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time left,” Mr. Tanner said.
    “We were saying maybe we should give something to the woman now that she doesn’t have a husband.”
    “They sent you out here?”
    “No, I thought of it. I thought if we all put in to give her some money” — he hesitated — “about five hundred dollars.”
    Mr. Tanner had not moved his gaze from Valdez. “You come out here to tell me that?”
    “Well, we were talking about it and Mr. Beaudry said why don’t I see you about it.”
    “You want me to pay money,” Mr. Tanner said, “to that red nigger he was holed up with?”
    “You said it wasn’t the right man—”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “It was an accident, not the woman’s fault, and she doesn’t have anything now. And she’s got that child she’s going to have. Did you see that?”
    Mr. Tanner looked at his segundo. He said, “Get rid of him,” and started to turn away.
    “Wait a minute!”
    Valdez watched him half turn to look at him again.
    “What did you say?”
    “I mean if you could take time to listen a minute so I can explain it.” The hard-working, respectful Bob Valdez speaking again, smiling a little.
    “Your minute’s up, boy.” He glanced at his segundo again. “Teach him something.” He turned and was gone.
    Valdez called out, “Mr. Tanner—”
    “He don’t hear you so good,” the segundo said. “It’s too loud out here.” He drew the .44 on his right leg, cocked it and fired as he brought it up, and with the explosion the adobe chipped next to Bob Valdez’s face.
    “All this shooting,” the segundo said. “Man, he can’t hear anything.” He fired again and the adobe chipped close to the other side of Valdez’s face. “You see how easy it would be?” the segundo said.
    The Mexican rider who had brought him in said, “Let me have one,” his revolver already drawn. “Where do you want it?”
    “By the right hand,” the segundo said.
    Valdez was looking at the Mexican rider. He saw the revolver lift as the man pulled the trigger and saw the muzzle flash with the heavy solid noise and heard the bullet strike close to his side.
    “Too high,” the segundo said.
    Now those who were sitting and lounging by the fires rose and drew their revolvers, looking at the segundo and waiting their turn. One of them, an American, said, “I know where I’m going to shoot the son of a bitch.” One of them laughed and another one said, “See if you can shoot his meat off.” And another one said, “It would fix this squaw-lover good.”
    Bob Valdez did not want to move. He wanted to run and he could feel the sweat on his face, but he couldn’t move a hand or an elbow or turn his head. He had to stay rigid without appearing to be rigid. He edged his left foot back and the heel of his boot touched the wall close behind him. He did that much, touching something solid and holding on, as the men faced him across the fires, five or six strides away from him, close enough to put the bullets where they wanted to put them — if all of the men knew how to shoot and if they hadn’t had too much mescal or tequila since coming to the station. Valdez held on and now kept his eyes on the segundo for a place to keep them, a point to fix on while they played their game with him.
    The first few men fired in turn, calling their shots; but now the rest of them were anxious and couldn’t wait and they began firing as they decided where to shoot, raising the revolvers in front of them but not seeming to aim, pulling the triggers in the noise and smoke and leaning in to see where their bullets struck. Valdez felt his hat move and felt powder dust from the adobe brick in his eyes and in his nose and felt chips of adobe sting his face and hands and felt a bullet plow into the wall between his knees and a voice say, “A little higher you get him good.” Another voice, “Move up a inch at a time and watch him poop his drawers.”
    He kept his eyes on the segundo in the Sonora straw, not