South of the border down Sonora way, the old mission bells were silent, the old Spanish church, derelict, and the aged priest, travel weary. But he shared his wine with a man called Edge. Who, throat dry as an arroyo in high summer, was in great need. Needed also some time to recover from a night of Mexican mayhem. A campfire-lit horror show of gunned-down bandits, a mutilated gringo bounty hunter and his squaw, naked and dead on the bloodied ground.