Past the empty fountain with its solitary stone obelisk, Duro could see down a side street to the house of Hilario Esteban, and the two rurales lounging in the doorway. God in Heaven, how can I be given such men! He turned disgustedly then and climbed the stairs to the upstairs veranda. Before going inside, he looked out over the square again. But nothing had changed.

Curt Lazair remained in the lieutenant's chair as Duro entered from the veranda. He lounged comfortably with a boot hooked on the desk corner next to his hat and he eyed Duro curiously. The rurale lieutenant had not seen him and was still deep in thought as he closed the door; and now Lazair smiled faintly.

"It's a long way to Mexico City."

Duro was startled. He turned from the door quickly and looked at the man with astonishment.

"Well, it's no farther than Anton Chico, New Mexico," Lazair went on. "Only Anton Chico ain't a hell of a lot better than Soyopa. It's all in how you look at things."

Duro nodded. "Yes, it's all in how you look at it." His head indicated the outside. "And I cannot say that I see very much out there."

Lazair smiled again-a smile which said he believed in little and trusted in even less. He shrugged now and said, "Money."

There was little sense in talking about it. Duro had discovered that the least said to this man, the better. Nothing seemed important to him. And always he was relaxed, as if to catch you unaware and then make fun of something which should be spoken of with sincerity. He wants to make you mad, Duro thought. Tell him to go to hell. But instead, he said, quietly, "You need a shave."

"I been out working for you." Lazair passed the palm of his hand over dark, neatly combed hair. "But I slicked my hair down when I found out I had to visit the lieutenant," he said mockingly. He was a man close to forty, almost handsome, crudely handsome, and the glistening hair contrasted oddly with the beard stubble on his face. He wore soft leather pants tucked into his boots; pistols on both sides of his low-slung cartridge belt, and he slipped one of the pair up and down in the holster idly as he spoke.

His other hand dropped from the arm of the chair now and he lifted a canvas bag and swung it onto the table.

"I brought you something."

Duro made no move toward the desk, though his eyes fell on the bag. "How many women did you kill this time?"

The words had no visible effect on Lazair. "Count 'em and see."

"I'll take your word for the number. I trust though you've taken the ribbons from the hair," Duro said.

Lazair nodded. "Sure we did. Just like you wiped that little boy's nose before you shot him a while ago."

"Were you there?"

"Two of my men were. I just come in."

"You're quickly informed."

Lazair smiled. "You got to get up a hell of a lot earlier than you do."

"How many did you take?" Duro said irritably. "I don't have all day."

"Open it up and find out."

"I said I'd take your word!"

Lazair came off the chair then and pulled the sack toward him. As he untied the rawhide string he said, "You're awful goddamn squeamish about something you're making money out of."

Duro said nothing as Lazair opened the bag and held it upside-down. The scalps came out of the bag as one-a hairy mass, glistening black and matted with dried blood. Duro frowned as Lazair ran his hand through the pile, separating the scalps.

He said, "When did you take them?"

Lazair glanced at him as he lined the scalps along the edge of the desk. "What difference does it make?"

"They smell."

Lazair laughed out loud. "Man, these used to be the tops of heads. What do you expect!"

"Put them back. I said I'd take your word for the number!"

But Lazair would not be hurried. "Even salted 'em down." He looked up at the lieutenant then and winked. "After I greased 'em good so they'd be sure and look Indian."

Duro studied the bounty hunter silently. Within him he could feel the hatred for this man. It caused a heat over his face. But he was aware of his conscience ever more than the hate, and he said very simply, "You are the filthiest man I have known."

"But you can't get really mad, can you?" Lazair said. "Not without hurting yourself. Daylight's a bad time of the day. It shows everything plain and if you happen to look in a mirror, you even see yourself." Lazair smiled again. "But there's always night…and your mescal bottle… Just remember one thing, soldier boy, I don't need you as bad as you think I do. If I can buy you, then there's some other goddam broken-down soldier who'll act just as dumb for money you don't have to work for."

"Maybe you had better look for this other 'broken-down soldier'!" Duro flared.

Lazair shook his head, smilingly. "I don't have to. I know you too well. You're stuck here and you don't have a choice. And every year you see government pesos coming in for the scalp bounties. Easy money to take, it looks like, only you have to balance what goes out with a scalp coming in. But when somebody comes along and offers you money in return for taking all scalps-no questions-then you're just doing your job. All you got to do is add and subtract…and you know how to do that."

Duro said, "Add scalps that are not always Apache."

"It's up to you." Lazair shrugged. "If you want to quit vouching for 'em it's up to you. Only I don't think you can. You get back ten pesos for every hundred going out. That's a lot of mescal when all you got to do is add up when the government man comes around. He isn't going to feel 'em for texture. So don't give me any goddamn talk about keeping your hands clean, because they're just as dirty as mine. Maybe dirtier," Lazair said evenly, " 'cause I don't particularly like Mexicans anyway."

"Get out!" Duro screamed.

Lazair lifted his hat from the desk. "I wouldn't want to be in your skin. You don't know who to be mad at, do you?" He went to the door, then hesitated after he had opened it. "I know there's eight hundred pesos' worth there, so let's not go juggling the books. We'll settle after you've cooled off."

Duro waited until he heard Lazair descending the stairs. He went to the desk quickly then and began sweeping the scalps into the sack that he held open below the desk edge. As he did this, he did not look down and he brushed his hand stiffly, with the fingers held tightly together so that he would not feel their texture. Yet a picture formed in his mind. A picture with the shock of a knife thrust to the stomach…even though it was only an almost indiscernible Mexican woman, no one he recognized, but with flowing black hair…

Hilario Esteban had moved the stool close to the window so that he could look out into the street. The street seemed so deserted this morning. At first he thought it strange, then one of the rurales appeared near the window and it was not strange. There was little for these frontier soldiers to do, most of them stationed far from their own villages, and often their minds would be suddenly activated by the sight of a villager passing along the street.

And as if they were a breed apart and all others were enemies, they would do unnatural things. Hilario had seen them shoot at the heels of old women to cause them to run. It was a sight to see an old woman running, then fall-they always fell-and scramble and roll in the dust shrieking. And they would think of other things to while away the hours. Sometimes they were as children. Like the morning Hilario had awakened to find the obscene word painted on the front of his house. Four red letters reaching higher than a man's head. It had taken a full day's labor to scrape the paint from the adobe, and they had stood around to laugh as the alcalde performed such work.

He leaned out of the window now and looked to the side. The two pairs of legs extended from his door stoop. The front of the brim of a sombrero showed also, but that was all he could see. Maybe they were asleep now, he thought. "God, make them sleep well and keep thoughts from their heads," he whispered.