A/N: Thanks for putting up with my delays, everyone. I know I usually manage to post more often than this. Here's a short part, and another one is coming very soon.

Special thanks to Kerttu!

Snake in the Dust


El arrived in Guitar Town tired and dusty. He drove slowly through the square, returning the friendly waves of the men at work on the guitars. His slow speed kept the Jeep from covering the men in dust. He parked near the door to the old fort and looked at the dog. The dog still lay limp, though conscious. When El had stopped for groceries and beer he had tried to give the dog water to drink. The dog lay as if paralyzed, though one large brown eye followed El's every move, and its matted tail thumped enthusiastically any time El gave him any attention. El patted it and climbed out of the Jeep.

As he reached for a box of groceries, Father Soto, the genial priest who had married El to Carolina, ambled up.

"Welcome home, Son of Mexico," he said.

El felt his face go warmer than the afternoon sun was making it. He grunted noncommittally. He glanced at his clothes to see if there was any blood on him.

"I have something to tell you," Soto said gravely.

"Sands?" he asked, surprised by the dread he felt in his stomach.

"He's left."

El relaxed. Was that all? El put down the groceries and faced Soto.

"Where has he gone?" he asked.

"I don't know. I sent him away."

"What? Why?"

Soto pursed his lips and looked at El's groceries. "Let's have a beer," he suggested.

Impatient, El extracted a bottle, deftly snapped off the cap on one of the Jeep's many helpful protrusions, and handed it to the priest. Soto took a swig and smacked his lips.

"Did he kill someone?" El asked.

Soto shook his head.

"Then what?"

"The Perez girls," Soto said. "They had been visiting him, bringing food. He seemed better when they were there. He would talk to them."

"They don't speak English," said El.

"He would talk in Spanish," Soto said waggling his eyebrows. El was silent, meeting the man's gaze with his own expression of surprise.

"They would take him for walks."

"He went for walks?" asked El, even more amazed.

Soto nodded, drank some more beer, and looked down. "I left them alone. The girls liked him. I didn't realize how much." He looked up at El from under bushy eyebrows.

El groped behind him for the case of beer. He suddenly needed a drink. He went numbly through the routine of extracting and opening the bottle while Soto talked.

"The other day I walked in on them, in the act. Both girls, and Sands."

El sagged against the jeep and drank deep. He sighed, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He gave the priest a mischievous look. "He's feeling better, then."

The dog whined from the front seat, and managed a strained bark. He was feeling better, too, El hoped.

Soto cocked his head. "It's not funny," he said mildly. "I sent him away. I don't know where he went, but I thought you might want to take your groceries to your own house. The fort is empty."

El nodded. "Did you tell anyone?" he asked.

"I heard the girls' confessions," the priest replied, archly. "But, no, I didn't tell anyone."

"You sent a blind man away, alone?" El asked. "And you don't know where he went?"

Soto frowned. "Didn't you say Sands was responsible for the death of their abuelo?"

"Indirectly," El admitted.

"It is better that he is gone." Soto turned and returned to the guitar stalls. As he went, he held out the beer bottle and wagged it as thanks.

El didn't entirely agree. As much as he had wanted to be rid of Sands, he felt uneasy not knowing the man's condition and location. It was like knowing there was an injured snake loose in the house.

He took the food and the dog to his own house. The dog still could not stand, but his muzzle and throat were working now. El placed him on an old rug outside the door, and put down water in a bowl. The dog worked hard to drink. After a moment of watching his pathetic attempts to hold his head high enough to lap the water, El crouched down beside him and held his head up. He was reminded vaguely of holding the faucet hose for Sands to drink. The dog, at least, acted grateful, which was far more than Sands had. Three bowls of water later, the dog collapsed, exhausted, into sleep. The church bell tolled once. Five o'clock, time to say the rosary.

"I'll call you D'Artagnan," El said. He gave the dog a pat and set off for the Perez home.