Quiet, assured, deadly -- but incompetent. He doesnt know one end of a gun from the other; never raised his hand in anger in his life.

She is the sister of Maria Mendoza, the bandits wife -- thats how she obtained the brothel concession. Roxana and her man, the dying, despairing man they call the Count, arrived, the pair of them, out of nowhere, a few years back, penniless, in rags; theyd begged a ride in a farm cart. . . "I"ve come home, Maria, after all this time. . . theres nowhere else to go." Roxanad had a lot of experience in the trade; with her brother-in-laws blessing, with his finance, she opened up a bar-cum-brothel and staffed it with girls whod got good reason to lie low for a while -- not, perhaps, the best class of whore. Five of them. But they suit the customers very well; they keep Mendozas desperadoes out of trouble, they service his visitors -- and sometimes theres a casual visitor, a stray passerby, a travelling salesman, say, or a smuggler. The brothel prospers.

Secrets make her feel shut out, excluded. She sits in her room on the rocking-chair in the dusk, sipping tequila.

Roxana mothers the newcomer, Johnny, too, but she also watches him, with troubled eyes. All he does is play the piano and brood obsessively over the Mendoza gunmen as they sport and play in the bar. Sometimes he inspects the Counts old rifle, hung up on the wall, strokes the barrel, caresses the stock; but he knows nothing about the arts of death at all. Nothing! And he takes no interest in the girls, thats unhealthy.

"Teresa! Teresa! Come and dance with me!"

Sullen, she turns her horse round. Looking back at the brothel as she trots away, she sees Johnny gazing at her from his window; their eyes meet, Johnnys briefly veil.

Maddalena, partnerless, lingers on the veranda, teasing Teresa. Music spills out of the brothel.

The only establishment in the town with a superficial veneer of elegance is the bar-cum-whorehouse. This is presided over by a curious, apparently ill-matched couple -- an ageing, drunken, consumptive European aristocrat and his mistress, the madame, who keeps him. Shes called Roxana, a straightforward, ageing, rather raddled, unimaginative, affectionate woman.

Out of some kind of dream into which hes abruptly sunk, the Count says: "The seventh bullet belongs to the devil. That is how you pay --"

But Johnny has never used a gun in his life. Old man, old man, what have you to lose? Youve nothing, youve come to a dead end, kept by a whore in a flyblown town at the end of all the roads you ever took. . . give me a gun that will never miss a shot; that will fire by itself. I know you know how to get one. I know --

Her door bursts open. An excited dog follows a flock of squawking chickens into the room; all the chickens roosting on the bed rise up, squawking. Chaos! The dog jumps on to the bed, begins to gnaw at the blo九*九*藏*書ody something he carries in his mouth. Kitten rises on its hind legs to bat at the dog. Teresa hurls chocolates, magazines, screaming -- insupportable! She storms out of the room.

"If youve planned it all so well, if youre dedicated to your vengeance. . ."

She wanders disconsolately out into the dusty street. Empty. Like my life, like my life.

Johnny flourishes the keys; hes touched. He begins to play a Strauss waltz in earnest.

Old man and young one, with eyes the same shape, hands the same shape. . . could it be?

The Count, recovering himself, says: They said that of Paganini, that he must have learned how to play the fiddle from the devil. Since no human being could have played so well."

Calm, quiet, Johnny recounts all.

Could it be?

And if it is, why dont they tell her, Roxana?

But hes been brooding on this revenge ever since the black-edged letter arrived at his lodgings in Vienna; in Vienna, where he heard how a nobleman made a pact with the devil, once, to ensure no bullet he ever fired would miss the mark. . .

Hoofbeats outside. Maria Mendoza is coming to visit her sister, riding astride, like a man, while her daughter rides side-saddle like a lady, even if her hair is an uncombed haystack. She looks the wild bandit-child she is. But -- now shes an engaged woman, her father forbids her to visit the brothel, even to pay a formal call on her good aunt! Ride back home, Teresa!

But tonight, he wont, cant say any more. He lurches off to bed, to Roxana, whos waiting for him, as she always does. But why, oh why, is the old man crying? The whisky makes you into a baby. . . but Roxana takes care of you, shes always taken care of you, ever since she found you.

Johnny idly begins to play a Strauss waltz. Roxanas foot taps a little.

Roxanas doing the books, behind the bar, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses propped on her nose. The Count pours himself elevenses -- she looks up, is about to remonstrate with him, thinks better of it, returns to her sums. Morning sunshine; outside on the veranda, the whores giggle and wave at Teresa.

She crosses herself, goes on rocking.

Roxana takes the Counts proffered arm; they dance.

"We all have our tragedies."

"Youre a musician, not a murderer, Johnny."

The Count lets visitors buy drinks for him; he is a soak, but a distinguished one, nevertheless. He keeps a margin of distance about himself -- he has his pride, still, even if hes dying. Hes rumoured to have been, in his day, in the Old Country, a legendary marksman. The girls chatter among themselves. Julie, the Yankee, says shes heard that he and Roxana used to do an act in a circus. He used to shoot all her clothes off her until she was as naked as the day she was born. As the day she was born!

In his bedroom, Johnny places photographs of a man and a woman -- his parents -- on the splintered pine dressing-table; pins urｅａｄ•9９ｃｓw•ｃｏｍp a poster for the San Francisco Opera House on the wall, Der Freischütz. He addresses the photographs. "Ive found out where they live, Ive tracked them to their lair. It wont be long now, Mother and Father. Not long."

"But the landscape of this country is more ancient by far than we are, strange gods brood over it. I shall never be friends with it, never."

"Stranglers and piano-players both need long fingers. But a bullet is more merciful," suggests Johnny obliquely.

It seems to Roxana that theres a likeness between her old man and the young one. That crazy, black-clad dignity. They always seem to be chatting to one another and sometimes they talk in German. Roxana hates that, it makes her feel shut out, excluded.

Aliens, strangers, the Count and Johnny watch the Mendozas ride out on the rampage, led by Teresas father; a band of grizzled hooligans, firing off their guns, shouting.

Teresa is momentarily confused; then spurs her horse cruelly, gallops off, like a wild thing.

In this town, nobody asks any questions. Who would live here if they had the option to live anywhere else? Poor Teresa Mendoza, pretty as a picture, sweet sixteen, sullen, dissatisfied, she got a few ideas above her station when they sent her off to a convent to learn how to read and write. What does she need to read and write for? Not when shes condemned to live like a pig. But shes going to get married, isnt she? To a rich man? Yes, but hes a rich bandit!

"Speak English, we must leave the Old World and its mysteries behind us," says the Count. "The old, weary, exhausted world. Leave it behind! This is a new country, full of hope. . ."

Teresa, sixteen, sullen, pretty, dissatisfied, retreats into her bedroom, into the depths of an enormous, gilded, four-poster bed looted from a train especially for her, surrounded by a jackdaws nest of tawdry, looted glitter, gorges herself on chocolates, leafs through very very old fashion magazines. She hugs a scrawny kitten, her pet. Chickens roost on the canopy of her bed. Maa! maa! a goat pokes its head in through the open window. Teresa twitches with annoyance. You call this living?

Mendoza himself tore the earrings from his mothers ears. And raped her. And somebody shot his father when his father tried to stop the rape. And then they shot his mother because she was screaming so loudly.

An old legend, says the Count. In the superstitious villages, they believe such things still.

Voices below -- in German. She goes to her window, watches the Count and the piano-player wander off together in the direction of the little scummy pond in front of the brothel, which is set back off the main street.

Teresa skulks beside the pool, sullenly throwing stones at her own reflection. Morning, slack time; in voluptuous déshabillé, the whores lean over the veranda: "Little Teresa! Little Teresa! Come九-九-藏-書 in and see your auntie!" They laugh at her in her black stockings, her convent-girl dress, her rumpled hair.

"Some tragedies we can turn back on the perpetrators. Ive planned my revenge. A suitably operatic revenge. I shall seduce the beautiful senorita and give her a baby. And if I cant shoot her father and mother, I shall find some way of strangling them with my beautiful pianists hands."

In the courtyard, her mother is slaughtering a screaming pig. Thats the sort of thing the Mendoza women folk enjoy! Ugh. Teresas made for better things, she knows it.

Problems in the brothel! The pianist has run off with the prettiest of all the girls; theyre heading south to start up their own place, she reckons her husband wont chase her down as far as Acapulco. They wait for the stagecoach to take them away, sitting on barrels in the general store with their bags piled around them; the coach drops one passenger, the driver goes off to water the horses. Any work here for a piano-player? Why, what a coincidence!

"Look! Look! Roxanas dancing!"

"If youre quite determined, then. . . you belong to the devil already. And a bullet is indeed more merciful than anger, if accurately fired."

But hadnt he killed Roxanas lover, no, not her lover but some man shed been sold to, some seamy story. . . wasnt it in San Francisco, on the waterfront? No, no, no -- everything happened in Austria, or Germany, or wherever it is he comes from, long before he met Roxana. Hes not touched a gun since he met Roxana. He never shoots, now, even if his old-fashioned, long-barrelled rifle hangs on the wall. . . look! He was too good a shot; they said that only the devil himself -- its best not to pay attention to such stories, even if Maddalena once worked in a house in San Francisco where Roxana used to work and somebody told her -- but the Counts shadow falls across the wall; they hush, even if Maddalena furtively crosses herself.

Slowly, slowly, Teresa arrives at the veranda, climbs the stairs, peers through a window as, flushed and breathless, the dancers collapse in a laughing heap.

In the small hours, when the brothel has finally closed down for the night, Johnny plays Chopin for the Count. Tears of sentimental nostalgia roll down the old mans cheeks. And Vienna. . . is it still the same? Try not to remember. . . he pours himself another whisky. Then Johnny asks him softly, is it true what hes heard. . . stories circulating in the faraway Austro-Hungarian Empire; the Count starts.

"And perhaps he did," says Johnny.

The Count puts down his whisky. Smiles. He approaches Roxana, presents his arm. Shes startled -- then blushes, beams like a young girl. Takes off her glasses, pats her hair, glances at herself in the mirror behind the bar, pleasantly flustered. Seeing her pleasure, the Count becomes more courtly still. Still quite a fine figure of a man! 九*九*藏*書And she, when she smiles, you see what a pretty girl she must have been.

Johnny, calm, quiet, tells the Count how the Mendozas killed his parents when they raided a train for the gold the train carried. His parents, both opera singers, on their way back across the continent from California, from a booking in San Francisco. . . and he far away, in Europe.

Johnny nods. Quiet, assured, deadly.

He is heavily ironic. The ancient rocks of the desert lour down in the sunset.

All kinds of shadows drift in through the open window.

The Mendozas do indeed live like pigs, behind a stockade, in a filthy, gypsy-like encampment of followers and hangers-on in the grounds of what was once, before the Mendozas took it over, a rather magnificent Spanish colonial hacienda. Now Mendoza himself, Teresas hulking brute of a father, gallops his horse down the corridors, shoots out the windowpanes in his drunkenness. Teresa, the spoiled only daughter, screams at him in fury: "We live like pigs! Like pigs!"

Hes from the north, a gringo. And a city boy, too, in a velvet coat, with such long, white fingers! He winces when he hears gunfire -- a Mendoza employee boisterously shooting at chickens in the gutter. How pale he is. . .a handsome boy, nice, refined, educated voice. Is there even the trace of a foreign accent?

But Johnny is in the grip of a singular passion; he is a grim and dedicated being. He ignores the girls completely.

Like the Count, he is startlingly alien in this primitive, semi-desert environment.

"I have nothing to lose," says the Count inscrutably. "Except my sins, Johnny. Except my sins."

Can he be, can young Johnny be. . . some son the Count begot and then abandoned, a child hed never known, come all this way to find him?

The Count, shuddering, pours yet another whisky.

Is it true what they used to whisper, that the Count -- this Count, you! old man -- had a reputation as a marksman so extraordinary that everyone thought he had supernatural powers?

A hot, dusty, flyblown Mexican border town -- a town without hope, without grace, the end of the road for all those whove the misfortune to find themselves washing up here. The time is about the turn of the century, long after the heroic period of the West is past; and there was never anything heroic about these border raiders, this poverty-stricken half-life they lead. The Mendozas, a barbarous hierarchy of bandits, run the town, its corrupt sheriff, its bank, the telegraph -- everything. Even the priest is an appointment of theirs.

The whores flock back into the room, laughing, admiring. And begin to dance with one another, girl with girl, in their spoiled negligees, their unlaced corsets, petticoats, torn stockings.

And the Count, in his soiled, ruffled shirt and threadbare suits of dandified black, lends a little class to the joint; so his life has come to this, he serves to ornament his misthttps://read.99csw.comresss bar. A certain bitterness, a dour dignity, characterises the Count.

And, anyway, nobody really asks questions in this town, or believes any answers, for that matter. He must have his reasons for holing up in this godforsaken place. The jobs yours, Johnny; you get a little room over the porch to sleep in, with a lock on it to keep the girls out. They get bored. . . dont let them bother you.

The old legend, given a new lease of life by the exploits of a certain aristocrat, who vanished suddenly, left everything. And the Mendozas, here, the bandits -- arent they all damned? Vicious, cruel. . . wouldnt a man whos sold his soul to the devil feel safest amongst the damned? Amongst whores and murderers?

She and Johnny exchange a flashing glance. But her aunt catches sight of her. "Teresa, Teresa, scram! This is no place for you!"

Willows bend over the scummy pool in front of Roxanas brothel; it has a secluded air.

Roxana melts maternally at the sight of him; he delights the Count by playing a little Brahms on the out-of-tune, honky-tonk piano. The Counts eyes mist over; he remembers. . . The conservatoire at Vienna? Can it be possible? How extraordinary. . . so you were studying at the conservatoire at Vienna? Although Roxanas delighted with her new employee, her lip curls, she is a natural sceptic. But hes the best piano-player shes ever heard.

And the Count has always hated Mendozas contempt for himself and Roxana, who live on Mendozas charity.

In the afternoon, the slack time, Roxana and her sister sit in Roxanas boudoir with the shades down against the glaring sun, rocking on cane rocking-chairs, smoking cigars together and gently tippling tequila. Maria Mendoza is a roaring, mannish, booted and spurred bandit herself; savage, illiterate, mother of one daughter only, the beautiful Teresa. "We finally fixed it, Roxana; signed, sealed and almost delivered. . . See, heres the picture of Teresas fiance. . . isnt he a handsome man? Eh? Eh?"

The old legend, about the man who makes a pact with the devil to obtain a bullet that cannot miss its target. . .

Roxana looks at the cherished photograph dubiously. Another bandit, even if a more powerful one than Mendoza himself! At least she, Roxana, has managed to get herself a man who doesnt wear spurs to bed. And Teresa hasnt even met her intended. . . "No, no!" cries Maria. "Thats not necessary. Love will come, as soon as theyre married, once he gets his leg over her. . . and the babies, my Teresas babies, my grandchildren, growing up in his enormous house, surrounded by servants bowing and scraping." But Roxana is less certain and shakes her head doubtfully. "Anyway, theres nothing Teresa can do about it," says her mother firmly; "its all been fixed up by Mendoza, shell be the bandit queen of the entire border. Thats a lot better than living like a pig in this hole."