“I suppose you’ve heard the last of him, then?”
Juan leaned forward. His eyes sparkled.
“We hope so. We hope so. But——”
He stood up and faced us.
“You are good enough to say you believe the word of Juan Pancho. But I will not test your credulity too far. You shall judge for yourselves.”
Juan took a lantern from a nail, and lighted it.
“Come and see for yourselves!”
We followed him across the deserted plaza, whose squat houses showed dimly gray under a windy, blue-black sky. He unlocked the heavy door with a great key, and entered the church. Feeling our way in the dark, bare interior, we advanced to within six feet of the altar, and he placed the lantern on the floor, where it shed a circle of yellow light among the black shadows. We knelt, and touched the nails. The heads were free of the floor. On them were no tool-marks. No hammer had loosened them. We bent down further, and laying our heads aslant the planks, sighted. In the lantern light, we discerned a slight but unmistakable warp in the timbers, the length and width of a man’s body.
In silence we returned to Juan’s warm, lighted living-room, where Mrs. Juan still sat by the fire admiring her red slippers. If it is humanly possible, I intend to be in Great Isleta about the year 1923.