Beyond This Point Are Monsters by Margaret Millar Page B

standing between me and the bunkhouse with a rifle over his shoulder.”
    â€œDid you speak to him?”
    â€œHe spoke to me. He told me to go back inside and stay there, because the police were on their way and when they asked me if I touched anything I better be able to say no. So I sat on the edge of my cot, then in five, ten minutes the police arrived.”
    There was a sudden audible stirring throughout the courtroom, as if the arrival of the police marked the end of a period of tension and gave people freedom to move. They coughed, changed position, whispered to their neighbors, sighed, stretched, yawned.
    Ford waited for the sounds to subside. Without actually turning to face the audience he could see that the place where Agnes Osborne had sat during the morning was still empty. His uneasiness over her absence was tinged with guilt. He had probably talked to her too harshly. Women like Mrs. Osborne, who were blunt themselves and seemed to invite bluntness from others, were often the least able to tolerate it.
    Ford said, “What happened after the police arrived, Mr. Wing?”
    â€œPlenty, plenty of noise, cars moving around, doors banging, people talking and shouting. Pretty soon one of the deputies came to me and started asking questions like what you asked, did I see anything, did I hear anything. But mostly he wanted to know about my knives.”
    â€œKnives, Mr. Wing?”
    â€œI carry my own knives to cook with—cleaver, chop­pers, parers, slicers, carver. I keep them clean and sharp, locked up in a case and the key in my money belt. I opened the case and showed him they were all there, nothing stolen.”
    â€œDid you ever hear of a butterfly knife?”
    Lum Wing’s impassive face looked as surprised as pos­sible. “A knife to cut butterflies? ”
    â€œNo. It’s one that resembles a butterfly when the blade is open.”
    â€œI leave such silly things to the Mexicans. Around here they all carry knives, the fancier the better, like jewelry.”
    â€œWhen the deputy questioned you that night, you were not able to give him any more information than you have given the court this afternoon?”
    â€œNo, no more.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Wing. You may return to your seat . . . Will Jaime Estivar come to the stand, please?”
    As they met in the aisle the old man and the young one exchanged glances of puzzlement and resignation: it was a middle-aged world, which Lum Wing had passed and Jaime hadn’t yet reached and neither of them cared about or understood.

CHAPTER NINE
    â€œ for the record ,” Ford said, “would you state your name, please?”
    â€œMy church name or my school name?”
    â€œIs there a difference?”
    â€œYes, sir. I was christened with five names, but at school I just use Jaime Estivar because otherwise I’d take up too much room on report cards and attendance sheets, things like that.” He had sworn to tell the truth, but the very first thing he uttered was a lie. What’s more, it tripped off his tongue without a moment’s hesitation. The boys he ad­mired at school were called Chris, Pete, Tim, or sometimes Smith, McGregor, Foster, Jones; he couldn’t afford to have them find out he was really Jaime Ricardo Salvador Luis Hermano Estivar.
    â€œYour school name will be sufficient,” Ford said.
    â€œJaime Estivar.”
    â€œHow old are you, Jaime?”
    â€œFourteen.”
    â€œAnd you live with your family at the Osborne ranch?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œTell us about your family, Jaime.”
    â€œWell, uh, I don’t know what’s to tell.” He glanced down at his parents and Dulzura and Lum Wing, seeking inspiration. He found none. “I mean, they’re just a family, no big deal or anything.”
    â€œDo you have brothers and sisters?”
    â€œYes, sir. Three of each.”
    â€œAre they living at home?”
    â€œOnly me and