Lew grinned at his chief. "That's a step toward it."

"She likes to play." Lazair felt the material between his fingers and then tore it down the middle.

Lew said, "Maybe she's upset after seeing what you did to her kin."

Lazair folded a part of the scarf lengthwise, then tied it around his neck, sticking the ends into his shirt. "Some girls are funny that way," he said.

8

"O God, by whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, vouchsafe to bless this grave, and appoint Thy holy angel to guard it; and release the souls of all those whose bodies are buried here from every bond of sin, that in Thee they may rejoice with Thy saints forever. Through Christ our Lord."

The Franciscan made the sign of the cross in the air and sprinkled the grave with holy water.

Flynn waited patiently, though within him there was an impatience, while the priest finished his prayer over the last grave. He was anxious to be going, but the Franciscan had moved slowly from grave to grave, reciting the burial prayers reverently, a liturgy unaffected by time. There was no need to hurry.

Flynn's restlessness was not out of irreverence. He whispered his prayers with the priest, but his mind kept wandering to the news the vaquero had brought.

As they were lowering the bodies into the freshly dug graves, the vaquero had ridden in, killing his mount with the urgency of his news. He had seen Apaches! Tending his herd, a dozen miles from Soyopa, he had entered a draw after a stray-and there at the other end, trailing down from high country, were the Apaches. He had flown before they were able to see him, he told. But he had looked back once, and coming out of the draw they had traveled southeast in the direction of the deserted village of Valladolid. How many? Perhaps six or seven.

"Then it is not a raiding party," a man had said.

"Who knows the way of the Apache," the vaquero answered. He perspired, and the wide eyes told that he was still frightened.

"What about your cows?"

"My cows must protect themselves."

Flynn had listened with interest. Perhaps this was the opportunity. They could scour the hills for months without finding an Apache. Now, the Apaches had shown themselves. Scout them, he thought. Perhaps they would lead to Soldado Viejo, or, he could even be one of the six. He asked the vaquero to take them back to where he had seen the Apaches, but the vaquero steadfastly refused. Well, they could go alone.

"We might wait a long time for a trail as fresh as this one," he told Bowers.

Bowers shrugged. "Why not? That's why we're here."

A few of the villagers who had heard this looked at the Americans curiously.

They returned to the alcalde's house for their horses, then passed the cemetery again as they left Soyopa by the trail north. Hilario was still standing by the graves. He would move to the foot of a grave, recite the "Hail Mary" and drop a small stone, then move to the next. Later, the villagers would come and do this and after that any traveler entering Soyopa who knew a prayer for the dead would drop a stone.

The vaquero had told them approximately where his small herd had been grazing. Flynn remembered vaguely this country just to the north and the small village of Valladolid, half the size of Soyopa, a lonely outpost for vaqueros and their families. He had passed through it returning home. But now, he was told, Valladolid was only adobe-as lifeless as the mud it was made from. Soldado had struck the vaqueros too often and finally they had left it for larger villages-Soyopa, Rueda and others to the south; though some few herds were still grazed up there in the wild grama and toboso grass.

They rode due north through the afternoon, Flynn a few yards ahead of Bowers. Bowers would make the decisions; it was his assignment. But Flynn would show the way; it was his business.

They found the herd without difficulty, though the cattle were scattered, perhaps thirty head grazing from one end of the meadow to the other. There could be others in the hills now, hidden by the scrub trees, and up the draw which they recognized from the vaquero's description. Flynn did not doubt that the Apaches had driven off some, but until later he was not sure how many.

On the east edge of the meadow they stopped to eat-beef and tortillas which Hilario had told them to take from his house; then followed after the unshod horse tracks as they left the meadow.

At first, Flynn would step down from the saddle often to examine the prints more closely. But in less than a quarter of a mile he was sure and he said to Bowers, "The cowboy wasn't exaggerating. There are six of them. They're driving three cows." Farther on there were horse droppings in the trail. Flynn dismounted again. "They're not expecting anybody to be following."

Bowers said, "How far ahead?"

"About four hours." His eyes swung up to the high country that was before them. "They should be farther than that."

Bowers said, "They're taking their time. Maybe they've forgotten what it's like to be chased."

"What about Lazair?"

Bowers looked at him quickly, curiously, "That rurale mentioned him."

Flynn nodded. "So did Deneen. The rurale thought we worked for him, and he said something about the hunter of Indians proving to the lieutenant who was boss."

Bowers said, "Hunter of Indians."

"Bounty hunters," Flynn said.

They began climbing shortly after. The ground was high on both sides and the draw rose gradually toward thick scrub brush. Still following the tracks, they crossed a bench then climbed again, now into pine, and soon they reached the long flat crest of the rise. In the distance, the hills took up again, but more rugged-tumbling into each other, spewed with rock and brush, forming a thousand fantastic shapes. The unshod tracks continued on down the slope of the hill, and below them, deathly still in the evening light, was the village of Valladolid.

"Well?" Bowers asked it.

Flynn's eyes roamed over the adobe huts, half squinting. The first buildings were perhaps four hundred yards down the slope. The walls were wind-scarred and the bricks showed in many places where the outer plastering of adobe had crumbled off. Beyond these, a patchwork of brush rooftops, some caved in or blown away. Grass and brush grew in the streets which they could see, and the taller growth swayed gently as the wind moved through the shadowed lanes. The village seemed all the more dead, because it had once been alive.

Bowers said, "What are you thinking about?"

"All the places down here an Apache could hide," Flynn said.

They moved back into the heavier pines and tied their horses to the lowest branches so they could graze, then sat down to rest and think and check their guns. And for the next hour they smoked cigarettes cupped in their hands and spoke little. When it was almost full dark, Flynn nodded and they rose together and moved back to the slope.

Flynn was starting down the grade as Bowers touched his arm, and he stopped. "Do you really think it's worth it?" Bowers said.

Flynn shrugged. "You have something else you'd rather do?"

"You could lie down there and no one would even know about it."

"The Apaches would…"

Flynn moved off then, Bowers a few yards behind him. They descended slowly, taking their time, and when they had gone almost halfway Flynn motioned to keep lower. The rest of the way they moved more cautiously, zigzagging through the shadows of the brush clumps. Flynn would move ahead, then drop to his stomach and wait for Bowers to follow, then lie motionless to make sure the silence had not changed before moving again. The brush straggled all the way down to the first building, so there was no opening to cross, and when they reached the wall they pressed close to it in the deep shadow of the roof overhang and waited a longer time now.