Chancho lay down in the mud and lapped water like a dog. After he finished he waited several seconds for his image to reappear as the ripples calmed. Each week that passed left his face more gaunt, his eyes more hollow. He slapped the surface with his hand before sitting back on a flat rock buried in the mud. Somehow his bones felt loose despite his tight, leathery skin.

He wiped water away from his whiskers with the back of his hand. Closing his eyes, he gazed up at the sun. Slowly he rolled to his knees, sinking his hands in the mud as he pushed himself upright. Wiping them on his tattered pants he walked back to the Harley.

The tires were wearing thin, but they would hold a little longer as long as he avoided sharp rocks. For the hundredth time over the last month he thought about the previous owner, wondering how the motorcycle’s fate would have been different had he not stolen it. Covered in dust, it still seemed a dignified machine despite the ignoble heap of items Chancho had lashed to its back fender: an extra gas can, a bedroll, a pot and a coffee kettle among other elements of survival he had collected—traded for with gold coins. A sturdy sombrero, a more practical sort than his last, topped it all off. With a sigh he put the hat back on his head.

Concerned about gas and tired of the vibration, he pushed the bike a mile further down the cattle and game trail he had been following since morning. Finally he reached the designated meeting spot high up on a ridge overlooking the east. A few hours early, he rested his back against the trunk of a mountain cedar and fell asleep.

He dreamt of an oil field belching black smoke and scorched with flame. Derricks consumed to the point of matchsticks snapped and crumbled in the winds created by the hungry tongues of fire. Then the ground shifted. A great earthquake lifted the surface which bulged from the ground, tilting vertically until it unfolded inhuman legs and stood. Great clods of earth fell thunderously from the creature’s back as it unfurled completely, stretching toward the heavens in agony and prayer. In his dream Chancho felt he knew its pain.

Stumbling, exhausted of its soul, the mountainous creature fell back to earth with a force so destructive, so tumultuous, Chancho jerked in his sleep. He clapped the back of his head against the tree, waking himself with a cruel headache. Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and walked to the edge of the cliff. Recognizing the terrain from his dream as the miles of land stretching out in front of him, he suddenly understood the vision as prophecy rather than dream. He shivered from the thought.

As sure as the rinche was coming for him, unstoppable and inexhaustible, a monster even greater than the ranger was coming to consume the land and bleed it dry. Chancho sat, hanging his feet over the edge. He remembered the crowded derricks of Blondie—the place where his former life had come to rest. His troubles still pursued him, but his running neared its end. He would pay in full for his past mistakes.

He pulled the silk bag from his pocket. Soiled and slack, it no longer jingled. Holding the bottom he emptied the last coin into his opened palm. A deep gash across the eagle marked it as the coin he’d lifted from Primitivo’s dead body. With a tight cord binding the coin to the knot in his gut, the solitary presence of it forced him to retch.

More alone then he had ever felt as an orphan, he clutched the last remnant of revolution. The last promise of his dreams glimmered in his calloused and dirty hand. But what had the dreaming gotten him? He stabbed the terrain with dagger eyes, daring it to answer his question.

Nothing. No one. Putting the dream to death had given him purpose. For a month he evaded the ranger, sleeping with wild animals and hiding in holes. Strangers had provided basic necessities in exchange for gold coins from the Mexican revolution, coins pilfered from the arrogant and corrupt. But his strength had slipped away with each coin, and now there was little left. One damn coin.

And with no one on earth more interested in meeting him, to take that dream for good, clarity dawned on Chancho even as the sun set. The last coin, the last life left, should go to the rinche. With the law man threatening reprisals against the people of Santa Polco, Chancho could not hold him off any longer. What more selfless act could he perform than to surrender the final remnant of his false dream to his worst enemy in order to protect the only people left in the world who cared about him? Thus, the moment of his defeat would guarantee the ranger’s victory.

A rustling in the brush startled him from his thoughts. “Pepe, compañero. You are a good friend.”

“You look terrible.” Pepe sat down next to his new best friend. “Ooph, and you smell worse. You should take a bath.”

Chancho raised a brow. “Oh? And when was the last time you took a bath, mi amigo?”

Pepe smelled himself. “What? Like a week ago. I don’t smell as bad as you.”

Hoarsely, Chancho laughed, but he choked on the sound and ended with a fit of coughing. “True. Pepito, you always speak the truth. That too is a good quality.”

“That’s not what Mr. Gomez says. He says I talk too much.”

Chancho nodded. “I suppose there is a time when saying nothing at all is best, better even than telling the truth.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you practice it first, and then decide what you think?” Chancho punched him in the shoulder. “Gracias for the supplies.” Chancho took the backpack from Pepe. “I’ll return the pack tomorrow.”

“But—”

“No, no. You need to practice. Just listen. I have an even more important job for you, the most important one yet.” He waited for Pepe to nod his head in affirmation. “I have one gold coin left—”

“But I already—”

“Uh. Practice.” Chancho cut him off. “I know who I’m going to give it to. I’ve already decided. I cannot allow him to harm you or anyone in Santa—”

“The rinche?” Pepe froze in disbelief.

Chancho nodded. “The rinche.”

“But—”

“Your job is to tell him.” Chancho put his arm around the boy, who looked shocked and disgusted. “I need you to find the rinche or find a way to let him know, he is to meet me in Santa Polco tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon.” Chancho shook the boy lightly. “This is the most important part.” Pepe finally unfroze and looked him in the eyes. “He must promise not to hurt anyone in Santa Polco, and I will turn myself in. Tomorrow at five o’clock.”

Pepe nodded slowly. “Can I talk now?”

Chancho slapped him on the back. “Si, mi amigo. You did good.”

“The rinche is a bad person, and you are a good one. You shouldn’t surrender to him.”

Chancho ruffled his hair. “Very clever once again. But, Pepito, sometimes when bad people do bad things, good people must do good things.” Pepe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “If I let the rinche harm you or your mother would that be a good thing?” Finally Pepe conceded, shaking his head. “I know, it is a hard lesson. I am only now learning it.” Chancho stood helping Pepe to his feet. “So now you are smarter than me.”

“I was already smarter than you.” Pepe grinned and dodged Chancho’s playful punches.

“You rascal! Now give me a hug.” Chancho knelt and embraced the boy, a part of him wishing he was Pepe’s father, and a part of him doubting he would ever have the chance to father a child of his own. He held him as long as he dared. “Now off with you. Go straight home to your mother. There will be time enough to find the rinche in the morning. He will not be far.” Pepe scampered away obediently, Chancho calling after him, “But be careful!”

Silence settled over him like a shroud, his end having been decided and set in motion. Maybe it was not as serious as all that. He prayed God would allow him to fulfill Ah Puch’s dream yet, but he felt as if death had already claimed him.

Silence followed Chancho from the ridge to the valley and into the village of Santa Polco. Since his conversation with Pepe he had spoken nothing out loud and remembered no noise of note. He left the motorcycle behind so that Pepe could go back for it later. It would be his final gift. Chancho smiled. The boy had promise with machines.

Chancho entered town from behind the church, searching the opened windows for signs of life. Even as he was glad to see that the townspeople had chosen the wisest course and disappeared, a desperate loneliness choked him. No doubt the word had spread to stay away. While Chancho hoped the ranger would not instigate violence, he did not know what to expect. He had made little attempt during the last month to understand the man who determined to destroy him. It had never mattered why, and Chancho figured he would never know.

When he finally stood in the dirt road he realized why he’d chosen to surrender in Santa Polco. Discouragingly, selflessness had not been his motivator. He drank in the familiar surroundings. He had chosen them as an anchor to the childhood from whence his dreams had begun to flourish. Now that he stood among the adobe buildings, surrounded by the smells of the earth, he clutched tighter to the coin in his pocket. The town exemplified human relationships bound up together, while maintaining an easy relationship with their environment.

Rubbing the coin’s surface vigorously for the last hour, he had polished it with the oils from his skin. He took it from his pocket but refused to look at it, or the symbols engraved on it. After a final look up at the cross perched atop the chapel he placed one foot in front of the other, making his way down the main street of the abandoned village.

Shattering the quiet, the bell behind him rang out the hour, five o’clock. He had not heard it ring at any other time, but before he considered it further the ranger rode into the street from behind the last buildings. One hand shading the sun from his eyes, he held his pistola in the other, pointing it at the ground. Chancho knew the weapon would be deadly from this range. Swallowing hard, he kept one foot moving steadily in front of the other, drawing closer to his captor.

Questions about Muddy and Nena consumed his thoughts. Were they alive? Were they caught? Knowing nothing more about their condition than when he had seen them last, he only hoped his surrender would bring knowledge of them. But if his friends had not been captured, Chancho thrilled at the idea, the ranger would squeeze him for answers he did not have. He would keep quiet until the ranger revealed his hand.

Chancho took a deep breath. End well, he repeated to himself. Even if he had no friends, he must be a friend. It was all that remained to be done. End well.

Impatient with Chancho’s slow pace, the rinche started toward him on horseback, then stopped suddenly. Chancho had not seen it, but life stirred inside the darkness of the tortilleria. Lightning fast the ranger raised his pistol. Horrified, Chancho threw his hands out in surrender, dropping the coin. “No!”

The glint of the setting sun from the falling gold coin flashed in the ranger’s eyes. He fired once. Chancho’s body jarred sharply as his knees struck the hard crust of the dirt road, the gunshot echoing off the mountains in the distance. In searing pain, he gasped a single, hard breath while never taking his eyes off the shadows in the cafe.

A figure appeared there, and another behind it. “Chancho!”

He shook his head. “Pepe, no,” his voice a mere croak.

Esperanza restrained the boy from running. Both of them walked slowly into the street. She bent down to whisper something in the boy’s ear, keeping him close.

“There doesn’t have to be violence.” The ranger encouraged his horse forward slowly. “Just turn around and head back inside. I promised the boy I wouldn’t hurt you folk, but the promise is off if you get in my way.”

Chancho waved them off, but they ignored him, instead moving several strides closer to his side.

“This is your last warning.” The rinche cocked the trigger, rolling the cylinder into position.

A soft rustling came from Chancho’s right where he and the ranger turned to see Mr. Gomez stepping slowly from his store, his hands held in front of him. Moments later a subtle stirring aroused the entire village. Darkened doorways revealed familiar faces. Behind him Chancho heard the heavy wooden doors of the church swing open.

“Out of gas, stranger?”

Chancho strained to see behind him, and could not hold down a choking laugh when he spotted the burly Grady, straw hat and all, leading a flood of others from the sanctuary. From every building in town people emerged, walking cautiously into the street, drawing nearer to him.

“The joke’s over!” McCutchen’s horse pawed nervously at the ground as the ranger leveled his pistol directly at Chancho’s head. “This man is getting justice one way or the other.”

But before he could pull the trigger Esperanza stood in the line of fire, her back to the ranger. She opened her palm to reveal a single gold coin. Chancho looked around at the mob closing in on him. Each of the people in the forefront held a familiar gold coin. Every one of his coins, every person he had traded with plus friends and family whom he had never met, poured into the road surrounding him.

“Everyone back inside!” But the rinche had been forgotten.

With dirty hands, Chancho smudged the tears streaming down his face. Esperanza knelt in front of him, her gentle scent of flour and butter embracing him. She placed her fingers beneath his chin and spoke intimately. “Your kindness and generosity, even to strangers, has taught us that good people must do good things.” She lifted his gaze until they locked eyes. “And it is not just us. You have inspired thousands. They sing about you. We have made arrangements.”

She touched her hand gently to the spreading stain on his shoulder. “But first,” She nodded at Mr. Gomez who knelt beside her and unrolled a bundle of first aid supplies. After doing the best they could with the wound, Grady stooped down and hefted the Mexican over his shoulder.

“You’re lighter than a sack of feed, my friend.” He looked at Esperanza with concern.

“Come.” She ushered the entire crowd forward toward the ranger, who continued to sputter with rage. As Chancho and the crowd approached him from one direction, an entourage of two dozen vaqueros and cowboys closed in from behind. Each of them armed, they leveled their weapons directly at him. Esperanza stopped three feet in front of McCutchen. “Ride away. It is your only choice.”

The ranger swelled visibly with rage, grinding his teeth and sucking breath through clenched lips. “You win this round, but this greaser ain’t out of the woods.” He turned his horse and rode off at a deliberate pace.

After the ranger left, Grady loaded Chancho into the back of a wagon where Esperanza and Pepe joined him. Taking the reins, Grady drove the two-horse team toward the nearest train station, escorted by two dozen riders.