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one hundred yards ahead beneath one of the grey barked trees.
    “Some invitation!” muttered Medina.
    “That’s El Grillo, isn’t it?” asked Garson.
    “Yes.”
    “Maybe I can talk to him.” Garson moved to open his door.
    Medina gripped his arm. “Stay where you are!”
    El Grillo took his left hand from the rifle stock, pointed back toward the city.
    “Don’t get out of the car for any reason,” said Medina. “Just wait right here.” He opened his door, got out, walked up to El Grillo.
    The rifle remained pointed at the car.
    Medina murmured something to El Grillo. The little rifleman glanced back at the limousine, returned his attention to Garson, shook his head.
    Again Medina spoke.
    El Grillo grinned, looked up for the first time at Medina, shrugged. The rifleman wet his lips with his tongue, said, “Raul?” as though it were a question.
    Medina said something too low for Garson to hear.
    El Grillo nodded.
    Medina returned to the car, slid behind the wheel.
    “What the hell was all that?” demanded Garson.
    Medina ignored the question, backed the car through the gate, headed toward the city. They rounded the hairpin curve. Medina braked to a stop.
    Garson became conscious of the crickets rasping in the dry grass beside the road. They reminded him that the rifleman at the gate was known as “The Cricket.” He said, “Okay, Choco. What gives?”
    “Are you up to a little hike?”
    “To the hacienda?”
    “Yes.”
    “What about El Grillo?”
    “He’ll take you across the lake after dark for fifty pesos. That’s what I was talking about.”
    “Lake? What lake?”
    “You have to cross a lake to get to the hacienda.”
    Garson took a deep breath. The feeling that there was something deeply wrong with this situation filled him. “How far would I have to walk?”
    “About two or three miles.”
    “Why walk?”
    “The riders would hear a car. If you’re on foot, you can hide in the brush beside the road when a horseman comes past.”
    “Am I likely to meet a guard?”
    “No. El Grillo said he was the only one on this side right now. He’ll meet you where they park the car.”
    “What’ll you be doing?”
    “I can’t leave the car here.”
    Garson nodded. “All right. So that’s how I get in. How’ll I get out?”
    “You’re awfully cautious all of a sudden.”
    “I didn’t like the looks of that El Grillo.”
    “He has a price, Mr. Garson. Remember that.”
    Garson opened his door, got out. “Do I just follow that road we were on?”
    “Yes. You can’t miss it. Be careful that El Grillo or his Indian woman are the only ones to see you when you get to the barrio at the lake.” Medina looked suddenly thoughtful. His evil features drew down into a deep scowl. “There’s one other thing.”
    Again Garson was filled with a sense of danger. “Yes?”
    “Whatever you do, don’t give away my part in this.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “No matter what happens, don’t let on that I’m working for you.”
    “Okay, Choco.” Garson lifted his hand in salute.
    Medina put the car in gear, pulled away in a choking cloud of dust.
    Garson turned, headed back up the road. He felt the weight of the pistol in his belt, brought it out and checked it, stopped in frozen shock. There were no cartridges in it.
    Who took them? The maid? Were there shells in it when Medina gave it to me?
    He replaced the revolver in his belt, was suddenly thankful that he had made the arrangement with Gabriél Villazana to call the American Consulate.
    An acute sense of loneliness swept over Garson. He slapped at a mosquito on his neck, wondered: Now, what the devil have I gotten myself into?
    The air held a rich smell of earth: moldy, verdant. Gnats and flies buzzed around him. He slipped off his coat, loosened his tie, wished for his hat.
    The stone pillars loomed up beside the road. Garson approached them cautiously. No sign of El Grillo. He turned onto the private road, noted that it was little more