Hilario did not cry. He sat staring with nothing in his eyes, telling himself that it was not true. Picturing them alive, because he didn't know how to picture them dead.

Flynn stood near the window, waiting for the old man to speak. He wanted to say again that he was sorry and he tried to think of other ways to say it; but all the words were without substance, and probably the old man would not even hear them. He looked across to the poster which advertised the bullfight in Hermosillo.

PLAZA DE TOROS HERMOSILLO Manana a las 4 Tres Grandes Toreros en Competencia VIRAMONTES (Espanol) vs. Juan Toyas y Sinaloa (Mexicanos) Seis Hermosos Toros De la Famosa Ganaderia de don Feliz Montoya Precios de Entrada From there down, the poster was torn from the wall.

Flynn felt the old man next to him then.

"The part that is not there," the old man said, "tells that it would cost three pesos to sit in the shade and one peso to sit on the side of the sun."

"I was looking at it…"

"I hope they were able to sit in the shade." He considered this silently. Then he said, "Where are they now?"

"We left the wagon back of the church, by the graves. There's a boy watching it." Flynn hesitated. He continued in Spanish, softly, "I think we should bury them soon, Hilario."

Hilario nodded, dazedly. "Yes. I will get the priest on the way."

"Flynn!"

He went to the door quickly. Bowers glanced at him, then beckoned up the street where it led into the square. "You better get out of here!"

"Are they coming?"

"The whole Mexican Army!"

A dozen horsemen swung onto the square from the street siding Duro's headquarters and crossed the open area, separating at the four-sided stone shaft, bunching again to enter the narrow street with a cloud of dust billowing after them.

They swung down, all of them except Sergeant Santana, and spaced out in a ragged line along the front of the house, eager for something to happen. Just the two Americans could not offer much resistance.

From the saddle, Santana glared at the rurale who had been on guard. "Pick up your rifle!"

"I was overpowered…"

"Pick up your rifle!"

Flynn felt the anger return, thinking of Hilario, and now these grinning animals to make a difficult situation worse. And even though he knew they couldn't be aware of Hilario's sorrow, still their presence grated against his nerves and polite explanation wouldn't do. The rifle was in the road a few feet from the door stoop. Flynn moved to it now and placed his boot on the barrel before the rurale could reach it.

"You can order your man wherever you like," he said to Santana, "but if he stays here he doesn't need the rifle."

"Your position is not the best for suggesting orders," Santana said, half-smiling. "What is this supposed to be, an exhibition of Senor Lazair's influence? If it is, go and tell him that I am not the teniente. I order my men with my own mind."

Flynn looked at him curiously. "I don't know this Lazair," he said.

"Come now, why else would you be here? The teniente proves to the alcalde that he is governing body of Soyopa, then the hunter of Indians must prove that his power overbears the office of the teniente."

"Your words are nothing."

"Tell your leader," Santana said, "and he will explain it to you."

"Soldier, I'm not going to stand here and argue with you. If you want to order your men, order them some place else."

Santana moved his sombrero back from his forehead and looked at Flynn with amazement. "God in Heaven-how this one talks!"

From the doorway where he had been standing, Hilario moved to Flynn's side. "Senor Santana, these men do not belong to Lazair. This one I have known before, and the other is his good friend. They have come to see me."

"Many days on horseback just to see the poor alcalde of Soyopa?"

"They have come to tell me of the death of my family," Hilario said quietly.

Santana hesitated. "Your family?"

"They were killed by the Apaches as they returned home." Hilario's lips moved stiffly as he spoke the words and tried to picture what had taken place. He added, "These friends have brought them home to be buried."

"Your entire family-brothers, sisters, children?"

"I have not yet made a count."

Santana was silent for a long moment. Finally he shrugged-what can one do?-and said wearily, "Tend to your dead, old man."

He guided his horse to a turn and his rurales swung into their saddles on the signal. Let the old man alone, he thought. Along with his dead. They will guard him for the time. He pressed his heels into the horse's sides and looked up toward the square, then reined in abruptly. Lieutenant Duro was entering the street.

He approached slowly, holding his mount to a walk, and passed through the rurales, making them pull their horses out of the way. He dismounted with the same slow deliberateness.

"Leaving?" he said to Santana.

"There is nothing to be done here."

"Am I the last to know when my orders are disobeyed?"

Santana dismounted reluctantly. "I did not wish to disturb you."

"From what!"

"Your own affairs."

"Perhaps I should judge that." He looked at Flynn and then to Bowers. "What do you want here!"

"We've already done all the explaining we're going to do," Flynn said shortly.

"Hilario Esteban's family has been killed by the Apaches," Santana said bluntly. "These came to tell him of it."

"Oh…" Duro's expression eased. Instinctively he said, "May I express my deep sympathy." To Flynn he said, "Did it occur near here?"

"Yesterday afternoon. About ten hours ride in the wagon."

"Oh… You were on your way to Soyopa?" And when Flynn nodded, Duro said, "Perhaps on business?"

Flynn said, "You might say that." The lieutenant irritated him strangely. All of a sudden he was too friendly.

"We hope your stay in Soyopa will be a pleasant one," Lieutenant Duro said. He had already forgotten about the alcalde's family. Here was something to wonder about. Two more bounty hunters? Perhaps. And perhaps not. "We are at your service, senor…?"

"Flynn. My friend's name is Bowers."

"It is a pleasure," Duro said, bowing slightly. "Perhaps you would find the time to dine with me later in the day."

Flynn glanced at Hilario. "Perhaps another time."

"Certainly…another time. And Hilario, if there is anything my men can do to assist you…"

The old man looked at the lieutenant with disbelief.

The man at the corner flicked his cigarette into the street and turned away, walking back down the row of adobe building fronts to the mescal shop. It was in the middle of the block on this, the west side of the square. A sign above the door said, Las Quince Letras-red lettering crudely done and fading as the adobe sand wore away. The man opened the screen door and put his head inside.

"Warren!"

He heard the horses behind him then and let the door swing closed and turned to see the rurales crossing the square at a trot. He watched Duro dismount in front of his headquarters and climb the stairs as his rurales passed down the side street. They would be returning to their garrison of tents on the south side of the village. Duro kept only two men with him on guard duty.

The one called Warren came out of the mescal shop adjusting his hat, squinting in the direction the rurales had gone. "They going home?"

The two men were the Americans who had witnessed the execution that morning. Now the one who had been on the corner, whose name was Lew Embree, said, "They let them go. They're not even guarding the old man any more."

"Who do you suppose they are?"

"I don't know," Lew said.

"Maybe we ought to tell Lazair," Warren said.

They looked up as Flynn and Bowers and Hilario Esteban came out of the street and crossed to the church, following the church yard back to the house in which the priest lived. The cemetery was just beyond. The two men watched them pass out of sight.