In a Ute tipi, Joaquin, his pants down around his ankles, stood behind a naked Indian woman. Gripping her by the hair with his left hand, Joaquin, with a large, heavy-bladed knife in his right hand, cut her throat. He quickly pushed her forward and away to the dirt floor of the tipi. The woman desperately clutched at her throat as her blood sprayed through her fingers. Smiling, Joaquin held up his arms. Turning to the six men watching, he said, “You see, not a drop of blood on me!”
The six men, two Mexicans and four Anglos, smiled and laughed, hiding their disgust of the r**e and killing of the Ute woman. Reaching down, Joaquin pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. From the ground near his feet, he picked up his gun-belt that held two pistols. Joaquin fastened the gun-belt around his
