Seven misshapen figures emerged from a blinding
swirl of desert sand and sage. Their images hazing in
and out of tons of gushing earth. Three somewhat
stupefied Federales were waiting just outside the
one-horse town of Sonoyita in Northern Mexico.
Honking and tugging hysterically at their hitching
place, the burros sensed another infusion and kicked
at everything in sight. The figures were almost upon
them now and from shared views the first building in
this haunted desert junction loomed ominously.
Straight up, the sun said noon, but its color was
blood, matching an antique neon Coca-Gola sign
within the adobe frame of some Cantina oasis. The
first figure out of the wind was just over six feet and
greeted the three Mexlean police with a curt nod and
a barrage of Spanish. "Are we the first to arrive?" the
khaki-clad man shouted in high school Spanish, his
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