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being re-enacted. He is massaging his leg absently. I reach over, lift the half-empty bottle and refill his glass.
    â€œ Gracias ,” he says, his eyes coming back to life. “But you wish to know of Crockett. Him I saw. After we had taken the guns and the compound was secure, we had to fight through the rooms in the old mission. Four or five men would fire their muskets through the door and then rush in with bayonets and finish the job. It was hard, brutal work, and I am not sorry that my wound forced me to miss it.
    â€œEveryone found in the mission was killed, except, as you say, for some women and children. We were not savages. We were ordered to kill them all. Santa Anna said the rebels were pirates, trying to steal land from Mexico, and that the only reward for piracy was death. One of our officers did not obey the order and took seven men prisoner. He brought them out into the compound in front of where I sat. They were a miserable collection of humanity—filthy, blood-covered and cowed. Several were wounded, one so badly he could not stand. Crockett was among those who surrendered. He stood out from the rest, being taller and the only one who looked about and met the eyes of his captors. He even spoke at one point, suggesting that he be released to travel to the rest of the Texian army and negotiate a truce.
    â€œWhen Santa Anna discovered that these men had been spared, he was furious and ordered them executed. We stood them against a wall, but the soldiers refused to shoot. The fight was done, we wished no more killing, but Santa Anna ordered his guard to do the work with sabers. I turned away, but I saw the bodies later. They were much cut about the head and arms. Only the man too badly wounded to stand had been shot where he lay on the ground.”
    â€œYou’re lying,” I say, loudly enough for people nearby to stare. “Davy Crockett didn’t surrender. He died fighting. He would never have asked to be spared.”
    The old man shrugs.
    â€œThat is your story. Believe it if you wish. I tell only what I saw with my own eyes. Remember, heroes and villains are what we make them. All are human.”
    The Mexican falls silent and I think about what he has told me. I don’t want to believe him, but why not? I believed the stories that Wellington, Santiago and Ed told me, however unbelievable they seemed at the time. The difference was, then I was seeking answers and hungrily absorbed anything that might help me find those answers. The story I was hearing now conflicted with something I already believed.
    â€œYou have come down from Lincoln?” The man interrupts my reverie.
    â€œYes. I’m collecting some horses to take back to Fort Stanton.”
    â€œYou have your own war,” the old man says slyly, “and heroes as well.”
    I think of Tunstall, taking on the corrupt Dolan syndicate. Maybe even Brewer, trying to continue the fight and hold the Regulators in check.
    â€œI suppose we do.”
    â€œI have heard that the corrupt Sheriff Brady is dead.”
    â€œYes, two days ago in Lincoln. He was shot in the main street from ambush.”
    â€œBy El Chivato?”
    â€œEl Chivato?”
    â€œThe one you call Kid Antrim.”
    It takes me a moment to realize who he means. Is there an end to the number of names Bill goes by?
    â€œYes, it was Bill who shot him, although others were there.”
    The old man nods approvingly.
    â€œThere is a hero.”
    â€œBill?”
    â€œ Sí , the one you call Bill. He is here often for our fiestas.” The man looks around as if he expects to see Bill at the next table. “He is a fine dancer and a good singer.” The man winks broadly. “He is a great favorite with the young señoritas .” I suppose I must look puzzled, because he adds, “He is not a hero to you?”
    â€œHe’s charming and friendly,” I say, “but I’ve seen him shoot a man in the head in