Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone

skin?”
    â€œThen I’ll kill them all,” Wes said. “That way I’ll be sure of getting the right one.”
    â€œRevenge is a dish best served cold, John. It will wait. Your mother wasn’t badly hurt and I have other plans for you.” The reverend wore a wide-brimmed hat and an oilskin. He carried a new Henry rifle, an odd thing for a man of the cloth.
    Drizzling rain slanted in a shivering wind and everywhere around us the lost, lonely land was hidden in darkness.
    â€œYour horses are saddled and I’ll escort you as far as the Rio Grande,” Mr. Hardin said.
    â€œWe don’t need an escort,” Wes said, his face stiff as a board.
    â€œI know you don’t, son. But I want to make sure you do as I told you.” The reverend turned his attention to me. “Little Bit, I know you’re much attached to novels of the more sensational kind, so I brought you this.” He handed me a cloth-bound volume with gilt lettering on the cover.
    â€œIt is the historical work, Quentin Durward , by the late Sir Walter Scott. I hope you’ll find time to enjoy it.”
    Indeed, I had read the story of dashing young Quentin before.
    You will recall that Sir Walter’s tale is about a young Scots cavalier in search of honorable adventure. By his senses, firmness, and gallantry, he becomes the fortunate possessor of wealth and rank and then gains the hand of a beautiful lady whose family tree is as noble as his own.
    I’d read the work years before (and, oh, how I wanted to be Quentin!) and was eager to reacquaint myself with its entrancing prose. I thanked the Rev. Hardin profusely and put the book under my coat out of the rain, where Quentin Durward’s pure heart could beat against mine.
    A few minutes later we took the trail to Mexico. Wes was silent and sullen, but his father sat tall and alert in the saddle, his eyes constantly reaching out into the darkness around him.
    He needn’t have worried.
    The rain grew heavier, the wind colder, and no hostile traveller would venture forth on such a night.
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    We reached the north bank of the Rio Grande at daybreak, under a sky that stretched formless gray as far as the eye could see. The rain had lessened, but the drizzle fell steadily. Having no oilskin, I was thoroughly soaked.
    The Reverend Hardin shook my hand and then his son’s. “You will be safe in Mexico, John. Lay your guns aside and find good, honest work. Son, take the word of God in Psalms to heart, ‘He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; its leaf shall not wither; and whatever he doeth shall prosper.’”
    The reverend pointed to the Rio Grande where stately wading birds hunted frogs and minnows in the shallows. “There is your river of water, John. All you have to do is cross it and whatever you do will prosper.”
    Wes took this advice with ill grace. Without another word, he swung his horse away and rode into the river.
    The Rev. Hardin said to me, “Little Bit, when you get settled, see that John writes his mother. She does worry about him so.”
    I nodded. “I will make sure he writes at least once a week.”
    We shook hands and parted. The Reverend Hardin rode away and did not look back at his son.
    My soul was weighed down by a burden I couldn’t fathom. Maybe it was the leaden sky, or maybe it was because of the mysteries and dangers of Mexico, then an unknown land to me.
    Or maybe, in my heart of hearts, I knew that James Hardin’s dreams for his son would never come true.
    He was a fine man, the Reverend Hardin, but born to parlous times.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Killings and the Joy of Mescal
    The ride south of the border took close to three weeks. We rode hard during the day and camped at night, arriving in October.
    The Mexican village lay about three miles south of the river and it wasn’t much—modest adobe buildings