“It’s poaching now, just like in Robin Hood’s time. This is like Sherwood Forest now.”

“Really, sir.”

“You’re not a student of history, Sergeant.”

“Not really, sir.”

“History repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce. It was not an Indian who said that.”

“Not a Pueblo?”

“Karl Marx. You never heard of him?”

“From New Mexico, sir?”

“No.”

“From Texas?”

“No.”

“Musician?”

“Maybe the violin in his parlor. You never heard of Das Kapital or The Communist Manifesto?”

“I’m going to develop my mind sometime, sir.”

Pines rose like snow-bearing shadows. Augustino was a skillful driver, swinging the weapons carrier wide on a curve without losing momentum or control. A Marlin and a Winchester, both lever actions, rattled on the backseat along with a box of .30-.30’s.

“At any rate, Sergeant, you don’t mind doing something illegal?”

“Not with the right person, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. You said you were a neck shot or a heart shot?”

“I don’t recall, sir.”

“I like the spine shot myself. I like to see a big animal drop where he stands, so he doesn’t run for a mile and make me chase him. Ever shoot a deer in the ass, Sergeant?”

“No, sir, but I understand it’s called a Texas heart shot.”

Augustino laughed appreciatively. “Well, Mrs. Augustino’s father shot a Mexican in the ass once and chased him ten miles up the Bravo before he nailed him.”

“In Brownsville?”

“Outside Brownsville by the time he caught him. Maybe it was a New Mexican. You see, Sergeant, our attitude is that New Mexicans are basically Mexicans on the wrong side of the border. Also, it is an idea dear to our hearts that Indians are basically red niggers. That’s why they lust so after white women; that’s what proves the point. Anyway, I’m a much better shot than Mrs. Augustino’s father.”