Moore was tall, as tall as Langhorne, and he had three or four inches on the young man, but the fellow didn’t appear intimidated.
“Well, what may I do for you then, Captain?” His voice was pleasant enough, no edge of irritation or insolence that Langhorne could tell.
“You’ve already done too much,” Moore said. “Do you have any idea what your speaking out at a crucial point in this match has done? Don’t you realize you ruined Lieutenant Langhorne’s last shot?”
“Why, no, sir.” He chuckled. “How could I have ruined the fellow’s shot? I was only in the gallery, keeping the lovely Miss Higginbotham here company.”
The lovely Miss Higginbotham smiled at the compliment, and Langhorne looked at her for a moment. Lovely, all right. Hair a little lighter than Catherine’s.
Moore’s frown deepened. “Understand this, Lieutenant. A few whispered words, a cough, tapping the foot—anything loud enough to be heard down on the firing line is enough to mess up a man’s shot. If you’re going to watch a match, you ought to have the decency and decorum to keep silence during the shooting.” He cocked his head and stared hard at the young man. “Do I make myself clear?”
Miss Higginbotham looked aghast at the dressing down, but her escort didn’t appear fazed in the slightest.
Langhorne fidgeted for a moment. Why had he come along with Moore? The match was over, lost fair and square, and the poor girl had no part in the trouble.
“Not entirely clear, sir,” the young lieutenant replied amiably. “I fail to see how my efforts to render assistance to this young lady when a gnat flew into one of her lovely green eyes should have any material effect on some chap’s rifle shot. What was his name, Langrich?”
Langhorne frowned at that. “That’s me—and it’s Langhorne.” Self-centered kid.
The lieutenant looked from Langhorne to Moore. “But, gentlemen, how can you tell me that a few whispered words can have such a deleterious effect when men on the field of battle have to use those same weapons amidst a horrifyin’ din? ‘Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered.’ Et cetera, et cetera. That’s Tennyson, of course.”
Langhorne shook his head. The fellow had overstepped his bounds now.
Sure enough, Moore leaned forward like a bulldog.
“Mister, I don’t tolerate insubordination in any form.” He glanced quickly at the girl and back. “And being in the company of a young lady doesn’t give you a free pass.”
“But, sir,” the lieutenant replied, a pleasant, guileless expression on his face, “can you not agree with me that weighin’ a bull’s eye in one hand and Miss Higginbotham’s eye in the other, that to a gentleman certainly, hers is by far the more important consideration?”
That was it for Langhorne. Woman present or not, the silver-tongued Southerner was about to get a dressing down that he wouldn’t forget. At that moment, however, the unmistakable command voice of Lieutenant Colonel Stemmons carried across the grounds.
“Langhorne! Over here, now!”
Langhorne looked at Stemmons then back at Moore. “Sorry, Captain. Thanks for tryin’.” As he started across the lawn to what was bound to be a dressing down of his own, the young lieutenant’s voice followed him.
“Say, old man, I’m sorry it threw you off, but it’s not as if it were anything serious. There’ll be plenty of other shooting matches.”
Langhorne wasn’t so sure there’d be any more for him. Stemmons stood with feet wide apart, his hands on his hips. The colonel’s jaw was set, and he looked as if smoke might stream from his nostrils at any moment. While Langhorne was still a few yards away, however, another officer of Stemmons’s rank stepped up to the latter, a wicked grin on his face.
“Jack, I believe you owe me something.”
Stemmons turned to face the man, but his fierce expression changed not at all. “I’ll settle with you in a minute, Powell.”
Lieutenant Colonel Powell grunted. “Not too keen to pay your rightful debts, are you?”
Stemmons didn’t reply but just stood there, glaring.
“Our bet was for a hundred dollars, Jack,” Powell continued, speaking loudly enough for everyone within thirty feet to hear . . . and still grinning. Langhorne stayed back, watching. The baiting wouldn’t make his own talk with Stemmons any easier, but there was a certain satisfaction in it, nevertheless.
“I know what the damn bet was for,” Stemmons answered. “Not that I think it was a perfectly fair match. I could cry foul on our man Langhorne’s last shot. I’m sure you saw how some moron in the stands threw off his concentration.”
Powell shook his head slowly and held out his hand. “A hundred dollars, Jack.”
Stemmons pulled out his wallet and leafed through the bills in it. He picked several out and practically tossed them at the other man.
Powell counted them and looked back up. The grin was still there. “Well, Jack, I don’t know whether they teach you to count in the cavalry or not, but three twenties don’t add up to a hundred dollars.” He held out his hand again. “Come on, pay up. You make me wait much longer and I’ll hit retirement.”
“I don’t normally carry that kind of money. You’ll have to take my receipt for the rest.” Stemmons pulled out a note pad and pencil and began scribbling. He held out the paper to Powell a little more politely than he’d handed him the money.
Langhorne kept his eyes averted from the scene, but it was plain the confrontation had caught the attention of the officers and civilians nearby. That wasn’t good.
Powell made a show of holding up the receipt and studying it. Finally, he turned back to Stemmons.
“You won’t try to leave town without paying the rest, will you, Jack?”
“Go to hell,” Stemmons muttered.
“It’s just that I remember that time down in Maryland at the horse race.” Powell shrugged innocently.
“Go to hell.”
“With a hundred dollars, I could go in style.” Powell started chuckling, gave a brief nod, and drifted away toward a man and woman across the lawn and began a conversation with them.
Langhorne stepped up immediately and saluted. Stemmons glared at him.
“Well?” It was loud enough for anyone interested to hear.
“My responsibility for the match, sir. I should’ve made that shot.”
“You’re damn right, you should have.” He stared for several seconds, as if he were expecting excuses, but Langhorne didn’t offer any. You didn’t blame the bad luck, or take credit for the good. Stemmons finally continued. “My grandmother could’ve made that last shot.”
“I should’ve made the shot, sir.”
“But you didn’t.” Stemmons seemed to think for a moment. “Which brings us to why. Maybe you can’t shoot worth a damn. That’s the simplest explanation, isn’t it?” He moved his face closer to Langhorne’s and stared hard. “If so, then what the hell are you doing as leader of the cavalry rifle team?”
Stemmons obviously didn’t expect an answer to that one, so Langhorne waited for the colonel to continue.
“You’re a senior lieutenant, acting commander of B Troop for what—the past six months since Halvorson left? Then you pull a stunt like this, blow an important competition and make us look like a bunch of old ladies, and you expect to get the troop permanently—and promotion to captain to boot, I’d wager?” He snorted. “Not very likely, mister.” His eyes narrowed. “That brings us to the other possibility. You muffed the shot on purpose. You threw the match.”
What? If that didn’t beat everything!
“I just missed the shot, sir,” Langhorne said, with a little more than normal emphasis.
“It could be for money,” Stemmons said, his voice taking on a note of disgust. “Maybe some other considerations. Who knows?”
Langhorne’s face got warm, but he kept his voice steady. “I don’t throw matches, Colonel.”
Stemmons kept going as if Langhorne hadn’t even spoken. “Anyway, we’ll sort this mess out. An investigation sounds like the correct approach to me, and then a board of inquiry. Incompetence or misconduct—I don’t see any other possibilities in your case.” Stemmons leaned in close again. “No one makes a fool out of me, Langhorne. You’ll be lucky to command the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters at Bliss after this. That’s all.”
Langhorne saluted as Stemmons turned on his heel, and the colonel stalked away without bothering to return the salute.
Langhorne took a deep breath. How did you put all this in order? As acting commanding officer of the regiment—the permanent CO, Colonel Vandreelan, being on temporary duty at the Army War College in Washington—Stemmons certainly had the power to launch an investigation and convene a board of inquiry. Langhorne frowned. Yes, he’d be exonerated. Vandreelan would probably chew out Stemmons when he heard about it, too. But the damage would be done. Stemmons would likely issue Langhorne a letter of reprimand regardless of exoneration, and that letter could stay in his service record from then on, shooting holes in every opportunity for promotion. More than that, Stemmons might even have him transferred out of the Fourth, the closest thing he’d found to a home and family since Catherine—and Amy. He tightened up for a moment, like he usually did.
Langhorne wiped his hand over his moustache. A lot had happened in the last ten minutes. He felt a tap on his back and turned around quickly, face to face with Lieutenant Colonel Powell.
“It’s Langhorne, isn’t it?” The colonel looked serious now. “You’re a damn fine hand with that Springfield, son.”
Langhorne almost smiled at the last word. Forty-one was old for a first lieutenant, but then he’d gotten a late start—the war with Spain had been irresistible.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I heard Stemmons read you the riot act.” He grinned again. “Hell, anybody who didn’t hear it would have to be deaf. Did he really say he’d convene a board of inquiry about this thing?”
“That’s what he said, sir.”
“Hm. That’s taking the competition a little too seriously if you ask me. But Jack Stemmons was always like that. He and I were at the Point together, you know. He was a hot shot among a hundred other hot shots there. I like winning as well as the next man, but he made it a religion. And he’s never changed since.”
“I suppose not, sir.” Langhorne was treading carefully now. Superiors were off limits to criticism or complaint. It was best to avoid even getting close.
“Well, anyway, Langhorne, that was some of the best shooting I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Your infantry team won the match, Colonel.”
Powell nodded. “They were on top of it, too. No doubt about that. But you expect that from the infantry.” He grinned again and Langhorne smiled at the joke. Then Powell looked serious again. “But what Stemmons said—did some noise from the gallery mess up your last shot?”
“Distractions come with the match, sir. We all have to put up with ’em.”
Powell eyed him. “You look like you might’ve had to put up with them when it really counted. You’ve been under fire before.” It was more statement than question.
“Yes, sir, a few times.” Powell didn’t reply, but his look told Langhorne to go on. “Cuba. The Philippines. Peking.”
Powell’s face lit up. “Peking!” He laughed. “Now there’s a hell of a campaign, one I always wished I’d made.” Suddenly, he checked his watch. “I’ve got to catch a train back to Washington.”
“Yes, sir, and I’ve got to catch one back to the border—tonight.”
Powell hesitated a moment then cocked his head. “You don’t know any company grade officers down there who can speak Spanish, now do you, Langhorne? I mean fluent.”
“No one but me, sir.”
There was a spark of something in the colonel’s eyes. “You don’t say.” He put his hand on Langhorne’s shoulder and maneuvered him away from the knots of men and women still talking.
Langhorne watched him closely. It had been an unusual question. Powell lowered his voice.
“I need a man, a j.o.—first lieutenant, captain, it doesn’t matter—who speaks Spanish and who knows how to handle himself. I need him right away. Thought I had one back in Washington, but I got a wire an hour ago. Seems he’s come down with typhoid. If that’s not the luck o’ the Irish for you.”
“With respect, sir, I doubt if Colonel Stemmons would consider cutting me loose for whatever this is when he’s ready to start that investigation.”
Powell smiled. “That’s where clout comes in, Lieutenant. I’m at the War Department General Staff.”
Langhorne raised his eyebrows.
The colonel continued. “If I cut the orders, you’re in, regardless of what old Jack wants.”
It sounded tempting—but so did a lot of “opportunities” in the army.
“Can I ask what it’s about, sir?”
“That’ll be brought out in six days—if you decide to volunteer.”
Langhorne didn’t say anything. But there were definite possibilities.
“Think about it, Langhorne. You’ll be out from under Stemmons’s thumb for three or four weeks. More or less independent duty—working with my aide, in fact. I’ll even stroll over to the War College and get Ben Vandreelan’s endorsement on your orders. That ought to make you feel better, and it’ll sure as hell nix any wrench Stemmons might try to throw into the works.” He frowned and cocked his head. “You’re on good terms with Vandreelan, aren’t you?”
That settled it and Langhorne grinned. “The best, sir.”
“And by the time you get back to your duty station after this is over, Ben’ll be back from the War College and in command of the Fourth again. So is it yes or no, Langhorne?”
“You must sell iceboxes to Eskimos, Colonel.”
Powell laughed. “I’ll have advance orders wired to your command tomorrow, so we get the jump on Jack Stemmons. There’s not much love lost between us, you know. I just wish I could see the old s.o.b.’s face when he reads your orders.”
Langhorne frowned for a moment. He would see Stemmons’s face, and his reaction—it wouldn’t be pleasant. But even Stemmons wouldn’t try to buck orders from the General Staff.
Langhorne looked Powell in the eye. “I want to thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. You’re helping me out as much as I am you. My old Aunt Mabel would call you an answer to prayer. If I prayed, I’d probably say that, too.”
“I do pray, sir,” Langhorne said. He smiled. Things were looking up, more than at any time that day. “That won’t knock me out of the running, will it?”
Powell chuckled. “Why should it? Where you’re going, you’ll need all the help you can get.”
Slow Train to Sonora available August 16, 2017, from Amazon. Order it today.