And at that moment, Lieutenant Duro came out of the back door of the adobe building. He was hatless, his jacket open, and a white scarf draped loosely about his neck. A cigar was in the corner of his mouth. Drawing on it, he glanced at Hilario Esteban who was only a few paces away. But when he saw the old man about to speak, he turned his head quickly toward Santana who was coming over from the rifle squad.

Lieutenant Duro then looked about the courtyard leisurely, from the riflemen to the Apache, then to the two Americans and the rest of his rurales in the narrow shade of the house. He ignored Hilario and his delegation of villagers. He was sick of their wide-eyed hesitancy, their halfhearted pleading on matters of no importance as they twisted the brims of their sombreros with nervous fingers. Hilario was different, he admitted to himself. But he was of the other extreme. Hilario had been with Juarez at Queretaro and had witnessed the execution of Maximilian and he retained strange ideas concerning rights. Hilario would have to be shown his place.

Santana stood before him now, idly slapping the quirt against the booted calf of his leg. Lieutenant Duro eyed the cigar in the sergeant's mouth. He took a long, sucking draw on his own then dropped it to the ground. He looked directly at the sergeant, exhaling the smoke slowly.

The sound of the quirt slapping against leather stopped.

Santana returned the lieutenant's stare, his cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth, but only for a moment. He dropped the cigar and ground it into the hard-packed sand.

Duro smiled faintly. "We are ready now?" he said.

Santana mumbled, "Ready," and turned to go back to the firing squad.

"Sergeant!"

Santana turned slowly.

"Listen. Ask your marksmen to aim lower than the head."

"Yes, Teniente."

"And take his hair neatly when it is over."

Santana nodded toward the two Americans who were watching with interest. "Perhaps one of those should do that."

Duro smiled again. "You would debate the matter?"

"I was only talking."

"Talk to your marksmen," Lieutenant Duro said.

As Santana moved off, Hilario Esteban approached Duro.

"May I ask a question, Senor Duro?"

The lieutenant's eyes followed Santana. "What is it?"

"I would ask by what right you kill this Apache boy."

"You answer your own question. He is Apache."

"He is a peaceful Apache. The American merchant told us that he is Aravaipa, which have seldom been at war, and when they were, it was long ago. Besides, he is only a boy."

Duro looked at him with his faint smile. "Boys grow into men. Let's call these bullets the ounces of prevention."

"Senor Duro, this American will go back and tell his government…"

"What, that we have shot an Apache?"

Hilario shook his head and the lines of age in his face seemed more deeply etched. "Senor Duro, this one is at peace. He assists in the selling of the merchant's wares and entertains no thoughts common to the Apache. The American will tell his government what we have done and there will be ill feeling."

"Ill feeling! Old man, stop…"

"Senor, I am responsible for the welfare of travelers who visit Soyopa as well as our own people. I have a trust…"

"Do you really believe that?" Duro looked at the old man closely.

"With all certainty."

"You believe your office to be one of honor, which involves the bearing of grave responsibilities?"

"Senor Duro." Hilario's tone lost respect. "We are discussing the life of a boy. One who has done nothing hostile to any of us!"

"You actually believe the alcalde resides in a seat of honor?" The lieutenant's voice remained calm.

"Senor Duro…"

The lieutenant interrupted him. "Corporal!" And as the corporal hurried toward him, he said, "Since your office is of such magnitude, perhaps you should remain close to it. Sit at your desk, Alcalde, in your seat of honor, and contemplate your grave responsibilities." And then to the corporal, "Take your men and escort our alcalde to his office…and Corporal…if he puts his head out of the door…shoot him."

He waited until they had taken Hilario out of the courtyard-a rurale on each arm and others behind with their rifles at ready-the five of the peon delegation hurrying out ahead of them. Then he turned back to the firing squad. Santana was looking toward the gateway.

"Sergeant!" the lieutenant called, just loud enough to be heard. "If you please…" And he thought to himself: Lamas, you are an animal. But his mind shrugged it off, because it was a long way to Mexico City, and now he watched intently as the squad raised their rifles.

The two rurales moved away from the Apache boy. His eyes followed one of them as the dove-gray uniform moved off toward the house. The bullets go even all the way down the back! He heard a command in Spanish. One word. And there are so many of them; each man has two belts, and who knows, there might even be more stored in that great jacale. Another Spanish word broke the sudden stillness of the courtyard. Would it not be fine to have a belt with so many bullets. He heard the last command clearly…"Fire!"

Hilario Esteban, crossing the square, passing the slender obelisk of stone, heard the rifle fire. A short roll, a sharp, high-pitched echo that carried away to nothing. His shoulders hunched as if by reflex, then relaxed, and he sighed. A rifle barrel jabbed against his spine and only then did he realize that he had hesitated.

Lieutenant Duro strolled through the east gate and circled the two-story building which served as his headquarters. It had been someone's home when he arrived in Soyopa, but he'd forgotten whose now. On the lower floor he kept supplies-equipment, ammunition, spare rifles, all those things needed by his rurales. At the front, a stairway at each end of the ramada climbed to the floor above. This he had chosen for his living quarters. The two rooms were drab-bare, colorless adobe and board flooring that squeaked with each step. The quarters reminded Duro of the cell of a penitent monk; but in Soyopa what could one expect.

Two of his men stood in the shade of the ramada, guarding the possessions of the frontier police. They nodded as he rounded the building and straightened slightly, though their backs remained comfortably against the wall.

Duro shook his head wearily. What excuse for men, he thought. For months he had drilled, cursed and punished them into being soldiers; but it had been to no avail and now Lieutenant Duro was past caring. What did it really matter?

Mexico City was in another world, a hazy world that was becoming increasingly more difficult to conjure in his mind. He would picture himself as he had been at the Academy-and the bailes and the young girls who could not keep their eyes from the uniforms. But that had been during the short presidency of Don Sebastian Lerdo de Tejada. A few years seemed so long ago.

It was said often that the son of Don Agostino Duro, who was a personal friend of Lerdo Tejada, would rise from the Cadet Corps like a comet to a glorious career in the Army. When he received his lieutenancy, at the head of his class, Lamas Duro appeared well on the way. Unfortunately, Porfirio Diaz's political coup followed three months later.

Many of the Lerdistas disappeared, including Don Agostino Duro. His son, however, was a political enemy by blood, not by avocation; so Lamas disappeared merely from the capital. His military training was something which could be utilized in Porfirio Diaz's new creation-the Rurales. The Frontier Police. And Soyopa was far enough from Mexico City to guard against Lamas Duro's blood interfering with his politics.

He gazed about the square now, motionless in the sunlight. Wind-scarred adobe, squat dwellings, most of them without ramadas, old looking beyond their years. The church was directly across from his headquarters-it rose sand-colored, blending with the surrounding buildings which pushed close to it, a wide door, but a belfry that was too low for the width of the building and it only vaguely resembled a church. Santo Tomas de Aquin.