The man's smile broadened, saying, "Now Sergeant Santana returned to a table and within a few minutes the two friends of War-ren returned. They couldn't have buried the one who was shot, they returned so soon, but must have thrown his body somewhere. They stood at the bar, unmindful that War-ren was no longer present and now Sergeant Santana approached the one called Loo and he said, 'Listen'-the man attempted to imitate Santana's tone of voice-'that American was a good shot…' meaning you, senor," he said to Flynn. "Then Santana said, 'Are all Americans that capable with firearms?' Now these two Americans winked at one another and the one called Loo said, 'I saw your men shoot that Apache boy in the courtyard. If I could not outshoot any of them I would quit.' "Now Santana said, 'Listen. You didn't see me shoot the day. I think I am better than the others.' And the one called Loo replied, 'I doubt it, but if you want a little match, let us go outside.' And Santana said, in a tone which was a monument to tranquility, 'Why not have it right here, out of the sun's heat?' To which the American agreed.

"Now Santana boldly walked to the end of the room, bringing a chair and a tumbler with him. He placed the chair with its back rest against the closet door and balanced the tumbler so that it rested on the chair but leaned against the door. Then, walking back to the American he said, 'After you…' with the politeness of a gachupin caballero. The American nodded and with that, raised his pistol, aimed and fired."

The man paused, looking around the group. Dramatically, hushed, he said, "The glass shattered."

"That was the first of the shots we heard," Hilario said.

The man scowled at the alcalde, the scowl turning to a smile as he said, "Now listen. Santana turned to the man congratulating him and then said, 'Perhaps we should look in the closet to make sure there is nothing breakable inside of it.' The one called Loo said, 'What difference does it make?' And Santana shrugged saying, 'Merely as a courtesy to the owner of Las Quince Letras.' "Now we watched closely as they approached the closet. Santana's gun was out of its holster for he was to shoot next. He moved the chair. The one called Loo opened the door and at that moment you should have seen the look on his face! He had holstered his pistol and suddenly he attempted to draw it, but Santana's pistol was pointed directly at this one's stomach and with a coolness that made us shudder, he pulled the trigger once and then again as the man fell.

"The other American was still toward the front at the bar. He drew his pistol and fired, missing, then ran for the door. Santana and his rurales followed him to the door, firing their pistols, but that one reached his horse and escaped.

"Then Santana began gathering bottles of mescal from the bar, telling his companions to do the same, all of the time shouting, 'Now it is done! The time has come! First the gringos and then Duro!' And then he described Duro in the vilest language saying, repeating, his time had come. They rode away then and I saw them stop before the Lieutenant Duro's house, but they remained there only for a moment, taking a horse which the rurale who was on duty there mounted and rode after them down the street toward their camp…I assume, now, to gather the others."

The man had finished. Looking at Hilario, Flynn said quietly, "Santana has said it for us. The time has come-"

Curt Lazair reined in, holding his mount within the shadow of Santo Tomas' east wall, and from there watched the rurale patrol swing into the square, seeing most of the horsemen riding out again by way of the street that led to their camp. He saw Bowers then, dismounting with those who had remained, in front of Las Quince Letras.

Flies buzzed at the canvas bag that hung from Lazair's saddle horn. He waved his hand at them idly and, still watching the men in front of the mescal shop, he sniffed as the rancid odor of the scalps rose from the bag. He did this instinctively, as an animal sniffs the air, still, he was not fully aware that he had done so. There was a question in his mind and the answer to it could be a hell of a lot more dangerous than the smell of day-old scalps. And now, suddenly, he thought he was looking at the answerA rurale patrol…been out in the hills…that shavetail with them…he knew where the camp was, because he'd been there. That must be it!

Lazair had been thinking about it all the way in…calmly at first, because that was the best way to go about things like this; go over it slow and everything will fall into place…then he had found Sid's body-not all of it because the buzzards had found Sid first-and the calm thinking ended then and there.

Two dead, one wounded. And not even the wounded man-who was shot clean through a lung and wouldn't last another day-or the man who had brought him in, the only one of the four who was still healthy, had seen who had done the shooting. That didn't happen every day: three men shot up and not even knowing who did it.

But now it was plain to Lazair. Bowers and the rurale patrol…it couldn't be anyone else!

He crossed the square along the east side, following the adobe fronts around to Duro's house. The rurale guard sat leaning against the door to the arsenal. He was asleep and did not look up even as Lazair rode up close to him and dismounted.

Lamas Duro jumped with the abrupt sound of the door opening. Sitting behind the desk he stiffened, looking up with startled wide-eyed surprise, and a roll of silver coins spilled from his fingers to the desktop. The coins scattered, rolling into silver pesos already stacked in neat columns on the desk, ten coins to a column, 100 pesos in each.

Lazair stood in the doorway, confidently, defiantly, the way a man stands who has two Colts strapped to his thighs. One hand rested idly on the handle of the right pistol; the fingers of the other hand were curled in the drawstring of the canvas sack. His eyes held on Duro, coming to conclusions then and there, seeing the money, the look on Duro's face, the way he was dressed-ready to travel-jacket, scarf, gun belt and the Chihuahua hat at one end of the desk.

"Where're you going?"

It was still on Duro's face, the shock of seeing Lazair suddenly in front of him, but now he tried to smile. "It's time for a patrol."

"Your sergeant just come off one."

"This is a different kind." Duro smiled. "I am going to ride out alone. Perhaps one man can find out more than twenty."

"About what?"

"Apaches."

Lazair was silent, his eyes remaining on Duro. Suddenly, "You've had enough, so now you think it's time to haul out."

"What are you talking about?"

"You should have waited for a report before you started counting your money."

"I was just putting aside the amount owed to you from the last time," Duro explained.

"Not when you never expected to see me again you weren't." Lazair moved toward the desk, his hand still on the pistol butt. "That boy-cavalry-soldier told you where we lived…so you got it in your head: Hit 'em…sometime after it's dark and it will save passing out muchos pesos." Lazair said again, "You should have made sure before counting your money."

"That makes no sense," Duro said slowly and now the question furrowing his forehead was genuine. "Who hit your camp?"

Lazair smiled faintly. "You're getting better." He said then, "Your sergeant'll be coming in pretty soon…he's over to the cantina now. When he gets enough brave juice in him he'll come and tell you how they got only two for sure 'cause somebody couldn't hold his nerves and started shooting before they found out hardly nobody was home."

"I don't follow you," Duro said, still frowning. "Got two of what?"

"Two of my boys!"

Duro's features relaxed with amazement. "No!" and then the smile began forming slowly, curling the corners of his mouth. "Santana did that!" The smile widening, "I can't believe it. He wouldn't have the nerve."