"Feel better?" he asked.

"No. I hurt my hand," Kerney replied. "What are you doing here, Terry?" Terry's face had a healthy glow. His brown eyes were clear and serious. He had shed some weight and looked fit. Three years could bring changes.

"I asked you a question," Kerney said. God, he wanted to hit him again.

"I heard you," Terry answered. He glanced at Kerney's naked stomach, turned away, and looked out at the expanse of the Galisteo Basin, trying hard to regain his composure. The land rolled down from the ranch through thickly studded stands of pinon and juniper trees. It gave way to rangeland that butted against an escarpment that looked almost like an enormous, ancient man-made fortification. He took it in indifferently, and swallowed hard to keep down the bile that welled up in his mouth from the sight of the scar on Kerney's stomach. The ugly entry wound and the long surgical incision brought the memory smashing into his head like a freight train. In spite of himself, he remembered the day three years ago at the stakeout. The image of Kerney curled into a ball clutching his gut as the blood came gushing out made Terry wince. He turned around and glanced at the scar again.

"You've got some tar on your face," he said finally, raising his eyes.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Around your nose and mouth."

"No shit?" Kerney rubbed his nose and inspected his fingertip.

"You're right. Thanks for pointing it out. Now go away, Terry." Terry stared back at him. His long, black hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, accentuated his Navajo features: a high forehead above dark brown eyes and round cheeks. His tense lips were pressed thin.

Kerney wondered how long it would be before Terry stared at the scar again. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.