Perdido. Rick Collignon

at the mine in their new trucks and can’t even keep their dogs tied up.” He said something in Spanish to Felipe. Felipe smiled and nodded his head yes, then straightened out his back and stood up slowly.

      “Well,” Felipe said, “we should go. The water’s still running in my garden.”

      Will stood up and moved his shoulders around to get rid of the tightness. “How long did you wait in your truck?” he asked Delfino.

      Delfino looked up at Will as if he had never seen him before. “An hour,” he said. “Maybe a little more. Tomás Pérez from Mesita drove up. We talked some, and then he went to call someone.”

      “Call who?” Felipe asked.

      “I don’t know who he called,” Delfino said. “All I know is that later the Guadalupe police drove up in that old pickup they used to have and found me asleep in my truck. They banged on the door and told me I could leave. If I was going to go to La Prada to get across the bridge. I told them I’d never drive over that damn bridge again. I started my truck and drove home. Never did get potatoes that winter.”

      “Who were the cops?” Felipe said.

      “Frank Martínez, Frankie Junior’s dad. He’s dead now. Shot himself in a hunting accident years ago. You remember? He was so drunk he was walking through the woods holding his rifle backwards. He fell into some scrub oak and the gun went off. The other one was Ray Pacheco. He’s still here, but he doesn’t work no more. You know where he lives, no?”

      “Yes,” Felipe said, nodding. “Up the canyon.”

      “Sí,” Delfino said. “Up the canyon.”

      “What was her name?” Will asked.

      Delfino shrugged. “How should I know?” he said. “They buried her up on the hill just outside the church cemetery. It’s all weeds now. I didn’t go to see her buried, but Ray stopped me on the road a few days later and told me they had put up a cross and that she could have been anyone.”