Tejada. A few years seemed so long ago.
It was said often that the son of Don Agostino Duro, who was a personal friend of Lerdo Tejada, would rise from the Cadet Corps like a comet to a glorious career in the Army. When he received his lieutenancy, at the head of his class, Lamas Duro appeared well on the way. Unfortunately, Porfirio Diaz's political coup followed three months later.
Many of the Lerdistas disappeared, including Don Agostino Duro. His son, however, was a political enemy by blood, not by avocation; so Lamas disappeared merely from the capital. His military training was something which could be utilized in Porfirio Diaz's new creation the Rurales. The Frontier Police. And Soyopa was far enough from Mexico City to guard against Lamas Duro's blood interfering with his politics.
He gazed about the square now, motionless in the sunlight. Wind-scarred adobe, squat dwellings, most of them without ramadas, old looking beyond their years. The church was directly across from his headquarters it rose sand-colored, blending with the surrounding buildings which pushed close to it, a wide door, but a belfry that was too low for the width of the building and it only vaguely resembled a church. Santo Tom+is de Aqu+n.
Past the empty fountain with its solitary stone obelisk, Duro could see down a side street to the house of Hilario Esteban, and the two rurales lounging in the doorway. God in Heaven, how can I be given such men! He turned disgustedly then and climbed the stairs to the upstairs veranda. Before going inside, he looked out over the square again. But nothing had changed.
Curt Lazair remained in the lieutenant's chair as Duro entered from the veranda. He lounged comfortably with a boot hooked on the desk corner next to his hat and he eyed Duro curiously. The rurale lieutenant had not seen him and was still deep in thought as he closed the door; and now Lazair smiled faintly.
It's a long way to Mexico City.
Duro was startled. He turned from the door quickly and looked at the man with astonishment.
Well, it's no farther than Anton Chico, New Mexico, Lazair went on. Only Anton Chico ain't a hell of a lot better than Soyopa. It's all in how you look at things.
Duro nodded. Yes, it's all in how you look at it. His head indicated the outside. And I cannot say that I see very much out there.
Lazair smiled again a smile which said he believed in little and trusted in even less. He shrugged now and said, Money.
There was little sense in talking about it. Duro had discovered that the least said to this man, the better. Nothing seemed important to him. And always he was relaxed, as if to catch you unaware and then make fun of something which should be spoken of with sincerity. He wants to make you mad, Duro thought. Tell him to go to hell. But instead, he said, quietly, You need a shave.
I been out working for you. Lazair passed the palm of his hand over dark, neatly combed hair. But I slicked my hair down when I found out I had to visit the lieutenant, he said mockingly. He was a man close to forty, almost handsome, crudely handsome, and the glistening hair contrasted oddly with the beard stubble on his face. He wore soft leather pants tucked into his boots; pistols on both sides of his low-slung cartridge belt, and he slipped one of the pair up and down in the holster idly as he spoke.
His other hand dropped from the arm of the chair now and he lifted a canvas bag and swung it onto the table.
I brought you something.
Duro made no move toward the desk, though his eyes fell on the bag. How many women did you kill this time?
The words had no visible effect on Lazair. Count 'em and see.
I'll take your word for the number. I trust though you've taken the ribbons from the hair, Duro said.
Lazair nodded. Sure we did. Just like you wiped that little boy's nose before you shot him a while ago.
Were you there?
Two of my men were. I just come in.
You're quickly informed.
Lazair smiled. You got to get up a hell of a
It was said often that the son of Don Agostino Duro, who was a personal friend of Lerdo Tejada, would rise from the Cadet Corps like a comet to a glorious career in the Army. When he received his lieutenancy, at the head of his class, Lamas Duro appeared well on the way. Unfortunately, Porfirio Diaz's political coup followed three months later.
Many of the Lerdistas disappeared, including Don Agostino Duro. His son, however, was a political enemy by blood, not by avocation; so Lamas disappeared merely from the capital. His military training was something which could be utilized in Porfirio Diaz's new creation the Rurales. The Frontier Police. And Soyopa was far enough from Mexico City to guard against Lamas Duro's blood interfering with his politics.
He gazed about the square now, motionless in the sunlight. Wind-scarred adobe, squat dwellings, most of them without ramadas, old looking beyond their years. The church was directly across from his headquarters it rose sand-colored, blending with the surrounding buildings which pushed close to it, a wide door, but a belfry that was too low for the width of the building and it only vaguely resembled a church. Santo Tom+is de Aqu+n.
Past the empty fountain with its solitary stone obelisk, Duro could see down a side street to the house of Hilario Esteban, and the two rurales lounging in the doorway. God in Heaven, how can I be given such men! He turned disgustedly then and climbed the stairs to the upstairs veranda. Before going inside, he looked out over the square again. But nothing had changed.
Curt Lazair remained in the lieutenant's chair as Duro entered from the veranda. He lounged comfortably with a boot hooked on the desk corner next to his hat and he eyed Duro curiously. The rurale lieutenant had not seen him and was still deep in thought as he closed the door; and now Lazair smiled faintly.
It's a long way to Mexico City.
Duro was startled. He turned from the door quickly and looked at the man with astonishment.
Well, it's no farther than Anton Chico, New Mexico, Lazair went on. Only Anton Chico ain't a hell of a lot better than Soyopa. It's all in how you look at things.
Duro nodded. Yes, it's all in how you look at it. His head indicated the outside. And I cannot say that I see very much out there.
Lazair smiled again a smile which said he believed in little and trusted in even less. He shrugged now and said, Money.
There was little sense in talking about it. Duro had discovered that the least said to this man, the better. Nothing seemed important to him. And always he was relaxed, as if to catch you unaware and then make fun of something which should be spoken of with sincerity. He wants to make you mad, Duro thought. Tell him to go to hell. But instead, he said, quietly, You need a shave.
I been out working for you. Lazair passed the palm of his hand over dark, neatly combed hair. But I slicked my hair down when I found out I had to visit the lieutenant, he said mockingly. He was a man close to forty, almost handsome, crudely handsome, and the glistening hair contrasted oddly with the beard stubble on his face. He wore soft leather pants tucked into his boots; pistols on both sides of his low-slung cartridge belt, and he slipped one of the pair up and down in the holster idly as he spoke.
His other hand dropped from the arm of the chair now and he lifted a canvas bag and swung it onto the table.
I brought you something.
Duro made no move toward the desk, though his eyes fell on the bag. How many women did you kill this time?
The words had no visible effect on Lazair. Count 'em and see.
I'll take your word for the number. I trust though you've taken the ribbons from the hair, Duro said.
Lazair nodded. Sure we did. Just like you wiped that little boy's nose before you shot him a while ago.
Were you there?
Two of my men were. I just come in.
You're quickly informed.
Lazair smiled. You got to get up a hell of a
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