For the second time in as many months, Henry Duvall found himself on the banks of the Rio Grande, gazing across its waters. Only this time there were men on the other side, sitting astride their own horses and staring back at him; men in blood-red suits of armor, the fronts of their helmets painted with snarling demonic faces, horns affixed at the temples. If Duvall needed any more evidence that the persons who occupied the far side of that river were servants of darkness, there it was before him.

“Look at them,” he remarked to Lieutenant Ross, who steadied his horse alongside Duvall’s. “As if sprung from the canvas of Hieronymus Bosch himself.”

“Who?” Ross responded, barely listening. He’d never seen a samurai in full regalia before, and his fascination was obvious.

“It doesn’t matter,” Duvall growled. “Here they come.”

The diplomats splashed towards them, flanked by four Texas Rangers, all fording the river at a canter. The Rio ran high and swift that morning, and even the Rangers struggled to navigate its currents. The diplomats were having far worse trouble, each floundering through the torrent in their own unique way. The youngest, a sandy-haired lad with hardly a whisker on his chin, clung to his pinto’s mane with all his strength, the reins forgotten altogether, dragging uselessly in the water. Beside the terrified young man was his sullen colleague, late-thirties with dark sunken eyes and a week’s worth of stubble, who approached the task before him with a comical intensity, flinging his reins from side to side in response to an endless series of perceived disambulations from his black mustang. A few lengths ahead of him, a large woman in an even larger kimono struggled with the reins of her horse while a small middle-aged gentleman sat in the saddle behind her, his legs wrapped so tightly around the tiny appaloosa’s flanks that Duvall felt a pang of sympathy for the poor beast. All the while, the oldest of the four diplomats bobbled uncontrollably atop his white thoroughbred, feet tucked underneath his saddle in a vain attempt to keep his shoes dry, his empty stirrups jangling beneath him.

Duvall shook his head, and directed his gaze past the diplomats to the samurai honor guard who’d escorted the delegation halfway across the river. The foreigners now rode back to their own shore at a vigorous gallop, kicking up froth and mud in their wake. The twelve Fusōnese horsemen reached the riverbank and turned in unison like a flock of birds, wheeling around to rejoin the rest of their group. The riders reined in their strangely-proportioned horses and stopped to watch the Texian diplomats struggle across the river, pointing and cackling to one another. For a brief moment, Duvall locked eyes with the lead rider from across the span. The distant samurai smiled and doffed his helmet, making a mockery of all gentlemanly courtesy, to which Duvall only glowered in response.

"Ah, Colonel!" the oldest diplomat shouted over the rush of the river as his horse hauled itself up onto dry land. Duvall and Ross rode down to meet them.

"Minister Collingsworth," Duvall said, hoping he was greeting the correct man. "May I be the first to welcome you back to the Republic of Texas."

“Thank you very kindly, Colonel…”

“Henry Ignatius Duvall, sir.” He doffed his hat properly.

Minister Collingsworth cocked his head. “Duvall, you say? Any relation to Ben Duvall?”

Henry Duvall blanched, despite every effort not to. “In fact that would be my brother.”

"Ah! I thought I detected a resemblance. I know General Duvall quite well; we were both present at the signing of the Fredericksburg treaty. Good man. Good soldier.” The Colonel issued a noncommittal grunt, and Collingsworth’s polite grin deflated a notch. “Can’t seem to recall him ever mentioning a brother.”

“Oh?” Duvall glanced across the river just in time to watch the samurai pivot their horses and depart for the western horizon.

Collingsworth cleared his throat. “Well, regardless… You can’t imagine how thankful I am to be back, Colonel. Dreadful place, Fusō, truly truly dreadful.”

“Indeed,” Duvall concurred, wondering if the minister knew the half of it. The samurai horsemen disappeared into a veil of dust.

The woman in the kimono let out a hmmmph in dissent.

“Ah!” Collingsworth seemed to suddenly remember his companions’ presence. “Colonel, allow me to introduce my diplomatic retinue: Mr. Davis, Mr. Allen, Mr. and Mrs. Nichols...” Duvall turned to face the envoys, and they each nodded politely. After Duvall dutifully introduced his own men, Mr. Allen, the sandy-haired youth, wrinkled his nose.

“Six rangers? I’d’ve thought we’d’ve merited more... robust a retinue.”

“Apologies, Mr. Allen, but I’m afraid Santa Fe County is presently suffering from an acute paucity of military might,” Ross acknowledged, “Since the Yanks have taken New Orleans, most of our men have been reassigned to Beaumont and Nacogdoches. Had you gentlemen entered Texas by crossing the Sabine River rather than the Rio Grande, no doubt our numbers would be more to your liking.”

Allen’s nose only wrinkled further. “Ain’t no Comanche at the Sabine.”

“Right you are, Mr. Allen!” Mr. Nichols announced, “Our easternmost counties are blissfully secure from the threat of the red man... but not, it would seem, from the blue and the gray. We mustn’t allow Mr. Lincoln’s War to spill across our borders, wouldn’t you agree?”

The contortions of Allen’s face continued to become more elaborate. “Yes, but… six rangers?”

“It is only twenty miles to Santa Fe, Mr. Allen,” chimed Ranger Miller, the youngest of Duvall’s men. “I think we can say with some confidence that we’ll arrive with our scalps intact.” Colonel Duvall shook his head, frustrated with the boy’s impertinence, but gave no rebuke.

Minister Collingsworth gestured to the east. “Well then… Shall we?”

The eleven of them put the river at their backs, and set off towards Santa Fe at a gentle walk. Lieutenant Ross pulled his horse alongside Mr. Collingsworth. “I trust your negotiations in Fusō went well, Minister?”

Collingsworth sighed. “Not particularly. I’m afraid that for the foreseeable future, Akaishi Province will continue to serve as a haven from which the Comanche may strike at our settlements with impunity. It seems Lord Ishida’s honor does not permit him to break his oath to the Comanche, an oath which guarantees their protection. You know these samurai and their damned honor.”

Mr. Davis spat, his sunken eyes narrowing. “Honor’s got nothing to do with it. It’s his billfold he’s intent on protecting. His fief’s entire economy is dependent on those accursed savages.”

“While ours is besieged by them,” Mr. Nichols nodded in agreement.

Mr. Allen scanned the horizon, unnerved by the topic at hand.

“If Lord Ishida would only avail himself to the possibilities that direct trade with the Republic of Texas might offer,” the minister continued, swatting a fly from his neck, “he would plainly see that such an arrangement would be most beneficial for all involved.”

Mrs. Nichols snorted. “Surely not for the Comanche?”

Minister Collingsworth flashed a condescending smile. “Even the Comanche, my dear Mrs. Nichols. Resettlement is the only outcome that will put an end to this foolish bloodshed once and for all. There are still quality parcels available in the Indian Territories. They would be given access to the best seed crop and modern farming equipment… The Comanche people would be well cared for.”

“I suspect the Comanche do not care to be cared for,” Mrs. Nichols drolled.

“From what I hear,” Ross interjected, “the Cherokee and Choctaw have done quite well for themselves with the land the Yanks’ve granted them. Damn near civilized, or so they say.”

“And now both fight for the Confederacy,” Miller chortled. “Lotta good all that Yankee generosity did. Serves ‘em right, too. Expectin’ a redskin to act civilized is like expectin’ a horse to dance the two-step. Might be it’ll happen one day, but hell if I’ve ever seen it.”

Mrs. Nichols frowned. “You don’t believe the Indians can be civilized, Mr. Miller?”

“Ma’am, you can accoutre an Indian with the finest fashions in all the Americas, you won’t suddenly find yourself in the presence of a proselyte cosmopolitan. You’ll merely have a savage in a tailcoat.”

“I could say the same of every white man I’ve ever met who was similarly attired,” she scoffed. “Women too, for that matter; in our lace and bodices and evening gowns. Savages, each and every one of us. We only dreamed up civilization so that we might convince others to commit savagery on our behalf. It’s much easier that way... keeps the blood from spattering on all our precious finery—”

Thomas placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “That’s quite enough, dear.” Barbara Nichols rolled her eyes.

“If you say so, Thomas.”

By mid-afternoon they reached Santa Fe, crossing the swollen creek at Don Gaspar Street. The ten of them rode through the town’s central plaza, maneuvering past a hastily-erected gallows that’d been set up in front of the Palacio, and through the sizeable crowd that was gathering around it. Duvall glanced up at the five condemned men (two Mexicans and three Indians; Kiowa if he had to guess), but recognized none of them. Judge Baker stood on the platform, reading a litany of offenses while the hangman secured the prisoners’ nooses. Duvall spotted Sheriff Hawkins standing at the back of the crowd, grinning and chewing his tobacco while townspeople jockeyed for the opportunity to offer him congratulations. It was plain to see that this was a local matter, and Duvall had no interest in asking awkward questions. The diplomats and their Ranger escort soon put the gallows behind them, and turned down Palace Avenue towards the hotel.

“Ah... Santa Fe,” Minister Collingsworth exhaled. “It’s such a relief to finally be back among civilized peoples again.”

Duvall heard several trap doors spring open. The wet sounds of strangulation mingled with the the crowd’s cheers of delight.

They rode until they reached the hotel. As the diplomats dismounted, the hotel’s glass-paneled double doors burst open, and porters rushed out to hitch up their guests’ horses. The hotel manager soon followed, straightening his jet-black hair with one hand and his bright-red cravat with the other.

“Salutations, gentlemen! And lady!” the mustachioed manager beamed, belatedly noticing Mrs. Nichols. “Welcome to La Frontera Hotel! We’ve been expecting you! Come, come! Four of our finest suites have been prepared!”

“I trust you can take it from here, Minister,” Duvall tipped his hat, first to Collingsworth, and again to his subordinates. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.”

“Thank you for the escort, Colonel,” Collingsworth replied. “I hope you and your men shall succeed where we have failed, and bring peace to the frontier once and for all.”

“And for all,” Mrs. Nichols repeated, a hint of reproach in her voice.

Duvall nodded as graciously as he could manage. After the remaining diplomats had said their farewells, the hotel manager led the five of them through the open doorway, giving Duvall a brief glimpse of La Frontera’s lobby, with its lush red-and-gold carpets and its grand staircase of dark mahogany and its gilded crystal chandeliers. After the porters had retrieved their new tenants’ belongings, the manager slammed the double doors shut again, their beveled-glass windows fragmenting the lobby into a surreal crystalline distortion, refracting its material opulence into indistinct shards of red and gold, dappled by a thousand shimmering sparks of light.

“Well that’s that,” Lieutenant Ross remarked. He and the other Rangers steadied their horses in the middle of the road, waiting for new orders.

Duvall finally nodded. “That’s that. Company, you may consider yourselves dismissed until morning; six a.m. sharp in front of the Palacio. There’s been reports of horse thieves out near Wagon Mound — Comanche, so the local ranchers claim, though there’s been no sign of ‘em in those parts for weeks. Sheriff Peterson has requested a show of force.” Duvall did everything he could to keep the contempt out of his voice during that last part.

“Sounds downright thrilling,” Miller scoffed, showing no such restraint. Henry Duvall shared the boy’s frustration. As shorthanded as they were, his company had been in no position to do any meaningful peacekeeping of late, so now they spent most of their time riding around the countryside maintaining the illusion of a secure frontier. Duvall found the whole charade exceedingly deceitful; the frontier wasn’t remotely safe, and deluding the populace into a false sense of security only placed them in further danger. But it hardly mattered what he thought, when every public official in Austin was hellbent on convincing his constituents that the frontier had been tamed once and for all. What’s a few more dead settlers when there’s an election to consider?

“Orders are orders, Ranger. I’m certain they’re even less concerned in Austin with your opinion than they are with mine. We ride for Wagon Mound in the morning. Is that clear?”

It was.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

The Rangers promptly scattered. Ross stayed behind.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

Ross opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. Duvall thought he could detect a touch of disapproval in his second-in-command’s expression.

“Sorry, sir... it’s nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ross spurred his horse, leaving Duvall alone in front of La Frontera Hotel. The Colonel waited until he saw Ross turn down Cienega Street and out of sight. Then Duvall spun his horse and doubled back across the river, zigzagging through the streets of Santa Fe to be sure he wasn’t being followed. As the sun began to set, Colonel Duvall arrived at a very different sort of hotel.

Whores of every race, color and persuasion lined the River Saloon’s indoor balconies, as well as the laps of half its clientele. The air reeked of tobacco and liquor and gunmetal. A honky-tonk musician hammered on a badly-tuned piano in the corner, though it was hardly audible over the revelries of the crowd. Every table on the floor was being used for some form of gambling: poker, faro, chō-han, craps, liar’s dice, not to mention higher-stakes games involving knives and fingers and spilled blood.

Henry Duvall ignored the debauchery that surrounded him, and pushed his way past the drunks and the slatterns to the door behind the bar that led to the kitchen. The cooks and the barmaids paid Duvall no mind as he slipped between the stacks of grain alcohol to the hallway in the back which led to the tiny room behind the kitchen that’d been his home for the past four months, since he’d been forced to sell the ranch to settle his debts. It was deeply embarrassing to a God-fearing man like Henry, being reduced to living in this den of fornication, but it was the only room in town he could afford that suited his needs. As he slipped the key into the lock, he reminded himself that at his current rate, his debts would be repaid in fifty-seven weeks. He hoped he could tolerate it that long.

He opened the door, and to his surprise he found there was a young woman sitting at the foot of his bed. She stood as Duvall entered, brushing the auburn hair from her eyes. Duvall paused in the doorway, caught by surprise. For the briefest of moments he wondered if the owner had sent one of his girls to Duvall as a gift, but his suspicions quickly passed once he’d gotten a better look at her. She was no whore, that was certain. Duvall guessed she was in her early thirties; tall and slender, she had an air of aristocracy about her. She wore an orange-brown riding habit and petticoat with an off-white chemisette; a demure ensemble in any setting, even more so here in the shabby back room of a Santa Fe brothel. She smiled at him as she rose from the bed, and Henry knew he would’ve found her attractive once. Now she only reminded him of his daughter.

“Pardon me, ma’am” he stammered as he tipped his hat, “but I think there’s been some mistake...”

He felt the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel on his neck, and heard the sound of a hammer being cocked.

“You’re the one who made the mistake, you son-of-a-bitch,” a voice in his ear said. The woman’s smile grew larger, now directed at the gunman behind Duvall. “I’ve been waiting years for this,” the voice continued. “I’ll make you pay for what you did to my brother.”

Henry cursed his carelessness, belatedly realizing that he’d tipped his hat with his gun hand. He felt an arm reach around his waist, as his assailant removed his Walker Colt from its holster. No doubt the man had been hiding behind the door the whole time, and the young lady on the bed was all the distraction he’d needed. Henry knew there was nothing he could do now to turn the tables. His life was in the man’s hands. He prepared himself for the inevitable.

“Whoever your brother is," Duvall spat, "I’m sure he had it coming.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” The voice leaned into Henry’s ear. “My brother was a great man once. Now his life is a shambles thanks to you. Destitute and miserable, disowned by his family, living in the back of some ramshackle whore house... which might’ve actually served to ease his misery, if he didn’t have a stick up his ass so big he needs a stepladder to use the privy.”

Duvall grit his teeth. “Damn it, Ben…”

He turned to face his brother, who howled with laughter. It was the same cruel laugh Henry remembered from his childhood, and for a moment he was twelve years old again, shoving his foot into a boot filled with cow dung. The subsequent forty years had lined his brother’s face and added dozens of pounds to his already-wide frame, but that laugh was exactly as it’d always been.

“Hello, Henry,” General Benjamin Duvall guffawed as he lowered his pistol. “We need to talk.”

* * *

The knife remained embedded an inch into the seat of the chair, serving as the table’s fourth occupant. Henry, Benjamin, and the woman whom Ben had introduced as Mrs. Leonora Carlyle filled the other three seats. For a while, the fourth chair at their table had been empty — that is until a rather drunk man with a beard down to his navel commandeered the chair and, after the briefest of introductions, began to run his hand up Mrs. Carlyle’s thigh. The bearded man quickly retracted his hand and fled to some dark corner of the River Saloon after Mrs. Carlyle produced a stiletto from God-knows-where and slammed it down between his legs, her demure grin never once faltering. Now Henry Duvall stared across the table at that relentless smile of hers, the glint of her knife in the periphery of his vision but primary in his thoughts.

“You must understand Colonel, we wouldn’t be asking for your help in this matter if it wasn’t of the utmost importance,” she was saying in a sing-song Yankee accent: Connecticut, if Ben was to be believed. “The future of both our nations may depend on it.”

Henry shot a skeptical glance at his brother. Ben had been uncharacteristically quiet since they’d seated themselves in the back corner of the saloon, letting Mrs. Carlyle do most of the talking. Perhaps Ben was hoping to appeal to his brother’s chivalrous side. Or maybe he was just distracted by the churning maelstrom of half-naked prostitutes.

“Forgive me Mrs. Carlyle,” Henry offered, “but I find it difficult to accept the notion that nations might rise or fall on the basis of a single slip of paper.”

Leonora Carlyle’s smile took on a wry slant. “Tell that to Thomas Jefferson. Or George Childress, or Jefferson Davis for that matter.”

A skittish young girl pushed her way through a gauntlet of groping patrons, and brought Henry’s table another round of drinks: tepache for Mrs. Carlyle, tequila for Benjamin, sarsaparilla for Henry. The girl threw Henry a wary look each time she came by; in the four months since moving into the back room, he’d never once spoken to any of the staff besides the owner. The staff had been all too happy to respond in kind, no doubt gleaning the fact that Henry was law enforcement of some sort. For months each party had been content to disregard the other’s existence, but now Henry was out on the saloon floor, an unprecedented state of affairs. Their server scurried away as quickly as she’d appeared, as if she feared Henry might arrest her on the spot.

“Those were formal declarations of independence,” Henry paused a moment to sip his drink. “We’re talking about a manifest to an arms deal.”

“A declaration of independence all the same,” Mrs. Carlyle lilted, “albeit, a very private one. This ‘slip of paper’, as you call it, stands as irrefutable proof of the Sanada Clan’s intent to join the Shishi rebellions against the Taikō. If this evidence were to become public knowledge before they had the means to defend themselves—”

She was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. The three of them looked in time to see a bleeding middle-aged wino stumble out of the saloon, picking shards of glass out of his skull while three young poker players roared with laughter, one of them holding the remains of a broken bottle.

“I still don’t see why the United States or the Republic of Texas would give a damn about any of this,” Henry rumbled, ignoring the disturbance. “If the heathens want to kill each other, I say by all means, let ‘em.”

Benjamin finally spoke. “It’s not necessary for you to understand, Henry. All you need do is ride into Comancheria and retrieve the document before Bill Reardon does. Simple as that.”

Henry glared at his brother. Somewhere he heard a man vomiting.

“If Reardon’s still alive.”

“He is. Our man on the far side of the border has confirmed it.” Ben gulped down his tequila as punctuation.

“If this thing were on the level,” Henry growled, “you’d be sending me these orders through the chain of command, instead of riding all the way out here and sneaking into my room like a thief in the night. Seems to me, you need someone to clean up your mess.”

A caustic smile spread across Ben’s face. “You know me better than that, Henry. My associates and I are very well protected. The sale was transacted through intermediaries; brokers and the like, none of it traceable back to the state department or the Texas military. As far as the law’s concerned, my hands are clean. The same can’t be said for our new Fusōnese friends, however. For Lord Sanada Yukimitsu, this document is tantamount to a signed confession.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of my concern.”

“Look Henry…” Ben paused for a moment, distracted by a pair of whores dressed up as geisha — Chinese girls brought up from Mexico, or so Henry had overheard. One of them was scratching an itch on her cheek, carving a deep gouge in her porcelain-white makeup in the process. “Look Henry, I know you don’t trust me. And I know you don’t much care which samurai’s ass is polishing the throne in Saikyō any more than I do.” A mischievous grin spread across Benjamin Duvall’s face. “But what if I told you that you could kill Bill Reardon, break the back of the Comanche, secure the frontier and earn enough dough to settle your debts — with plenty to spare — all while serving your country’s most vital interests?”

Henry squirmed in his chair. “I’m listening, ain’t I?”

Ben’s grin broadened. “Good. Now then...” He gestured towards the bartender for another round. “To answer your question, the current situation in Fusō is very much our concern. Backed by Texas guns and the Sanada Clan’s immense wealth, the Shishi rebels can seize power in a matter of months. The Shishi are nationalists, they want Fusō for the Fusōnese. That’ll mean the forced expulsion and relocation of all Indian tribes from their borders — especially the Comanche. Can you imagine, Henry? Without the sanctuary of Akaishi to retreat to, the Comanche could be brought to heel in time for Christmas...”

An argument broke out on the far side of the saloon over an allegedly-rigged faro deck. The men took their quarrel outside, followed closely by a pack of bloodthirsty gawkers.

“At the moment, we’re a hammer without an anvil. The Shishi can be that anvil, Henry. And once the frontier is secured, Comancheria will be ours for the taking. Or rather,” Ben nodded towards Mrs. Carlyle, “hers for the taking.”

Henry regarded her with bemused curiosity. “Is that so?”

Mrs. Carlyle beamed. “My husband and I secured the land grants months ago. You must understand Colonel, I harbor no ill will towards the Comanche people; in fact I admire them a great deal. But they’re squandering millions of acres of valuable farmland, selfishly clinging to their antiquated way of life and standing in the way of global commerce. No doubt you’re aware that the price of cotton has soared since the Union’s blockade of the Confederacy began. Now the British are counting on the Republic of Texas to replenish their supply. Your Secretary of Agriculture has made it his stated goal to double Texian cotton exports by next year’s harvest. Naturally this outcome is predicated on the acquisition of new farmlands; two hundred thousand acres at absolute minimum. My husband and I have lined up investors from both sides of the Atlantic who’re positively falling over themselves for the opportunity to invest in new cotton plantations on Comanche land.”

“Now all you need is the land,” Henry jeered.

“Precisely, Colonel!” Mrs. Carlyle’s smile only grew larger, ignorant or oblivious to Henry’s laconic scorn. “But we must stake our claim before Mr. Lincoln’s War comes to a close, or this opportunity will be lost forever.”

Their skittish waitress arrived with another round of drinks. Ben snatched his tequila from her tray, and raised it in a toast.

“‘Cotton is King’, Henry. And Texas now stands ready to usurp the throne.”

Ben knocked back his tequila while Henry raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“But first,” Henry stated, “I need to get to that manifest before Bill Reardon does.”

“Exactly. I’ve already rounded up a posse of sixty men, each one of them well-paid and well-credentialed. All they’ve been told is that you’re going after the Reardon Gang, which isn’t terribly far from the truth. Take some Rangers along if you want. Your company is officially on paid leave until further notice. Sheriff Scaredypants at Wagon Mound will just have to wait.”

Henry rubbed his chin. He knew his brother was trying to manipulate him; it was just about the only thing that he was certain of. No matter how much Ben insisted otherwise, Henry could see that his brother was threatened by the theft of this manifest. Evidence of his illegal activities had fallen into the wrong hands, after all: Bill Reardon’s hands. Henry couldn’t blame his brother for wanting it back. Still, he wasn’t particularly interested in doing his brother any favors.

“Well, Henry? Whaddaya say?”

Henry’s eye was drawn to the knife that was still lodged into the seat of the chair beside him, then to Mrs. Carlyle and her incessant smile. If Ben was manipulating Henry, then Mrs. Carlyle was certainly manipulating Ben, using his predicament to her own advantage. No doubt there were even greater forces at work, pulling Mrs. Carlyle’s strings. Ultimately none of it mattered; Reardon, the Comanche, the British, the cotton boom, the Union blockade… Even Henry’s own misgivings about his brother were irrelevant. All that mattered was the stack of bills that Benjamin had presented earlier, back in his room; more than enough to settle his debts for good. In the end, it was hardly a decision at all.

“You are my hammer and weapon of war,” Henry recited from memory. “With you I shall break nations in pieces; with you I shall destroy kingdoms.”

Henry drank his sarsaparilla. In his mouth it was sweet as honey. He just hoped it wouldn’t sour in his belly.

“When do I leave?”