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Staring at the dark ceiling of her room, Clara tried to identify and mentally arrange the pieces of a puzzle that were still difficult to understand. There was one question that kept swirling around in her head. What did Rebeca do when she was not at the pension?Right next to the reception lobby, there is a dining room where the pension serves breakfast. The service is included in the monthly rent. The room is spacious, well illuminated by two large windows with heavy ruby-red curtains; decorative ceiling and wall moulding give it a refined look; paintings of bucolic country landscapes with ornate, gilded frames cover the walls; a Persian rug rich in details and exotic colors covers nearly the entire floor; two large chandeliers with an array of crystal drops make the room look like a palace. There are half a dozen small round tables covered with a peach-colored cloth and over it a smaller one, square, white and well starched. In the middle of each table, there are always fresh. "You're someone new; I haven't seen you before!"Doris approached him, diffidently. "I--I've just started working for Mrs. Wynton; I'm going to be looking after the rents and things."He smiled. "Well now, you're a change from Mildred!" He drank her in with his eyes. "Pretty as a picture and soft as honey and cream," he murmured.Doris smiled, flushed at the compliment.He slid open a drawer, took out a small pile of bills, counted some off and put on the desk-top. "Here's the rent, Miss--" he paused, "you didn't tell me your name." Dainton," she said, "Doris Dainton."He nodded, "You've got a nice name, too." He waited, then: "You'll have to come and get the money, you see, I'm paralyzed."Doris drew in her breath, noticed the crutches beside his desk for the first time. "I--I'm sorry," she mumbled, moving forward, "I didn't know!" She picked up the money, counted it, pushed it into her small purse. "I'll give you a receipt." Don't be sorry," he said, "it's just my legs the rest of me's.
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The Indian, a boy, had been dead some considerable time. The body was bloated with gas. The lower portion, from the hips down, was coal black where the blood had settled. Decay had caused the torso to turn a reddish black. Clots of dried blood hung in black strands from the nostrils. Shit had fallen to the ground beneath, but it had long since dried, and no flies buzzed around it. The eyes were gone from their sockets. The mouth hung open, the tongue was chewed away as well as the lips by the hawks. The cock was missing, too. Either eaten . . . or cut off. Whoever had hanged the boy had mutilated him, the belly had been cut open. The uncoiled gut hung to the ground like a long, withered snake. Green guessed he had been dead at least twenty-four hours. The rope used to hang the Indian was a Mexican-made maguey, a light string good for calf roping. It had been tossed over the limb of the cottonwood and, after the Indian had been hoisted up, secured around the trunk of the tree. There.

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