He studied the place for a long time, his gaze holding on the shape that was barely visible through the trees at the bottom of the shallow slope.

Someone was there. Not a movement, but something resembling a human form, though from this distance it was hard to tell. Flynn was on his stomach in the coarse grass that grew among the pines here. His horse was yards behind him, below the line of the hill.

Above the tree that he watched, a cliff rose shadowed with crevices and grotesque chimneys; pink cantera stone fading pale as the threat of rain washed the sky gray. High above the thickening clouds was an eruption of sunlight, a cold light that fanned upward away from the rain that was to come.

Minutes passed and the shape did not move.

Flynn eased back from the crest to his mount and pulled the Springfield from its scabbard. He crouched at the crest again studying the shape, then rose and moved slowly, cautiously down the slope into the trees.

There it was. And he saw now why there had been no movement.

It was Matagente. He was hanging from the twisted limb of a juniper by a short length of rawhide that squeezed into the flesh of his throat. Matagente no longer wore his headband…the crown of his head had been hacked off for its scalp.

It's a warning, Flynn thought, meant for Soldado. But probably the buzzards would have found him before Soldado.

And then it occurred to him: But where are they? If there are no buzzards then he was just hung there…within the hour probably. Because Lazair shot him this morning you assumed he was put here then. But if he'd been here all day there wouldn't be much left of himHe went back up the slope and returned to his mount, drawing a clasp knife from his pocket, and from the height of the McClellan saddle had to raise himself only a little more to reach the rawhide and cut it. He held the Apache about the body as he did this, feeling hard flesh and caked blood that crumbled against his hand and as he felt the full weight he tried to bend Matagente across the pommel of his saddle. But the body was stiff with death.

He used the rawhide line then, piecing it together, and dragged the Mimbre behind the horse carefully through the evergreens until he reached the sandy cantera cliff. There was no other way to do it.

He carried Matagente then, when he was closer to the wall, and laid his body into a hollow of the base. There were hundreds of cracks, hollows and niches here, sharply shadowed black seams rising with the heights of the pink facade. Then he placed rocks over the hollow and within minutes Matagente was a part of the cliff.

Flynn retraced his steps then, smoothing the marks Matagente's dragged body had made.

Let's go slow now, he told himself. Let's think it out before jumping into anything. Their camp is beyond the cliff and even up another climb farther on. If they were to ride to Soyopa they would pass this place. They could have hung him here on their way…but I would have seen them…Not necessarily. You could have passed in timber. You could have missed them easily and there would not have been a dust rise in the trees.

He looked at the sky now. It's going to rain before dark. I can't picture Lazair's men riding out into the rain unless ordered to, unless he was there to make them.

Tracks. It occurred to him then. With the rain there will be no tracks tomorrow of where they went today. They can hang Matagente and Soldado cannot trace the sign to Lazair's camp.

He rode back to the juniper from which Matagente had been hanging and looked at the ground. The tracks, half-moon impressions of steel-shod hooves, went east…not to Soyopa, nor back to Lazair's camp. There had been no attempt to cover the tracks.

That's it, Flynn thought, they're counting on the rain. They're riding because it's going to rain and they're not going to all this trouble for anybody else but Soldado. Setting up an ambush at a logical place…along some trail they think the old Indian would have to take some time or another…and they don't want their tracks to warn him and turn the ambush around. And if this is true, then there would not be many at Lazair's camp now.

He went on, and even though he could feel an excitement inside of him now he traveled at the same careful pace, watching four directions as he skirted the steep slant of cliff wall and began climbing again, now into dwarf oaks. He would stop and wait and listen, then go on. You never knew for sure, so why take a chance?

Finally he reached the meadow and by this time it was beginning to drizzle. It was not yet dark and a gray mist hung over the sabaneta grass that would bend silently in a wave as the wind stirred. The rain made a sound, but it was a soft hissing whisper that was not there after you listened to it long enough.

He would move when it was dark. He'd cross the meadow and climb the slope there two hundred yards away and find the guard before the guard found him. If the rain keeps up it will help, he thought.

Then he would find out if he'd guessed right. He had planned to watch here until the band of scalp hunters rode out…even if it might take a few days…but now he was almost certain they were not in camp, and waiting to make sure would only waste time.

It took longer for full darkness to creep over the meadow, because Flynn was waiting for it, but finally it settled and with it the rain seemed louder.

Pretend you're Mimbreno, he thought as he left the cover of the trees and started across the meadow. This would be easy for one of Soldado's boys. It would be nothing. But think of the guard now; he was up in the rocks before; that doesn't mean he'll be there now. It's raining. If he's taken cover you'll have to be careful; but at least he won't hear you with the rain. Think like an Apache. But don't kill him, he thought then. Not if you can help it.

Faintly he could see the shape of the rock rise against the sky. We were over more to the right, he thought, remembering the outline of the crest as it had looked to him the first time. The first and only time…this morning. And that's hard to believe that it was this morning. The guard had been to the left then. Now he would be directly in front of you if he's in the same place.

Flynn moved to the right, now, holding the detail of the rock rise in his memory and now estimating where the defile would be. He moved closer, threading into the rocks and there it was just above him slanting darkly into the slope.

He eased himself up over the rocks, crawled, lay flat to listen, then crawled again to the pass opening and rose, looking up to the ledge where the guard had been that morning.

He's not there. Flynn's gaze came back to the define which was totally dark as far as he could see-or maybe he's in there using an overhang for shelter. But maybe there isn't any guard-and if there isn't, then you know Lazair's gone. That's the way it would be-nobody bothering to take watch if Lazair wasn't there to make him.

But you have to be sure.

He moved in a little farther, listening. Then went the rest of the way through without hesitating, crouched low to one wall, and at the other end he went down into the wet grass, feeling it cold against his hands and face, and looked out at the camp.

Across the open area he could make out the horses. They had drifted into the aspens, and now he heard one of them whinny, a faint shrill sound in the darkness.

The rain made a splattering sound against the tents. The ties of one had unfastened and the flaps billowed and then popped as the wind rose to sweep stinging into the camp. Three of the tents were deserted. The fourth stood ghostlike in the darkness-a lantern inside illuminating the pale, wet canvas outline.

No light showed from the cave entrance.