"That one had us when you hit him," Flynn said.

"Small goddamn world. My boys brought him in yesterday."

"What are you doing to him?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

"Asking him where the old chief lives."

"You don't expect him to tell you?"

Lazair shrugged. "No skin off my tail. It's up to him. He tells or he wakes up dead."

"I hear the old man's got five hundred pesos on his head," Flynn said.

"You heard wrong. It's eight hundred now." Lazair nodded toward Matagente. "His lieutenant's got three hundred." He smiled faintly. "The price of fame, eh?"

Flynn said quietly, "How much is your hair worth?"

Lazair studied him. "You can talk plainer than that."

"I've seen your picture somewhere…on a dodger."

"Where would that be?"

"Cibucu, Fort Thomas, somewhere like that."

Lazair grinned. "You're Army, eh? Goddamn Lew was right…for once in his life. You're a little out of your territory."

Bowers said now, "So are a few Mimbreno Apaches."

Lazair looked him up and down, noticing the issue belt and holster and the high boots. "Where's your uniform?" he said. He smiled again pushing back the straw from his forehead. "They sent the two of you all the way down here after Apaches?" He shook his head, still grinning. "That's the goddamnedest thing I ever heard. What do you expect to do?"

Flynn said, "Talk that old Mimbre into being a farmer."

Lazair shifted his eyes to him. "You think he'll mind?"

"He might."

Lazair shook his head again, because he still couldn't believe it. "You mean to tell me they sent just two of you?"

Bowers said, "That's right."

"Christ, I've got fourteen men and we've never laid eyes on him!"

"He's seen you, though," Bowers said. "He was talking about it yesterday."

"Where?"

"Not far from here," Bowers said.

"If your men weren't so gun-happy," Flynn said, "they could have followed that one," he nodded toward Matagente, "right to the rancheria." He looked at the men standing off from him. "He had my guns with him-a Springfield swing-block and an altered.44, the ramrod and lever off, with an ejector on the right side of the barrel."

Lazair's men returned his stare silently, hostilely.

He looked at Lazair. "D. F. was carved on the stock of the Springfield. Do I look for them, or do you tell somebody to hand them over?"

Lazair picked a cigar from his shirt pocket and as he lighted the end his eyes remained on Flynn. He exhaled the smoke leisurely. "Maybe we'd better wait," he said.

"Long as I get them."

"Where'd the old man say he was going?"

"He didn't."

"But he was going to come home and tend to you later, eh?"

Flynn nodded.

"Maybe," Lazair said grinning, "I ought to just follow you around if I want to find old Soldado."

Bowers looked surprised. "You're not holding us?"

"Why?"

"We might be cutting into your business."

"Do I look worried to you? Hell, you can go any place you like…even give you a couple of mounts to use. Anything to help the Army." He smiled sardonically, his teeth clenched on the cigar. "Goddamnedest thing I ever heard of. You're down here hunting him against the law 'cause you're on the wrong side of the fence, and I do the same thing and get paid for it 'cause I'm in a legitimate business."

"We'll have to have a drink over that sometime," Flynn said.

"Next time I'm in Soyopa."

Flynn glanced toward the cave. "Don't you have anything?"

"Not today," Lazair said. "You going back now?"

Flynn nodded.

"There's a friend of yours in town," Lazair said. "Matter of fact he was the one ambushed those Indians yesterday. Brought in this one 'cause he was still alive, then rode out this morning for Soyopa. One of the boys saw you in town and this one thinks he might know you." He watched Flynn slyly. "Name of Rellis. That ring any bells?"

Flynn hesitated and his face showed a natural surprise. "Frank Rellis…I'd like to see him again."

Lazair prompted, "He didn't say where he knew you."

"In Contention."

"Nice place…I've been there." Lazair glanced at his men. "Who's got this man's guns?"

No one spoke.

His eyes went over them. "Sid?"

The man said nothing.

"Goddamn it I'm talking to you!"

The one called Sid, heavy-set, with a stubble of red beard, stepped out reluctantly and drew Flynn's pistol from his belt. "The carbine's in the tent," he mumbled.

"Here, let's see it," Lazair said. He weighted the pistol in his hand. "Just a mite long in the barrel. Likely it's accurate, though." His arm swung quickly thumbing the hammer and he fired the pistol in the motion.

Sid jumped quickly. "Hey!"

But no one was looking at him. Matagente sagged forward, his chin against his chest, unmoving, and below his chin was the small hole Lazair's bullet had made.

"Damn accurate," Lazair said.

A silence followed. Flynn studied him coldly. "You trying to prove something?"

Lazair shrugged. "He wasn't doing anybody much good. Hair's worth more'n his carcass. See, we don't exactly make farmers out of them, but we help the crops…turn them under, like manure."

He handed the pistol to Flynn. "You ought to cut that barrel down. Sid," he said over his shoulder, "you saddle up two mounts and fetch that carbine along and if anybody's got this other soldier's gun, fork over." He nodded to Bowers and Flynn. "You boys take it easy now." He turned and walked off toward the cave.

It was past noon when they reached Soyopa, entering by the way they had gone out two days before. And now the cemetery was silent. Rows of wooden crosses, but no one kneeling to remember the dead. Later on, when the shadows lengthened behind the church, the women would come. Always someone came.

The newer graves were near the road and already these were beginning to resemble the others, though the wooden crosses were not yet graved by the weather; small stones spread over the low mounds-a stone for a prayer for the repose of the soul.

Flynn dismounted stiffly and walked to the grave of Anastacio Esteban. Bowers followed him. A square of wood was nailed to the arms of the cross and it bore the inscription:

Aqui yace Anastacio Maria Esteban Vencino de Soyopa Matado por los barbaros el dia 26 de Octubre del ano 1876 Ora por el, Christiano, por Dios.

Flynn said in English, "Killed by the barbarians… Christian, for the sake of God, pray for his soul." Then he said again, "Matado por los barbaros…" He looked at Bowers. "A barbarian with a willow-root straw and a red neckerchief."

Bowers eyed him curiously. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"The Indian could have been lying."

"It's not what Soldado said."

Bowers looked at him, but said nothing.

"Then you didn't see her," Flynn said, "…just for a moment in the cave entrance. Nita Esteban."