'Roy, the opportunity ain't going to present itself, not around here,' Billy pointed out.
'Nobody around here has a million dollars to steal. Not many of them has fifty cents, not in cash money.' 'Well, I have fifty cents,' Roy said.
'I mean to keep it, too.' 'If I was to steal it, would you hang me?' Billy asked. He didn't suppose Roy to be a man of much tolerance, but he thought he'd ask the question anyway.
'I'd hang you as soon as I could find my rope,' Roy said amiably.
'We've known one another a long time,' Billy reminded him. 'I've nursed you through several fevers and I once killed a Mexican who had it in for you. I expect he would have cut your throat, later in life, if I hadn't laid him out.' 'What'd you shoot this Mexican fellow with?' Roy asked. He was a master of the diversionary question.
Billy had to stop and think. Several years had passed since the encounter, and his memory had grown almost as cloudy as his eyesight.
'It wasn't no Colt,' he said, finally.
'I don't remember what it was. A gun of some kind. What difference does it make? He's dead, which is one reason you're alive. Now you're telling me you'd hang me for fifty cents. I consider that harsh.' 'Well, I don't know that I could put my hands on my hanging rope, in a hurry,' Roy said. 'You might escape, if you were agile.' 'Who said you could be a judge, anyway?' Billy inquired. 'I'd want to see some papers on it, before I let you hang me.' 'Since when can you read law papers?' Roy asked. 'I've known you for too long and I've never seen you read anything, unless you count a pack of cards.' 'I could read if it was that or be hung,' Billy said. 'You can't just say you're a judge and have it be true. There has to be some papers on it, somewhere.' 'Out here west of the Pecos you can be a judge if you want to bad enough,' Roy said. 'I want to bad enough.' 'Suppose I only stole a dime?' Billy asked. 'What would happen then?' 'Same sentence, if you stole it from me,' Roy said. 'I need my dimes. If you stole ten cents from a Mexican I might let you off.
'The loss of any sum is more than I can tolerate, officially,' he added.
'I can't tell that you've ever amounted to much, Roy,' Billy informed him. 'It's irritating that you set up to be a judge of your fellowman, so late in life. It's all because of this saloon.
It's the only saloon around here, and that's why you think you can be a judge.' 'I admit it was a timely purchase,' Roy said.
'You didn't purchase it, you shot the owner,' Billy reminded him. 'Tom Sykes, I knew him. He was nothing but a cutthroat himself.' 'That's right--so I purchased his saloon with a bullet,' Roy said. 'Three bullets in all. Tom wasn't eager to die.' 'That's still cheap,' Billy said.
'Not as cheap as one bullet,' Roy said. 'The sad truth is, my marksmanship has declined.
In my prime, I would not have had to expend that much ammunition on Tommy Sykes.' Because of the saloon, it was necessary to put up with Roy, but the more urgent necessity was to get to Ojinaga and give Maria the news he had picked up in Piedras Negras. It was a great annoyance to Billy that because of a long shit and a short nap he had lost his horse. But that was the truth of it, and there was nothing he could do but limp along.
By the time he finally stumbled up to Maria's house, Billy was exhausted. His head was swimming from the strain of the long walk, and he was sweating a rainstorm. He had to grope his way through Maria's goats. Her goats seemed to think he had come hurrying all the way from Piedras Negras just to feed them.
Maria heard the goats bleating and went out to have a look. Someone had seen a cougar, near the village; she didn't want a cougar getting one of her goats. But they were only bleating at Billy Williams, who looked as if he might fall on his face at any moment.
'Where's your horse?' she asked, walking out to have a better look at him. She had known Billy Williams for many years. Sometimes she let him stay at her house, because he loved her children and would help her with them, far more than any of her husbands ever had. He also loved her, but that was not a matter she allowed him to discuss.
'Where's Joey? I got bad news,' Billy said, stopping amid the goats. Maria frightened him a little. She always had. He presumed nothing when he came to her house.
'Joey left--I don't know where he went,' Maria said.
'Damn the luck,' Billy said. 'I've traveled a long way to bring him some news and now I'm tired. I'm tired and I'm blind and I'm old and I'm thirsty.' 'You can sleep in the saddle shed,' Maria said.
'Come in--I'll feed you and give you coffee.
I can't do nothing about your other problems.' 'I'd rather have a bottle of beer, if you can spare one,' Billy said, limping into the house.
'I seldom walk in the heat, and I wouldn't have today, but my horse escaped.' 'I don't keep beer in my house,' Maria said. 'You know that. You stay here. If you want beer you'll have to go to the cantina.' 'Well, what's the harm in beer?' Billy asked, wishing Maria didn't sound so stern. He didn't know why he had asked for beer, since he knew she didn't keep it. Maria had been wonderfully beautiful once; probably she was still beautiful. Because of his poor eyesight, all he could see when he looked at her face was a dim outline. He had to fill in the outline with his memories. When he was younger he had coveted her greatly. He would have married her, or given her anything, for a taste of her favors, but he had never tasted them. He still did covet Maria, although he couldn't really see her now, except in his memories.
'The harm is not in the beer,' Maria told him. 'The harm is in men. Drunk men. Some of them beat women. Some of them have beaten me. If you want beer, go to the cantina, but tell me your news first.' 'This is important news,' Billy said.
He saw a water bucket sitting by the stove, with a dipper in it. He limped over and helped himself to a dipperful. The water was cool and sweet. Before he knew it he had helped himself to three dipperfuls.
'Don't you even know which direction Joey went?' Billy asked.
Maria didn't answer. She didn't like to answer questions--not about her son Joey, not about anything. What she knew was hers; no one had a right to it, unless it was her children, and even their rights had limits. Much of what she knew was for no one to know. It was hers, and by knowing it she had survived. People were curious; women were even worse than men, in that respect; but that was not her problem.
'Where does the wind go?' she said. 'Joey's young. A thousand miles isn't long to Joey.' 'No, and a thousand
