"I want a horse," said El Diablo Rojo to the witch. "You have a horse outside. A fine mustang stallion," said the witch. Rojo couldn't tell how old the woman was, she could have been 35 or as old as 65. He supposed she was a gringo from the way she talked, but none of the gringo women he had known lived in a cave in the Arizona mountains, surrounded by skulls and pickled organs. "I want a horse that never tires, that can take me anywhere I want as fast as the desert wind. A horse that doesn't need to sleep, drink, or eat. And especially…a horse that will make me feared." El Diablo Rojo had always been concerned about his reputation. He was already, at 25, a feared outlaw in Arizona and New and Old Mexico. His red jacket and cruelty had earned him his name. But he wanted to be a legend. He wanted dime novels written about him, like Wild Bill. With a beast like he was describing to the witch, he would get this. "You can have all those things....
