It was all desert now, the earth a dusty brown with slabs and outcroppings of gray rock visible in places where it broke through the thin, powdery covering of soil. The sky behind his head was a glowing pink already, but the high rocks ahead were still in the strong, direct rays of the late-afternoon sun. He turned to Juan and started to explain again. He spoke patiently and precisely so that the others, who were older, could listen without appearing to. “This man is rich, so there’s no question he’ll bring a number of armed men with him. Just to carry so much money he’d need help.” “I understand,” said Juan. He adjusted his dark glasses again, a gesture that had already become unconscious. He had been proud of the tear tattooed on his cheekbone until Mr. Grijalvas had taught him that it was a mistake, the mark of a loser. There was no honor in the mere fact of having been in prison. Grijalvas said, “This man will be a coward. He’s ready to pay the money because he’s afraid not to.
