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vision. Maybe folks from back east really would flock to clamber down inside 600 feet of cold, dank, black rock.
    But my mind wasn’t concerned with real estate investments. Instead, it continued to play the Hocking tape. There had to be a simple reason why Deputy Bob Torrez’s bootprints had been obliterated from Mrs. Hocking’s cellar floor. Maybe she’d decided to sell the place and had cleaned it up—or had it cleaned up—before the realtor visited. Or maybe the circumstances just weren’t right for obvious prints. Maybe the dirt of the cellar floor was as hard as only hundred-year old dirt could be, impervious to scuff marks and imprints.
    I hit the second cattle guard too fast and the front end of the Ford bottomed out with a crash. I swore and slowed to a crawl. The dust from the road filtered into the car, a sweet musty smell, and I turned on the air conditioner.
    Two more cattle guards and a blue sea of For Sale signs paraded by before I reached the turnoff to Reuben Fuentes’s ranch. His driveway made the gravel county road seem like an interstate. The wheelbase of the patrol car was too wide for the ruts and the Ford jounced and scraped as I followed the lane toward a jutting brow of limestone.
    For more than forty years, old man Fuentes had lived hard-scrabble on this property. He’d probably enjoyed every minute of it. Or so he’d always said. His wife, Rosa, had never professed any love for the dry, piñon- and juniper-studded land. She’d finally given up and died on Reuben’s eightieth birthday.
    Even Estelle Reyes-Guzman had given up trying to convince the old man to move into the twentieth century. The small stone house came into view as I wound the county car through a dense grove of juniper and crashed across a dry wash.
    Nailed to a stout pinon tree in the front yard was a No Traspessing sign, its misspelling bleached with age.
    I doubted if Reuben had had a trespasser, no matter how it was spelled, in thirty years, barring the occasional deer hunter who strayed off course. One of the popular Posadas County rumors had the old man’s notches counting six men killed over the years. I knew of two.
    When he was thirty-seven years old and living in the little Mexican village of Tres Santos with his sister, he’d been caught up in a dispute with three other men over ownership of half a dozen bag-of-bones cattle.
    Somehow—the years had bleached those facts too—the dispute turned nasty. Reuben had been quicker and luckier. One of the men had pulled a little .32 topbreak revolver and Reuben had grabbed it away from him. The first little pellet had hit Simon Vasquez right between the eyes. Simon’s brother Juan and a cousin sprinted for their lives toward their wagon. Reuben jerked the trigger until the gun was empty.
    All but one of those four shots buried themselves harmlessly in the Mexican sand. The third slug raked along the top of the wagon seat and then buried itself in Juan’s left kidney.
    When Estelle’s mother—Reuben’s niece—told me what she knew of the episode, she maintained that Juan Vasquez lived for almost a week.
    That was enough time for every member of the Vasquez family, and they were legion, to gather weapons and set out after Reuben. Reuben was no fool. He decided that United States citizenship was just the ticket.
    It was altogether possible, though, that after all those years he still kept one rheumy eye cocked toward the timber, waiting for the Vasquez boys to show up.
    The versions of that story had flourished, of course, growing and vitalizing over the years. Reuben had kept the old .32 revolver. That weapon or some other had been at his side for half a century, until he was too old to remember how the holster was supposed to fit on his belt. Over the years, he’d acquired guns of one kind or another by the dozens.
    Local color, the Posadas Chamber of Commerce nervously called him. He was that, unshaven, unwashed, with his felt hat pulled low over his eyes, and