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 vera nodded, "every man for his own calling. But people will have their own opinions, for all of that."

"What is a soldier's opinion of any man? A soldier is a slave!"

"It is a question," Sergeant Olivera returned. "But there is no question about artisans who come to Alta California to teach these savage neophytes their craft. They are men from the prisons, given parole on condition; they are thieves."

"Some of them may be thieves, little soldier, but I am no thief!" Borromeo's voice was a rumble in his chest, a cloud seeming to sweep a darker shadow over his fire-reddened face. "No, I will not permit any man to call me thief. I killed a man in Sinaloa, and I am ready to kill another one!"

"I implore your pardon, friend killer," Sergeant Olivera said, with sarcasm that was softened by a humorous kindling in his eyes. "It is a much greater distinction. But I am not ready to be killed my first night in San Fernando; there are several things that I want to live on a little while to see."

"You will not live to catch Sebastian Alvitre, anyhow, if God gives you two hundred years."

"Maybe not, Vulcan."

"No names, no names!" Borromeo leaned over the table to warn against such liberty, his great arms spread to reach and clasp the table's edges, a hand on either side.

"I make you a compliment," the soldier laughed, not disturbed by the blacksmith's savage squaring