“Yes.” Roberto grinned. He had such a long nose and his hair was so brown that he must have some French trader or Jack Mormon in his background, Joe thought.

“I like Chesterfields.” Ben put two in his pocket, one in his mouth, and gave the pack back.

“You’re welcome. You’re a real frightening pair of desperadoes.” Joe gave Ben the lighter. “You’re supposed to be hiding, not getting into more trouble. Fires are serious business to those people.”

“He thinks we’re causing the lightning?” Ben lit his cigarette.

“Who?” Joe took the lighter back.

“The doctor?”

“Oppenheimer? He sees that he’s supposed to think that.”

“That’s smart enough.” Roberto held up two fingers for a smoke.

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” Joe lit cigarettes for Roberto and himself. “You said you were going to escape, not take on the U.S. Army. I’m warning you. Right now, you’re hiding from the Indian Service. That’s one thing. The Army will send a Captain Augustino. Augustino will find you. And Augustino will find out who’s been helping you on the Hill, planting a wand every time they see a fire.”

“You think that’s the way we do it? First the lightning, then the wand?” Roberto asked.

“That would be my first guess.”

“They sent you?” Ben asked.

“Nobody sent me. I’m supposed to be on the post right now.”

“But they notice the lightning?” Roberto asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re doing a good job.” Roberto let out a long, plumed exhale. “Good cigarette.”

As the valley went dark a full moon rose from the Sangres. They made camp on the eastern tip of the mesa, where ancient raincatches rose in worn steps. Ben built a fire in a crack of the rock, using stones to prop cedar twigs and bark. Joe started the bark with his lighter. The fire caught quickly and had the advantage of being impossible to see from a distance. Ben made a stew of chili and jerky in a No. 10 can. Looking over the Rio Grande, they could make out lamplights in Santiago and Esperanza, even the village of Truchas high in the Sangres, and the bright, pollenish haze of Santa Fe at the tail of the Sangres range. Los Alamos was invisible. They cupped the glow of their cigarettes and waited for the stew to boil.

“I’ll get you a pair of Greyhound tickets to Tucson. You don’t like Tucson? How about Los Angeles? The two of you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the Pacific Ocean. What have you got against the Hill, anyway?”

“What they’re doing there,” Ben said.

“You don’t know what they’re doing there. It’s a secret. It’s the biggest damn secret of the war.”

“I had a dream they were making a gourd filled with ashes,” Roberto said.

“A gourd of ashes?”