I yawned heartily as I awoke the next morning, every inch of me cold and stiff from sleeping on the tavern floor. I immediately glanced toward Chavez. He was breathing much easier now, eyes still closed. I gave silent thanks to the Great Spirit for giving him such strength. I started for the main room of Beever's Place to get some breakfast for myself. I wanted to wake Chavez so we could share the meal, but I thought it best to let him sleep.

As I entered the bar, I expected to see Billy perched on a bar stool, chatting with Beever, and perhaps using the bottles of alcohol for target practice. But I didn't see him. I took Billy's usual spot at the bar. Billy's pal Beever, a scruffy, snaggletoothed character, ambled over to me.

"Doin' all right this mornin', Riddle?" Beever asked. "How's your breed friend?"

I let the insult slide. "Made it through the night. I guess he's gonna be okay."

Beever leaned across the bar slightly, looking curiously at me. "What the hell kinda hocus-pocus you carryin' in that satchel? By rights, that breed oughta be dead." I glared at him. "Sorry," Beever apologized. "Forgot you was a half-breed yourself."

With an effort, I restrained my temper. I hated the term "breed" almost as much as I hated what L.G. Murphy and his boys had stood for. Beever, finally getting it through his head that I felt insulted, asked very politely if I wanted anything.

"Coffee," I replied. "And some bacon, if you got it."

Beever barked something in Spanish at the nearest of his wives, who immediately disappeared into a small side room. Beever handed me a mug of something that smelled vaguely like coffee, but looked like mud from the bottom of Pecos River. After a short stretch of time, Beever set down a plate containing several pieces of a bacon and a slice of blackened toast. I put some of the bacon in my mouth. It tasted like saddle leather, but I was too hungry to care.

"Say, Beever," I said once my plate was clean. "You haven't seen Billy around, have you?"

Beever shrugged. "Ain't seen Kid since last night. Tossed a few back, then he left."

"Know where he went?"

Beever snorted. "I ain't his daddy. Try askin' Paulita Maxwell or one o' the other gals 'round here."

That fit. Billy had given Chavez up for dead yesterday. When Billy was upset about something, he usually sought comfort in the arms (and often the bed) of some woman.

I headed out to the streets of Old Fort Sumner to look, eager to tell Billy that Chavez was going to make it. The sun was high in the sky, so the whole town was out and about. Men were talking with each other, kids were throwing sticks for some mangy coydogs, and women were out in their yards grinding corn. I approached the first woman who caught my attention. I asked her if she'd seen El Chivato recently.

"He was dancing with Paulita Maxwell at the fiesta last night," the woman replied in perfect English. "Then he disappeared with Consuela Francisca." The woman pointed down the street, at a small dwelling near the town icehouse. "Consuela lives there."

"Thank you, ma'am." I said.

I walked to the house the woman had pointed out. Consuela invited me inside, and I found myself in her bedroom. (I hadn't meant to end up there, but the house really was that small).

"You are Furioso Criba," said Consuela. She seemed less sure of her English, but there was a purr in her voice that men no doubt found appealing. "You looking for Billito." She gestured to the tiny bed. "We make love last night. My first time. He was so--"

"Spare me the details," I said quickly. "What happened after that?"

"Billito act very strange. I think maybe his belly is empty. I send him to icehouse for beef. Billito not come back."

I nodded along with Consuela's account. My eyes landed on the wooden chair beside the bed. A holster lay across the back of it, holding a pair of gleaming Colt Peacemakers. I knew in my gut something was wrong; Billy never went anywhere without his guns. I followed a set of bare footprints out to the icehouse and entered it.

"Anybody in here?" I asked in a hoarse whisper.

I looked down at the dirt a few feet away from the door. There was a dark stain on it. Blood. I picked up some of the dirt and brought it to my nose. It didn't smell like beef blood, or chicken blood, or even animal blood at all. This could mean only one thing: this blood was human. I sifted the dirt through my fingers, looking around for more of it, but there was no blood trail. No drag marks either, not even another set of footprints.

"What the hell?" I wondered aloud.

It was like Billy had just melted off the face of the earth.