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“My father,” she went on, “worked a small farm near Nogales which I remember as far back as I am able. He worked hard but he was not a very good farmer, and I always had the feeling that papa was sorry he had married and settled there. You see, my mother was Mexican,” and she lowered her eyes as if in apology.

“One day this man rode up and asked if he may buy coffee. We had none, but he stayed and talked long with papa and they seemed to get along very well. After that he came often, maybe two three times a month and always he brought us presents and sometimes even money, which my papa took and I thought was very bad of him, even though I was only a little girl. Soon after that my mother died of sickness, and my papa took me to Tucson to live. And from that time he began going away for weeks at a time with this man and when he returned he would have money and he would be very drunk. When he would go, I prayed to the Mother of God at night because I knew what he was doing.

“Finally, he went away and did not return.” Her voice carried a note of despair. “And my prayers changed to ones for the repose of his soul.”

Fallis said, “I’m sorry,” awkwardly, but the girl went on as if he had not spoken.

“A few months later the man returned and treated me differently.” Her face colored slightly. “He treated me older. He was kind and told me he would come back soon and take me away from Tucson to a beautiful place I would love. …But it was almost two years after thisthat the man called Rondo came to me at night and took me to the man. I had almost forgotten him. He was waiting outside of town with horses and made me go with them. I did not know him, he had changed so—his face, and even his voice. We have been here for almost two weeks, and only a few days ago I learned where he had been for the two years.”

Suddenly, she pressed her face into his chest and began to cry silently, convulsively.

Fallis’s arms circled the thinness of her shoulders to press her hard against his chest. He mumbled, “Don’t cry,” into her hair and closed his eyes hard to think of something he could say. Feeling her body shaking against his own, he could see only a smiling, dark-haired little girl looking with awe at the carefree, generous American riding into the yard with a war bag full of presents. And then the little girl standing there was no longer smiling, her cheekbone was black and blue and she carried a half-gallon coffeepot in her hands. And the carefree American became a sallow death’s-head that she called only “the man.”

With her face buried against his chest, she was speaking. At first he could not make out her words, incoherent with the crying, then he realized that she was repeating, “I do not like him,” over and over, “I do not like him.” He thought, how can she use such simple words? He lifted her head, her eyes closed, and pressed his mouth against the lips that finally stopped saying, “I do not like him.”

She pushed away from him lingeringly, her face flushed, and surprised the grin from his face when she said, “Now I must get wood for in the morning.”

The grin returned as he looked down at her childlike face, now so serious. He lifted the hand-ax from the wood box, and they walked across the clearing very close together.

Virgil Patman stood in the doorway and watched them dissolve into the darkness of the pines.

Well, what are you going to do? Maybe a man’s not better off minding his own business. The boy looks like he’s doing pretty well not minding his. But damn, he thought, he’s sure making it tough! He stared out at the cold, still light of early evening and heard the voice in his mind again. You’ve given him a lot of advice, but you’ve never really done anything for him. He’s a good boy. Deserves a break. It’s his own damn business how quick he falls for a girl. Why don’t you try and give him a hand?

Patman exhaled wearily and turned back into the hut. He lifted De Sana’s handgun from the holster on the wall and pushed it into the waist