‘He wears the clothes of a pinda-lick-oyi. He rides a pinda-lick-oyi horse. Half his blood is pinda-lick-oyi. Why should I trust him?’

‘Because half his blood is Apache,’ said Cuervo. ‘And most of his spirit is Apache. Because he will do nothing to harm you, if he gives his word on it. He is not brujo, but he sees the many sides of life, and that makes him a valuable friend.’

‘If he is a friend of the Apache,’ said the bronco leader, ‘why does he not ride the same path as me?’

‘There are many ways to see a path,’ said Cuervo. ‘As many as the folds and curves in that path. A man can see it from in front or from behind, from the sides, from above. From below, if he sees through the eyes of the worm. You see the path through your eyes, Azul through his.’

‘So who is right?’ demanded the Mimbreño. ‘This half-breed or me?’

‘Both of you, and neither of you,’ said Cuervo. ‘There is no easy path, so a man must do only what he feels is right. To stay a man, true to his own beliefs. There is no easy way.’

‘You talk in riddles, old man,’ said Knife-With-Two-Sides. ‘It is hard to understand you.’

‘When you see through it,’ said Cuervo, ‘it is very simple. Like most things. You want to fight the white men, and you want the white man you have taken to draw you a medicine picture. Azul wants to take him away, because he has given his word to take the man to Lordsburg.’

He glanced round, peering first at Knife-With-Two-Sides and then at Azul. Both men nodded.

‘Then it is easy,’ said the brujo. ‘The artist will stay here until the picture is finished. Azul will stay with him. Then, when the thing is done, Azul will take the pinda-lick-oyi away.’

‘You forget one thing, brujo,’ said the bronco war-chief. ‘We took that coach in search of the white man’s money. So that we could buy guns from the traders, the shells, too. We found only a painter of pictures.’

Azul spoke: ‘I have money. I will give you some of it, if you let the pinda-lick-oyi ride away with me. Free. With your word that you will not stop us.’

It was a long shot, a spur of the moment decision prompted by the Mimbreño’s obvious need for money. Azul was fully aware of the difficulties the hostile Indians faced in obtaining guns, even more in finding ammunition. The bows carried by most of Knife-With-Two-Sides’ men were efficient enough in the hunt, or on a fast raid, but they could not match the firepower and range of the rifles and carbines used by the Army. A hostile might keep his traditional weapons, but when he could get his hands on a firearm, it became his most prized possession. Getting hold of them was the problem. Where a white man could walk into any one of thousands of stores dotted across the vast landscape of America and buy a gun and as much ammunition as he wanted, an Indian was denied that access. The bronco chief was wearing a Colt’s Cavalry model revolver in a Cavalry holster, and the Winchester he held across his knees came from the dead stage guard. The other guns Azul had seen were mostly breech-loading Springfield carbines or seven shot Spencers: the standard issue of the U.S. Army. There were a few pistols – mainly Colts or Remingtons – and about three shotguns.

Azul knew immediately that all the firearms had come from raids, won in battle along with however much ammunition the previous owners had carried with them. It was the only way most Indians could get hold of the superior weapons. Their other sources of supply were limited: some might have been allowed a carbine by an Indian Agent, for hunting on a reservation, and brought the gun with them when they jumped the confines of the land parceled out to them by the whites. Otherwise they traded with gunrunners; and then the weapons sold at enormous profit were usually antique pieces as likely to explode in the user’s face as to fire accurately. And the problem of finding ammunition remained. It was the reason most Indians were poor shots, and why those who did own guns eked out their ammunition with the fastidiousness of a miser counting his money: they could not afford to waste bullets.

Knife-With-Two-Sides wiped a dribble of mucus from his nose and looked hard at Azul.

‘How much money?’

The half-breed paused, thinking. He was still carrying the better part of two thousand dollars, with no clear idea of what he planned to do with it. The money meant little to him. After all, he had a good horse, his weapons, and clothes on his back. He didn’t need anything more. But nor was he willing to hand it all over to the Mimbreño. In a way, that was the white side of his mind thinking: the side that understood the pinda-lick-oyi need to own things. And the Chiricahua side, while telling him the wealth was an unnecessary encumbrance still demanded that he haggle: it was the Apache way.

‘One hundred dollars,’ he said, knowing it was not enough. ‘In American money.’

Knife-With-Two-Sides laughed and hawked a gobbet of spittle into the fire. ‘The price the Mexicans pay for an Apache scalp. I had thought a white man would be worth more.’

Azul shrugged. ‘Two hundred.’

‘Your friend paints powerful pictures,’ said the Mimbreño. ‘I think I might keep him here to paint strong medicine for me.’

‘Three hundred.’ Azul kept his face impassive. ‘I am not sure his medicine will work for you.’

‘It worked well, enough for him,’ grunted the bronco. ‘It saved his life. Yours, too, for if Cuervo had not seen your image and told me who you are, I would have killed you.’

‘You would have tried,’ corrected the half-breed, ‘but I will give you five hundred dollars for him.’

The Mimbreño yawned and scratched at his mutilated face.

‘Perhaps we should fight to decide this thing.’

‘No,’ said Cuervo, ‘that makes no sense, for one of you would surely die.’

‘If it was him,’ said Knife-With-Two-Sides, ‘I would then have all this money he talks about and a fine horse. And the pinda-lick-oyi to make me pictures.’

‘But you would lose something,’ said the brujo, his voice suddenly cold as the north wind. ‘Something that would cost you dearly.’

‘What is that?’ demanded the bronco. ‘He might cut me a little bit, but I have been cut before.’

‘This cut is the deepest,’ murmured the old man, his bird-bright eyes boring into the Mimbreño’s. ‘For you have invited Azul into your camp and taken food with him. You agreed to talk. Like a reasonable man, not a savage animal. If you go back on all that, then you will lose your honor.’

Knife-With-Two-Sides laughed, but the sound was hollow and his eyes could not stay fixed on the old man’s stare. He wiped his severed nose again, and touched the scar running down his cheek.

‘You talk to me of honor, brujo? The honor I have is in fighting the men who try to take away the land of my people. That is why we live here, like wolves. Without women, because they would slow us down. That is why we die fighting the pinda-lick-oyi.’

‘Azul is not your enemy,’ said Cuervo softly, though his voice cut through the smoky silence like the knife of the wind’s breath. ‘Half his blood is white, but his father was a man who knew the people of Apacheria. A man who loved them and fought for them. A man who died for them. Azul is more Chiricahua than he is white.’

‘I could still kill him,’ grunted the Mimbreño.

‘And kill your honor,’ said the old man. ‘And afterwards, I would go away and spread word of what you did, so that when men spoke the name of Knife-With-Two-Sides they would spit, and there would never be a child given that name.’

The bronco grunted, ducking his head so that his eyes were hidden behind his hair. Cuervo looked at Azul, motioning for him to speak.

‘I will give you one thousand American dollars,’ said the half-breed. ‘I am not afraid of you, but I do not want to fight you. I know from the past that Cuervo speaks truth and sense. One thousand dollars will buy many guns.’ Knife-With-Two-Sides clutched his Winchester, rocking gently back and forth. Then he raised his head.

‘For that I will give you the pinda-lick-oyi. After he has made me the medicine picture.’

‘So it is,’ said Azul. ‘And Cuervo is witness.’

The old brujo nodded, and the bronco chief stood up, walking out from the cave into the brightening daylight.

‘What happened?’ asked Backenhauser. ‘What were you talking about?’

‘I just bought you,’ grunted Azul. ‘But you have to draw him first.’

‘How much?’ The artist moved up to the fire. ‘What’m I worth?’

‘One thousand dollars,’ said the half-breed. ‘And the picture.’

The Englishman whistled softly: ‘I never sold a painting for that much before. That’s a lot of money.’

Azul shrugged. ‘It was that or chance a fight.’

‘You are lucky,’ said Cuervo, ‘to have a friend like Azul.’

‘Yes.’ Backenhauser nodded. ‘I guess I am. He’s real generous.’

‘It’s only money,’ murmured the half-breed. ‘And I always heard good artists cost a lot.’