“If you’re going to say it’s dangerous,” Steenie began. “we already know that.” “SHUT UP!” Chamaco stood up and put on his cowboy hat. Then he went to the door and yelled. “Alfonso, come in here.” A small, wiry deputy came in, chewing a toothpick. “Yes, sir, Sheriff,” he said. “Alfonso, this is Choshua M. Arnole, white male American, age seventeen. That one is William Esetenopolous, white male American, age seventeen. No identifying marks or escars on him; Arnole’s got a little round escar on his head. They’re a couple of esquirts.” Yes, sir,” Alfonso said. “It was Arnole found out where Velarde is.” “Yes, sir.” “Him and his buddy want me to make a couple deputies out of them and help me pick him up.” “That right?” “That one’s a Commando or something. This one’s a gun-eslinger. They’re real dangerous.” “Yes, sir.” “I’m going up there now and get Velarde. You keep these two esquirts here for an hour, then let ‘em go home.” “You can’t do this,” Steenie said. “ My fathers a …” “I know,” Chamaco said. “Your father’s a taxpayer. So’s yours,” he said to me. “Well, they’re gonna get their money’s worth today. Alfonso’s gonna make sure neither one of you gets killed, and when you go home your mommies are gonna be glad to see you healthy and give you a big dinner and tock you in.” “Are you going to La Cima alone?” I asked. “Hadn’t you better take some help?” “Arnole,” Chamaco said, “going to La Cima is the only excitement I get around here. “I’ve been sherriff for twenty-three years, and the only thing I do almost is take care of esquirts. In twenty-three years theres only been three killings in Sagrado. Two of them were second degree – knife-fights in the cantinas – and the other one was man-eslaughter. So there’s nothing to do. All I get is esquirts. The esquirts break windows and eslash tires and escare gorls and throw rock at dogs and write dorty words on the walls. That isn’t police work, that’s truant-officer work. The magistrate just send ‘em home. Sometimes I get so tired of sitting around that I go out and direct traffic. Sometimes I sit and pray that a Boy Escout gets lost up in the Cordillera so I can organize a search party and get a little riding and hiking time in. And about once a year there’s trouble in La Cima that’s bad enough for the police to come in, and that’s the times I wait for. When I go to La Cima people espit on my car and throw rocks at me. One time somebody even shot at me with a deer rifle, and broke my windshield. It’s the only thing that keeps me thinking I’m a law-enforcement officer and not a social worker. And you two esquirts want to take my fun and exercise away from me. If you really want to do me a favor, go out and rob a bank or assassinate the mayor.” “I never looked at it that way, Sherriff,” Steenie said. “Good luck up there.”