"That's a famous church. The statue of the Virgin of Zapopan's in there. There been a lot of miracles here, man," Heriberto said.

"This is the place," I said to Helen.

"What place?" she said.

"Mingo Bloomberg told me the guy named Arana was from a village in Jalisco that had a famous religious statue in it," I said.

Heriberto steered around a parked bus, on top of which sat two soldiers in camouflage fatigues and steel pots. A third soldier was urinating in the street. The street sign on the corner said emiliano zapata.

"The guy the rurales shot by the mines? Yeah, he should have gone to church a lot more. But was Indio, you know. One day they're in church, the next day they're drunk, chasing puta, causing a lot of shit with the government. See, man, their real problem is they ain't big on work," he said.

Helen leaned forward from the seat behind us. "How about shutting the fuck up?" she said.

"Gringita, I ain't got nothing against these people. But in the south they been killing our soldiers. You want to see what happens?" Heriberto said, lifting a shoe box of photographs from under the seat.

The photos were black and white, creased and hand-soiled around the edges, as though they had been passed around for viewing many times. In one photo three dead rebels lay by the side of a road, their bandannas still tied over the lower half of their faces. They had on U.S. Army web gear and bandoliers and looked like they had been killed while running. Several other photos showed another scene from different angles; a half dozen male corpses had been strung up by their feet from an adobe colonnade, their fingers inches above the dirt, their faces featureless with dried blood.

"The old guy we gonna see this afternoon? He encourages these guys, gives them money for guns, gets them killed. The guy comes from your country, Gringita," Heriberto said.

"If I were you, I wouldn't say any more," I said.

He opened his fingers in the air, as though he were releasing an invisible bird from them, and drove out of the village toward the mountains and a place that could have been sawed out of the revolutionary year of 1910.

We drove on a high switchback rock road through dead trees and a boulder-strewn landscape and rain that covered the windows like running plastic, then crested a ridge that was blackened by a forest fire, dancing with lightning, and dropped down out of the storm into sunlight again and a long cultivated valley with green hills in the distance and a volcano that was beveled across the top as though it had been sheared by tin snips. The road followed a river with wide, red clay alluvial banks that were scissored with the tracks of livestock, then we were inside another village, this one with cobblestone streets, buff-colored colonnades, a stone watering trough in front of the cervecería, a. tiny open-air market where bees combs and uncured meat were sold off wood carts that were boxed with screens to keep out the blowflies.

The streets and walkways under the colonnades were filled with soldiers. They were all young and carried World War II M-l rifles and M-16's. Some of the M-16's had a knob welded onto the bolt, which meant they were early Vietnam-era issue, notorious among grunts for the bolt that often jammed and had to be driven into the chamber with the heel of the hand.

We stood in the street while Minos talked with a collection of Mexican drug agents gathered around the tailgate of an army six-by. The air was shining and cool after the rain, and you could see for miles. Heriberto stared off in the distance at a rambling white ranch house with a blue tile roof on the slope of a hill. His legs were spread slightly, his expression contemplative.

"Big day for the Tejano. We gonna fuck him up good, man," he said.

"That's where he lives? You think maybe he's seen us coming?" I asked.

"We cut his phone. He ain't going nowhere."

I took Minos aside.

"What are they expecting to find up there, the Russian Army?" I said.

"A lot of these guys speak English, Dave."

"They've blown the operation."

"Not in their mind. This is how they say 'get out of town' to people they normally can't touch. Mason should be flattered."

"You don't like him?"

"My sister was a flowerchild back in the sixties. She thought this guy was a great man. She got loaded on hash and acid and floated out on the sunset from a ten-story window."

We followed a caravan of six army trucks down a winding dirt road to the walled compound that surrounded Clay Mason's ranch. The walls were topped with broken glass and spirals of razor wire, and the wood gates at the entrance were chain-locked and barred with a crossbeam inside. The lead truck, which was fronted with a plow-shaped dozer blade, gained speed, roaring across the potholes, the soldiers in back rocking back and forth, then crashed through the gates and blew them off their hinges.

The soldiers trashed the house, fanned out into the yards and outbuildings, kicked chickens out of their way like exploding sacks of feathers, and for no apparent reason shot a pig running from a barn and threw it down the well.

"Can you put a stop to this bullshit?" I said to Minos.

"You see that fat slob with the Sam Browne belt on? He's a graduate of the School of the Americas at Fort Benning. He also owns a whorehouse. He knocked the glass eye out of a girl for sassing him. No, thanks."

While his house was being torn apart, Clay Mason leaned against a cedar post on his front porch and smoked a hand-rolled cigarette, his pixie eyes fixed on me and Minos. His hair extended like white straw from under his domed Stetson hat.

"Karyn warned me you're a vindictive man," he said.

"I'm sorry about your place. It's not my doing," I said.

"Like hell it isn't." Then a yellow tooth glinted behind his lip and he added, "You little pisspot."

He flipped his cigarette away, walked to the corner of his house on his cane, and urinated in the yard, audibly passing gas with his back turned to us, shaking his penis, a small, hatted, booted man, in a narrow, ratty coat, whose power had touched thousands of young lives. Helen and I walked behind the ranch house, where the soldiers had forced five field hands to lean spread-eagled against the stone wall of the barn. The field hands were young and frightened and kept turning their heads to see if guns were being pointed at their backs. The soldiers shook them down but kept them leaning on their arms against the wall.

"I don't like being in on this one, Dave," Helen said.

"Don't watch it. We'll be out of here soon," I said.

We walked inside the barn. The loft was filled with hay, the horse stalls slatted with light, the dirt floor soft as foam rubber with dried manure. Through the doors at the far end I could see horses belly-deep in grass against a blue mountain.

Hanging from pegs on a wood post, like a set used by only one man, were a pair of leather chaps, a bridle, a yellow rain slicker, a sleeveless knitted riding vest, flared gloves made from deer hide, and two heavy Mexican spurs with rowels as big as half dollars. I rotated one of the rowels with my thumb. The points were sticky and coated with tiny pieces of brown hair.

Behind the post, a silver saddle was splayed atop a sawhorse. I ran my hand across the leather, the cool ridges of metal, the seared brand of a Texas cattle company on one flap. The cantle was incised with roses, and in the back of the cantle was a mother-of-pearl inlay of an opened camellia.

"What is it?" Helen said.

"Remember, the guy named Arana said the bugarron rode a silver saddle carved with flowers? I think Clay Mason's our man."

"What can you do about it?"

"Nothing."