Melquiares Nuñez was not in his field. Neither, Benoit and Alejo soon learned, was he at his house.

"That leaves only one place to look," said Alejo. "The morada."

The Penitentes chapter house was a long narrow building totally without windows, set deep in a stand of pine and mountain juniper. It was a forbidding looking place, even in the daylight. Studying the building, Benoit felt a chill run down his spine. "I certainly wouldn't want to be here on a moonless night," he said to Alejo.

For several minutes they sat quietly on their horses, waiting to see if anyone had heard them approaching and would come out to see what they wanted.

"Listen," Alejo whispered, cocking his head. "Do you hear that?"

Benoit leaned forward. "Yes," he said, his reply barely audible.

Over the chirping of the birds, the men could hear a rhythmic slapping sound, like someone establishing a beat by smacking his palm against his thigh. Except there was an added effect. After each slap, they could hear what resembled a muffled groan.

"Someone's being whipped," Benoit said, putting the sounds together.

Tying their horses to a tree, they hurried forward and pounded on the door. There was no response. Alejo tried again, louder. "It's Alejo Ortiz," he called. "Please open the door."

After a moment of silence, a strained sounding voice replied. "Go away!"

"I can't do that," Alejo said. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk to you."

There was a pause, then the noise of shuffling feet. The door opened about two inches and a bloodshot eye peeked out at them.

"Señor Nuñez?" Alejo asked.

The eye blinked. "What do you want?"

"We would like to talk to you."

"I have nothing to say. Please leave me alone."

"Señor Nuñez, please let us in. We need to see Porcopio Sandoval."

"He's not here," Nuñez said. "There's no one here. I'm alone. Now please go away. I'm in the middle of my prayers."

"It doesn't sound like you're praying," Benoit said. "It sounds as if someone is being thrashed."

Nuñez's eye swung toward Benoit. "Who is this?"

"A friend of mine," said Alejo.

"We have no use for gringos here," Nuñez said, starting to close the door.

"Wait!" Alejo said stopping it with his palm. "All we want to do is talk to Señor Sandoval."

"I told you, he isn't here."

"Then let us see for ourselves. One quick look. After that, I promise we'll go away."

Nuñez looked at him closely. "Then look," he said, opening the door and stepping back.

Benoit studied the Penitente. He was short and compact, with dark skin and hair the color of coal. He had a high forehead, which was beaded with sweat, and he was breathing heavily, as if from exertion. Nuñez, the chapter's hermano mayor, glared at him, challenging him with his eyes. Benoit glanced at his lip, which was raw and bleeding where he had been chewing it. Blood ran in a small rivulet down his chin.

Benoit let his eyes go lower. Nuñez, he saw, had a thick neck, broad, muscled shoulders and a deep, hairless chest which was speckled with spots of blood that had dipped off his chin. In his right hand was a whip made from a dozen strands of leather studded with cactus thorns.

As comprehension dawned, Benoit felt the bile rise in his throat.

"You've been flogging yourself!" he gulped.

Nuñez stared at him, then dismissed him with a slight flick of his head. "As you can see," he said to Alejo, "there's no one here."

When Nuñez turned to Alejo, Benoit could see that his back was striped with raw welts. Forcing himself to look away, he let his eyes roam around the room. Along one wall was an altar, but unlike the one in the Ortiz hacienda is was crudely made from rough pine boards and bare except for several candles. Leaning against the other wall was a cross large enough for a man. Made of unfinished cottonwood, it was weathered and splintered. Toward the end of the cross arms and about three feet from the bottom, the wood was darkly stained. Pulling his eyes away, he looked around the room. Hanging from pegs on two of the walls were several lengths of chain and eight or ten whips, all of which appeared to have been well used.

"Look there," Alejo said, pointing behind Benoit.

Turning, Benoit saw what Alejo was pointing at. It was a rough wooden cart, a type known throughout the Territory as a carreta. In typical fashion, it was long and narrow and very simply built, essentially an uneven platform with sides of rough logs fastened to end posts. The wheels were of solid wood, perhaps a cross section of a sizeable tree trunk, and irregular so, when pulled by a burro, it bounced and jerked along more than it rolled. Benoit had seen entire families riding in such carts, everyone standing to make more room, the children with their hands clasped against their ears to shut out the penetrating shriek of an ungreased axle. But this carreta was not designed to carry a happy family to the village market. It's sole occupant was a wooden skeleton, its death head carved into a hideous rictus, propped on a rough bench. On the platform, at the skeleton's feet, was a crude wooden bow and a single amateurishly fletched arrow.

"Have you satisfied your curiosity?" Nuñez asked angrily, breaking Benoit out of his gape-mouthed scrutiny.

"Why are you flagellating yourself?" Alejo asked. "What sin are you doing penance for?"

"That's none of your business," Nuñez said belligerently. "You said you wanted to see. Now that you have seen, get out."

"There's no need to be so truculent," Alejo said consolingly. "We have an interest in the murder of Padre Rabalais. We're trying to find the killer."

"That's none of your business either. The Penitentes administer justice in the valley. We will take care of it. You had best stay out of it. It could be dangerous for you to interfere."

Alejo looked at Benoit and shrugged. "Very well," he said quietly, "we'll leave."

Nuñez followed them to the door and slammed it behind them. They had barely untied their horses and pulled themselves into the saddle before the repulsive noise renewed itself. Slap ... groan. Slap ... groan ...

"It makes my stomach turn over," Benoit said as they rode away.