On a certain evening just before dark he entered into a road and turned and followed it west. The red sun that burned in the broad gap of the mountains before him sloughed out of its form and was slowly sucked away to light all the sky in a deep red afterflash. When darkness had come there stood in the distance on the plain the single yellow light from a dwelling and he rode on until he came to a small weatherboard cabin and sat the horse before it and called out.
A man came to the door and stepped out onto the gallery. Quién es? he said.
Un viajero.
Cuántos son ustedes?
Yo sólo.
Bueno, the man said. Desmonte. Pásale.
He stepped down and tied the bridlereins about the porch post and mounted the steps and removed his hat. The man held the door for him and he entered and the man followed and shut the door and nodded toward the fire.
They sat and drank coffee. The man’s name was Quijada and he was a Yaqui Indian from western Sonora and he was the same gerente of the Nahuerichic division of the Babícora who’d told Boyd to cut their horses out of the remuda and take them. He’d seen the lone güero riding in the mountains and told the alguacil not to molest him. He told his guest that he knew who he was and why he’d come. Then he leaned back in his chair. He raised the cup to his lips and drank and watched the fire.
You’re the man give us back our horses, Billy said.
He nodded. He leaned forward and he looked at Billy and then he sat looking into the fire. The thick handleless porcelain cup from which he drank looked like a chemist’s mortar and he sat with his elbows on his knees and held it before him in both hands and Billy thought that he would say something more but he did not. Billy drank from his cup and sat holding it. The fire ticked. Outside in the world all was silence. Is my brother dead? he said.
Yes.
He was killed in Ignacio Zaragosa?
No. In San Lorenzo.
The girl too?
No. When they took her away she was covered in blood and she was falling down and so it was natural that people thought that she had been shot but it was not so.
What became of her?
I dont know. Perhaps she went back to her family. She was very young.
I asked about her in Namiquipa. They didnt know what had become of her.
They would not tell you in Namiquipa.
Where is my brother buried?
He is buried at Buenaventura.
Is there a stone?
There is a board. He was very popular with the people. He was a popular figure.
He didnt kill the manco in La Boquilla.
I know.
I was there.
Yes. He killed two men in Galeana. No one knows why. They did not even work for the latifundio. But the brother of one was a friend to Pedro Lopéz.
The alguacil.
The alguacil. Yes.
He’d seen him once in the mountains, he and his henchmen, the three of them descending a ridgeline in the twilight. The alguacil carried a short sword in a beltscabbard and he answered to no one. Quijada leaned back and sat with his boots crossed before him. The cup in his lap. Both watched the fire. As if some work were there annealing. Quijada raised his cup as if to drink. Then he lowered it again.
There is the latifundio of Babícora, he said. With all the wealth and power of Mr Hearst to call upon. And there are the campesinos in their rags. Which do you believe will prevail?
I dont know.
His days are numbered.
Mr Hearst?
Yes.
Why do you work for the Babícora?
Because they pay me.
Who was Socorro Rivera?
Quijada tapped the rim of his cup softly with the gold band on his finger. Socorro Rivera tried to organize the workers against the latifundio. He was killed at the paraje of Las Varitas by the Guardias Blancas five years ago along with two other men. Crecencio Macias and Manuel Jiménez.
Billy nodded.
The soul of Mexico is very old, said Quijada. Whoever claims to know it is either a liar or a fool. Or both. Now that the yankees have again betrayed them the Mexicans are eager to reclaim their Indian blood. But we do not want them. Most particularly the Yaqui. The Yaqui have long memories.
I believe you. Did you ever see my brother again after we left with the horses?
No.
How do you know about him?
He was a hunted man. Where would you go? Inevitably he was taken in by Casares. You go to the enemy of your enemies.
He was only fifteen. Sixteen, I guess.
All the better.
They didnt take very good care of him, did they?
He didnt want to be taken care of. He wanted to shoot people. What makes one a good enemy also makes one a good friend.
Yet you work for Mr Hearst?
Yes.
He turned and looked at Billy. I am not a Mexican, he said. I dont have these loyalties. These obligations. I have others.
Would you have shot him yourself?
Your brother?
Yes.
If it had come to that. Yes.
Maybe I ought not to be drinkin your coffee.
Maybe not.