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Your hand enters your satchel. Bottom right corner, a wooden case, rough with wear and sporting chips and splinters. You grunt. Two cigarillos, one match. You place one of them in your mouth and sidle up to one of the Indians standing watch over this row of roped up pitiables. His mouth twists in distaste as you approach. Your last match rises to your lips, a puff, then smoke billows from your mouth in waves of gray riders. You pause next to the guard without sparing a look, and the second leaf-wrapped soldier joins the first, burning alive in your fingertips.
You look up, and offer the second cigarillo to the guard. The day has been kind, but it’s still cold to a man standing in place. You endure about three minutes of suspicion before a hand quickly relieves you of your last Mexican treasure. He copies your technique, and you two stand in silence for another five minutes, drawing the eyes of the Indian’s fellow guards and a dozen passing villagers.
The Prisoner watches you the whole while, head low and beneath the shoulders. He doesn’t blink, and his nostrils flare every time either you or the guard expel your spirits of fire. You tap the braid of tusks hanging around your neck, focusing the guard’s attention. His eyes linger, then travel back up to yours. A twinge of the eyebrow. A brief dart of the eyes, first over your shoulder, then over his. He makes the long journey back to meeting your gaze. You tap the tusks again, and motion your head over to the Prisoner, who takes a small step forward.
The guard’s eyes widen. He turns around to the other prisoners, then back to your Prisoner. He turns back to the other prisoners, then with his index finger out runs it over them from where he stands, cigarillo embers falling to the snow below. He turns back one final time to your Prisoner and after several moments of contemplation he gives a minute shrug. The guard scratches his neck, then places his hand at a point about two thirds of the way down.