A breeze moved over the square, raising dust swirls about the stone obelisk.

Two rurales lounged asleep in the shade of Duro's headquarters, and in front of Las Quince Letras a row of horses stood at the tie rack-a dun swished its tail lazily and the flanks of a big chestnut quivered to shake off flies. A dog yelped somewhere beyond the adobe fronts. And a woman, a black mantilla covering her head and shoulders, passed without sound into the shadowed doorway of Santo Tomas de Aquin. In the heat of the afternoon it was best to remain within.

From the doorway that opened onto the balcony, Lamas Duro watched the man leave the mescal shop and cross the square to the adobe whose sign read Comida. He walked leisurely, carrying a bottle of something.

"One of the American filth," Duro said half aloud.

As the figure passed from view he saw two riders then enter the square from the street that bordered the church, and as they passed the mescal shop Duro moved back into the room, buttoning his shirt. He smoothed his hair with his fingers as his eyes went on the desk to see the mescal bottle and glass. Hastily now he gathered them up, finishing the inch of colorless sweet liquid in the glass, and disappeared into the bedroom. He was back in a moment and arranged the papers on his desk in a semblance of order before returning to the doorway. The two riders were almost directly below.

He stepped out onto the balcony and called down, "Senores, please come up!" his smile as white as his shirt.

The taste of mescal was sour in his mouth and he lighted a cigar as he listened to the double tread on the stairs. Then they were on the balcony and he stepped aside allowing them to enter the room first.

"You do me an honor, Senor Flin and Lieutenant Bowers."

Bowers looked at him quickly.

Duro smiled. "This is a small pueblo, Lieutenant. The news does not have far to travel. Perhaps the alcalde tells a close friend…or someone overheard you speaking. He tells a friend. It enters Las Quince Letras and pop…it is out."

"Our identity was not intended to be kept secret," Bowers said.

"Of course not." Duro smiled. "But I wouldn't blame you if you did intend it so. Sometimes there is a problem in crossing into another country to perform a mission of a government nature. Often such matters must be handled with discretion. Of course, here you have nothing to fear. As a representative of Porfirio Diaz, I am at your command."

"That's very kind of you," Bowers said woodenly.

"Not at all." Duro held up his hand as if he would not think of accepting gratitude. "I know His Excellency, Porfirio, would have instructed that I aid your mission in every way…had he been informed of it. After all, the menace of the Apaches is a reason for the existence of our rurales. Actually then, you are giving assistance to us. Though I cannot say I envy your task." He said this as one soldier to another.

Bowers said, "But as a military man you know one cannot question his orders."

"Certainly." Duro bowed.

Flynn's eyes went over the room and returned to the rurale. "Have you ever made contact with Soldado Viejo?"

Duro shook his head. "Not with that elusive one. A few times, though, we have taken others of his tribe. The day you arrived we executed one." He sighed. "Sometimes such an act seems without heart but," his eyes shifted to Bowers, "one cannot question his orders."

Flynn crooked a knuckle to stroke his mustache idly. "I suppose not," he said. "You don't have to pay out much bounty money then."

"Occasionally." Duro shrugged.

"We were talking to a man named Lazair this morning-"

"Oh-"

"He was telling us about the fifteen scalps he brought in the other day."

"Fifteen!"

"Isn't that right?"

"I don't recall the exact number."

"That was a good haul."

"Yes, but it does not happen often."

Flynn eyed him steadily. "I was wondering how often it does happen. This Lazair must be pretty good to take that many at one time. He only has about a dozen men."

"I suppose," Duro said, "he knows many tricks in the tracking of Indians."

"I suppose," Flynn said.

"Would you care for a drink?" Duro said now, looking from one to the other.

Flynn said, "Fine," and Bowers nodded.

Duro went into the next room and returned with the bottle of mescal and three tumblers. "I have this for special guests," he said confidingly.

Flynn watched him place the glasses on his desk and pour mescal into them. "He had a Mimbre brave in his camp," he said.

Duro looked up. "This Lazair?"

Flynn nodded. "He'll be bringing you the scalp pretty soon."

"Oh…he was dead."

"He was after a while."

Duro shrugged. "Lazair is a businessman. A live Apache is worth nothing to him."

Bowers said quietly, "You get the feeling a live anything is worth nothing to him."

"Except perhaps a woman," Flynn added.

Duro handed them each a glass and said offhandedly, "He has a woman with him?"

"Didn't you know that?" Flynn asked.

"I have never visited his camp."

They sipped at the mescal, saying nothing. It was not a tension, but an uneasiness. After a moment Flynn said, "How do his men get on in the village?"

Duro shrugged. "As well as can be expected. They are, of course, sometimes primitive in their ways. As men would have to be who live as they do, by fighting Indians. But I have asked our people to treat them with courtesy since they are rendering our government a service." He sighed. "But sometimes they eye our women too covetously and with this my men are prone to raise objections."

"In other words," Flynn said, "they don't get along."

"Not all of the time, no."

"Lieutenant," Bowers said, "one of the reasons we came…I wonder if I could talk you into selling me a gun from your stores. I lost both of mine yesterday. That's if you have any extras."

"I could not possibly sell you one," Duro said stiffly, then smiled. "But I would be honored if you would select any gun you wish, as a gift."

They finished their drinks and descended to the equipment room. Bowers chose a Merrill carbine, and then a.44 Remington handgun which Duro insisted that he take. And though again he offered to pay for the arms, Lieutenant Lamas Duro would have none of this.

Flynn said, "Let us buy you a drink now."

But Duro refused painfully. "I'm sorry…a volume of paperwork awaits me. You would not believe that only thirty men can do so much to expand the records." He bowed. "Perhaps another time."

They walked off toward Las Quince Letras, leading their horses, as Duro mounted the stairs.

"Well," Bowers said wearily, "what does he know?"

"One thing I'm willing to bet on," Flynn answered, "-the difference between a Mimbre and a Mexican scalp."

From the sunlight they entered the dimness of Las Quince Letras, Flynn half expecting to see Frank Rellis, half hoping and ready, but Rellis was not there though four Americans were toward the other end of the bar at a front table. Three girls were with them. They looked up as Flynn and Bowers moved to the bar. Here and there were men of the village, older men, sipping their wine or mescal slowly to make it last and they looked up only for a moment.

"Those four weren't at Lazair's camp," Bowers said. The men with the girls at their table were still looking toward them.

"No, I didn't see them," Flynn said. He held up two fingers to the mustached Mexican behind the bar and said, "Mescal." Then to Bowers, "Let's sit down."

They brought bottle and glasses with them to a table. Bowers poured the mescal and pushed a glass toward the cavalry scout. His eyes held on the sandy mustache, waiting for Flynn to say something. Bowers was in charge-that's what the orders read-but it wasn't that simple. Just putting a man in charge doesn't make it so. Bowers was realizing this.