Seneca Book 4: De Dos Del Nortes
Copyright© 2026 by Zanski
Chapter 7. 1886: Del Norte, Colorado
Cisneros and I went first to the Rio Grande County Clerk’s office, on the first floor of the courthouse. Cisneros presented the writ of habeas corpus signed by the state circuit judge in Alamosa.
“This’ll have to go to the court clerk, upstairs.”
Cisneros knew as much, but had wanted a bit of a fanfare, advising the administrative structure of Rio Grande County that, in effect, the state judicial system was concerned about the practices of its sheriff.
The county court clerk seemed confused by the writ. “If there’s a problem, I’ve heard nothing about it. Maybe you should see the prosecutor.”
Across the second floor’s open lobby, the county prosecutor’s clerk told us, “Mister Ingham is in South Fork today, but we were told that Didron didn’t want an attorney. You’d better take this writ to the sheriff’s office.”
As we descended the stairs, Cisneros said, “That was all for show. Now we’ll see if the sheriff understands a writ of habeas corpus.”
We descended the flights to the ground level, the half basement with its dim hallway lit by three oil lamps in wall sconces. The door to the sheriff’s office was open, however, the daylight from its windows bringing a white contrast to the more yellow cast of the oil lamps. I followed Cisneros through the door.
We stopped at the counter while the smug sheriff’s deputy watched from behind his desk, his arms crossed over his paunch. He regarded us, but said nothing.
Cisneros announced, “I’m Miguel Cisneros and I’ve been appointed as the attorney for Maurice Didron, who is now in your custody. I have a writ of habeas corpus from the state circuit court requiring you to immediately produce Deputy United States Marshal Maurice Didron for the purpose of my counsel.”
The deputy said, “Sheriff Watkins ain’t here. He’s in South Fork.”
Cisneros replied, “That doesn’t matter. The writ names the Sheriff or other custodian. You are that other custodian and are required to comply.”
“I ain’t the Sheriff or the custodian.”
“Then who is the custodian?”
“Like I said, the Sheriff.”
“Who has authority in the Sheriff’s absence?”
“Nobody.”
“Then what is your role?”
“I’m in charge of the office.”
Cisneros nodded, then turned to me. “Marshal Becker, please take this man in custody. We’ll take him back to Alamosa to see the circuit judge.”
Deputy Smug spluttered, “Hold on just a damn minute. You can’t arrest me. I ain’t done nothin’.” He had pushed the chair back from his desk and was looking a little wild-eyed. As I stood next to Cisneros, my right arm was hidden from the deputy as I took the thirty-eight from my shoulder holster.
“That’s the problem, deputy. I brought you a court order and you’ve done nothing. You are in contempt of court. The judge will want you to serve some time in the Conejos County jail for the offense.
“You can go to hell!” he shouted, reaching for the pistol on his hip.
My pistol, on the other hand, was already held by my outstretched arm and aimed directly at the deputy. I clicked back the hammer and he froze in place. I pronounced, in a solemn tone, “Do you want to elevate the sentence for contempt of court to a death penalty?”
“Okay, okay, okay. Here, let me put the gun on the floor.” He reached for the pistol.
I said, “Move very slowly and only touch the grip with your thumb and one finger.” As he complied, I added, “Now put it on the floor where I can see it, then kick it over to the back corner under the windows.”
He laid the revolver on the floor, then slowly stood and gave it a shove with his foot. It skittered at an angle and ended up against the wall, though several feet from the corner.
Just for the hell of it, I gave him a fierce look and growled, “Didn’t I say to kick it to the corner, asshole?”
“Hey, I tried. I can move it.”
Cisneros, suppressing his amusement, said, “Never mind that. Take us to Marshal Didron.”
The deputy, apparently now dispirited, mumbled, “This way,” and he came around the end of the counter, lifting the last section to allow passage. Then he walked out the door into the hall.
I said, “I still have my pistol in hand, Deputy.”
He took a quick glance over his shoulder at me and, with a grimace, said, “We need to go out the back to get to the jail.” He led the way to a door at the end of the hall. He opened the door to daylight and led us out and up six concrete steps to ground level. We crossed an alley to another quarry-stone building, this one without adornment and with small windows inset with iron bars.
The deputy took a ring of keys from his belt and located the designated key for the door, which he opened.
I reached around him and took hold of the key, pulling it from his fingers, along with the rest of the key ring. “I’ll hold these for you,” I grunted into his ear. Then I prodded him with the pistol barrel. “And you will stick with me.”
Inside the door was a small vestibule with the facing wall a row of iron bars. Another man wearing a star sat at a desk beyond those bars., He was watching us and he said to Deputy Smug, “What’s going on, Smiley?” A locked barred door opened next to the deputy’s desk.
Deputy Smiley said, “These men have a court order says they can see Didron.”
The other deputy shook his head. “Sheriff said nobody sees him.”
Cisneros held his hand out to me saying, “Give me those keys. If either of these deputies interfere, shoot them.”
I let the other deputy see my pistol, now aimed at him. He began to slowly back away. I barked, “Stay where you are, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet in your knee. He stopped and raised his hands. The only visible weapon he had was a truncheon, hanging from his belt.
Cisneros unlocked the door, then handed me the keys. He turned to the guard and said, “Lead us to Deputy Marshal Didron.
The guard turned and, with his hands still raised, led us between two rows of barred cells, each with two sets of top and bottom bunks, to house up to four men in a cell. Only a few of them were occupied, a couple of the men jeered at us.
At the end, in the sixth cell on the left, Maurice Didron’s face was pressed against the bars, trying to see what was going on.
In a dubious tone, he said, “Judah? Judah, is that really you?” Then almost joyously, “Judah! Thank God. I knew you’d come. And Mister Cisneros? You too?” His facial expression collapsed into tears.
With the gun still in my right hand, I reached through the bars with my left and gripped his shoulder. The cell across from him was empty, the door ajar. I said to the deputies, “Why don’t you two go sit on those bunks. Leave that club on the floor outside,” I instructed the jail deputy. They did as I said. I closed the door but didn’t lock it, then holstered my pistol.
Cisneros asked, “Are you injured, hurt, or sick, Deputy?”
“They wailed on me a bit getting me in here, but they’ve pretty much let me be since. Otherwise, it’s jail. But I’m damn glad to see you two.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The Sheriff’s been denying he had you in custody, but the other county officers weren’t playing that tune.”
“I take it Li Shun got in touch with you?”
“She did. She’s fine, by the way, though way over the top worrying about you.”
“I knew she would be. Tell her I’m fine, would you?”
I nodded.
Cisneros said, “There is a first degree murder charge filed against you. Tell me how you got here.” He had a large notepad in hand.
Didron sighed. “Who am I supposed to have killed?”
Cisneros looked at some notes he’s made on the pad. “Julio Ibarra.” He looked up at Didron. “Did you know him?”
“He was the prisoner I was to transport.” He shook his head. “So Ibarra’s dead? I wonder how that happened?”
“Tell me everything that’s happened since you set out from Alamosa on the seventh,” Cisneros persisted.
Didron nodded. “I took the train that morning. Then I lingered on the train when it stopped here at Del Norte because I’d been talking with a tourist couple from Saint Louis who were headed up to Wagon Wheel Gap for the hot springs spa. When the train started moving I hurried to the rear platform to get off. As I was about to step down, I looked up the platform and saw Soapy Smith boarding the train.”
Cisneros frowned and looked up from the notes he was making.”Who’s Soapy Smith?”
Didron explained, “Jefferson Randolph Smith has the nickname ‘Soapy’ from a con game he pulls selling overpriced bars of soap which supposedly contain greenbacks as prizes. He has shills that buy the soap with the greenbacks, who then make a big fuss to draw in other pigeons. He’s been doing that and a few other swindles up in Denver and Central City. But now there’s a federal warrant on him for running a gang that smuggled Chinese laborers into the country.”
The federal Chinese Exclusion Act had become law in eighteen eighty-two. It severely restricted Chinese immigration to the United States and specifically prohibited the entry of Chinese common laborers for a period of ten years.
“I wasn’t exactly surprised to spot him as he’d apparently left the Denver area and Marshal Hawthorne had put us all on notice that Smith may have interests elsewhere in the state. Even more, there was a rumor that Soapy had bought into a saloon up in Creede.” Now Didron lowered his voice. “And the man who was seeing him off that morning on the Del Norte station platform was none other than Rio Grande County Sheriff Bill Watkins.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the two deputies, now seeming to be in a subdued argument, and I heard the words, “ ... not my fault,” from Smalley.
Didron was talking again. “In any event, I figured that Ibarra was behind bars and would keep ‘til the next day, so I got back on the train to arrest Smith.” Maurice shrugged. “But I couldn’t find him. It wasn’t until we’d almost reached South Fork that I found the conductor coming back from the caboose, and I asked him if he’d seen Soapy Smith.
“He told me that Smith was in the caboose, drinking coffee and playing checkers with a one of the brakemen. I went back there and arrested Smith, then put him in manacles.
“We got off at South Fork, I chained Soapy to a tree, brought him s sandwich and some water, then sat in the shade until the train returned that afternoon.
“We took the train back to Del Norte where Sheriff Watkins and Deputy ‘Smiley’ over there,” he bobbed his chin toward the other cell, “were waiting for us. Someone must have seen us in South Fork and sent them a wire. They disarmed me, put my own shackles on me, and marched me to the jail, where they let Soapy have at me. But Watkins must have used a truncheon on me and knocked me out.
“And that was it. I was out until late the next morning, when I was told I was being held pending charges.” Didron shrugged and shook his head.
Cisneros asked, “Had you any contact with Julio Ibarra?”
“No, never saw him. I figured they’d let him go, since he was being held for me as a federal transfer.”
Cisneros wrote some notes, then asked, “Did anyone at all mention Ibarra being in the jail?”
Didron shook his head. “I was out cold ‘til nearly noon on Sunday. No one mentioned him and I didn’t notice Ibarra wasn’t there ‘til they brought us supper.”
“When did you find out you were charged with murder?”
“On, uh ... what’s today?”
“Thursday, August nineteenth.”
“They told me two days ago, on Tuesday, just before supper.” He shook his head again. “Up until then, they wouldn’t tell me why I was being held.”
Cisneros looked at me. “Tuesday was when you were up here, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Didron exclaimed, “You were up here before? Why didn’t you come see me?”
“The Sheriff denied you were here. I had no legal standing to insist, so I decided to come at it with more clout.” I hooked a thumb toward Cisneros.
He nodded. “Too bad. We could have been cell mates.”
“No thanks. I’ve heard you snore. We had to patch the ceiling in the guest room after you came down for Marshal Garrison’s memorial.”
Cisneros tapped the note pad with his pencil and admonished, “May I continue?”
Looking sheepish, Didron and I gave him our attention. Still, Didron’s spirits had brightened considerably.
Cisneros asked, “To be clear, other than the telegram notifying you of his presence here, you had no contact, conversation, or interaction with Julio Ibarra?”
“That’s right.”
“How did you know Julio Ibarra wasn’t among the jail inmates?”
“I knew what he looked like. I’ve had dealings with Ibarra before, and for the same charge: selling liquor on an Indian reservation.”
“And then you noticed the next day that Ibarra was not in the jail?”
“Correct.”
“Did you ask anyone what happened to Ibarra?”
“Not ‘til the next day. I asked Deputy Arboles,” he bobbed his chin toward the jail deputy in the other cell. “The only thing he’d say was that I’d find out, but nothing more.”
Then Didron glanced toward the deputies and all but whispered, “The night deputy might be worth talking to. He doesn’t seem comfortable with Watkins’ way of doin’ things.”
I asked, also at a whisper. “What’s his name?” I noticed both deputies were now silent and seemed to be giving us their attention.
“Xavier Huertas (HAH-vyair HWAIR-tahs). He knows I was still unconscious when he went home Sunday morning. Huertas told me he lives with his sister over behind the church.” Didron was Catholic, so I knew that was the church he meant.
Cisneros said, “We’ll have to talk to him.”
Didron shook his head. “He won’t testify. It would mean his job, and maybe his life. And then there’s his sister, too. She cooks for him and keeps house, but one of the inmates told me she’s got some bad smallpox scarring, so there’s not much prospect of a husband. Huertas watches out for her.”
Cisneros gave him an exasperated look. “So what good is he?”
Didron made a helpless shrug.
I said, “Let me work on that.”
He asked Didron, “Do you know who they’ve lined up as witnesses against you?”
Didron shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything, but I’d guess it’s at least going to be Smalley, and maybe Watkins, too. Probably so, to bring weight to charges against a federal deputy.”
“Have you any idea what sort of story they’ve cooked up?”
“No, not a hint.”
Cisneros was thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked up at me. “Let’s stay over tonight. I’d like to talk to Mister Valcourt, see what I can learn.” Yves Valcourt was the Rio Grande County Prosecuting Attorney.
I nodded. “Fine. I’ll need to send some telegrams.”
The Cisneros turned back to Didron. “The trial is set for next Friday. I may not try to see you again before then, considering the trouble we had getting in here today. Don’t say anything to anyone about your case. Understand?” Cisneros went on like that for several minutes.
Before we left, I said to Didron, “I’d ask if you needed anything, but then I doubt you’d be given anything I’d bring.”
He nodded. “You’re right. Just tell Shun that I love her.”
“I will.”
As we turned to leave, Cisneros addressed the two deputies, still seated on the bunks. “Gentlemen, thank you for assisting me in arranging this interview with my client. I appreciate your attention to our security.”
I added, “I trust you’ll give the same attention to Deputy United States Marshal Maurice Didron’s security. I’ve been teaching the Deputy Marshal to shoot at long distances and I want to finish his lessons. Most folks up this way don’t know that I was a sergeant major in the Army and chief of scout-snipers for my regiment. I don’t mind bragging on the dead certain fact that I can still punch the center out of an ace of spades at a thousand yards using my Whitworth rifle. I doubt even Sheriff Watkins knows that about me. Come to think of it, I bet I could hit anywhere in town from up on Lookout Mountain. Maybe some day I could come back and give a demonstration.” I gave them a big, unfriendly grin.
We retreated to a cantina near the warehouses along the tracks.
Cisneros asked, “How will you approach Huertas?”
I shrugged. “I’ll try to catch up with him at home, away from the courthouse.”
“What about the sister?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. If she’s there, I’ll just be polite.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll identify myself and tell him I’m investigating the murder. I plan to be pretty straightforward, though I’ll not want to scare him off.”
Cisneros regarded me briefly, in silence, then gave a slight shrug and took a sip of his cerveza. We finished the meal talking about fishing.
Afterward, Cisneros and I took rooms at the Windsor Hotel, right in the center of the commercial district. I sent telegrams to Li Shun and to Feliza, bringing them up to date; I knew Shun would be much relieved. Then I spent the siesta napping in my room.
Cisneros and I met again at four. He told me he wanted to visit the prosecutor’s office the next day to see what he could learn. I told him that I would try to find out more from the night deputy, Huertas, without attracting attention to him or me. I’d had a thought about approaching Huertas, and I wanted to walk over to see if I could spot his house, which I later checked on, but without specific success.
During our supper in the hotel he asked, “Was it true, what you told those deputies, about the Army and your shooting skill?”
I nodded. “It was. I still practice my shooting at least once a month.”
“Let’s hope that put the fear of god into them.”
I told him, “I’m going to attend the seven o’clock Mass in the morning. With any luck, I may encounter Deputy Huertas or his sister. His shift at the jail ends at six, so we’ll see. But I’ve a feeling his sister may be a regular at daily Mass.”
He nodded in agreement. “Many solteranas catolicas (Catholic spinsters) do so.”
I had considered simply waiting until Huertas left the jail on his way home, and trying to walk with him. But I didn’t want to be seen in his company, for his own safety. Consequently, I left the hotel at six-thirty the next morning for the ten minute walk to the church, which was on the north side of town, where most of the Mexican population resided. I believed my attendance at a weekday Mass, even if noticed, would not be all that remarkable. Even more, the early hour would probably mean that particular individuals who were interested in my habits were more likely sleeping in alcoholic bliss and not up and about with the early birds seeking worms.
It was a small church, converted from a large house, with benches enough to seat about thirty congregants. I took a spot in the back.
There were already two women present, in the black garb favored by elderly Mexican women who may seem to be in extended mourning. An older boy arrived and he went about preparing the altar, lighting candles and setting out the ceremonial implements.
About ten minutes after my arrival a younger woman — straighter of posture and firmer of step — came into the chapel. She was also in black, but veiled with a fabric that effectively hid her face. I felt sure this was the sister.
A priest entered, a Hispanic man in the black cassock commonly worn by the Jesuits. He went into a room off the sacristy to emerge a few minutes later in the ceremonial vestments to begin the service.
“Señorita Huertas,” I called, “disculpe mi impertinencia, pero quisiera hablar con su hermano. Me llamo Judah Becker y soy la mariscal de los Estados Unidos de Nuevo Mexico. (Miss Huertas, forgive my impertinence, but I would like to speak with your brother. My name is Judah Becker and I am the United States Marshal from New Mexico.) She had left the chapel immediately after the mass was finished and I had followed.
I waited until she reached the street corner behind the church before I approached her, though I remained a good twenty feet away. She turned and took a long look at me through her veil before returning to her homeward course without saying anything. I followed, though I didn’t approach closer.
When she arrived at a jacal in the next block, she went inside and closed the door behind her. I waited, in the middle of the street. A minute later, the door opened a crack and, from the shadows, a man’s gruff voice asked, in mildly accented English, “What do you want?”
“Deputy Huertas, I am US Marshal Judah Becker, from Santa Fe. I am here to look into the charges lodged against Deputy Marshal Didron. The report I read says you were present when he shot Julio Ibarra.” That last wasn’t at all true, but the words were out of my mouth before I’d fully considered what I was saying. I doubt any such document even existed. It was an artificial fly on a hook.
“What? Who said that?” Huertas demanded
“I don’t know who said it; that wasn’t included on anything I read. But I need to find out what you saw so Marshal Hawthorne, in Denver, can decide if he should fire Didron or not.”
“No vi ningun maldito tiroteo (I didn’t see any damn shooting).”
I looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, then turned to him with raised eyebrows. “Perhaps it would be better if we talked inside.”
His face took on a look of alarm and he glanced toward the nearby shacks and small houses, but he still hesitated. After a moment, though, he pulled the door fully open and stepped aside. I followed him into the dark interior, stepping down some inches onto a packed, earthen floor. Huertas closed the door behind me.
The only light was from three small windows, and, with my eyes accustomed to the bright sunlight, I could only make out the major features within the dim space. These included a cook stove with a coffee pot, a frying pan, and a stew pot; a rough-hewn table holding stacked and mismatched dishes and bowls; three straight-back chairs of various design, all at the table; and some free-standing shelves holding household items and pantry supplies. On the back wall were two door openings covered by dark draped. Huertas’s sister was nowhere to he seen.
Huertas stood there, looking at me as if he were deciding on the quality of a horse. I gazed back at him. If I had to guess, I’d have put his age at twenty-five or -six.
He began shaking his head. “I really don’t know anything. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Why is that?”
He looked puzzled. “Why is what?
“Why shouldn’t you talk to me?”
He looked down and away, then gave a resigned shrug. “The Sheriff, he doesn’t like us talkin’ about what goes on.”
I feigned a puzzled look and asked, “Why? What happens if you talk about the jail?”
He shook his head and grimaced. “Then you don’t work at the jail any more.”
“Are you married?”
He shook his head.
I let my eyes glance around the room. “Do you own this house?”
He glanced around the primitive structure and snorted. He shook his head and said, “I rent it, such as it is. It is one of the jacals the Sheriff owns.”
A jacal was a rustic, dug-out structure with wattle and daub walls.
“Does your sister have a job?”
“She makes supper for the priest and cleans his house. It does not pay much.”
I sighed and said, “Señor Huertas, Maurice Didron is my friend. That’s why I’m up here. I was summoned by his cariño (sweetheart), the woman who runs the Sixth Street Bakery in Alamosa.”
“The Chinese woman?”
I nodded. “Yes, Miss Li Shun. They are close friends of me and my wife.” I frowned and shook my head, holding my hands open before me. “I know Deputy Marshal Didron has done nothing wrong and that Sheriff Watkins and Deputy Smalley are lying. I need your help.”
He stood there, slowly shaking his head.
I asked, very gently, “What time was it when they took Ibarra from his cell?”
He shook his head more vehemently and grimaced again. He glanced toward one of the curtained doorways and said, “I need my job.”
“Are you saying that, if you tell what really happened — if you tell the truth — that the sheriff will fire you?”
“He will fire me, we will lose this house,” his voice dropped, “and my sister ... She is a kind soul, but no one...” He turned away, again shaking his head. “Worse things can happen.”.
The curtain Huertas had looked toward earlier now was pushed aside and a young woman stepped out, dressed as I had seen her in the chapel, but without the veil. She was slim, with the typical dark hair of the mestizos, and of average height, but her face was marred by tight clusters of raised scar tissue on her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck, presumably remnants of a bout with a virulent smallpox eruption some years prior. The damaged skin showed masses of raised, red bumps with an inflamed, almost shiny, appearance. While her face was otherwise well-formed, the scarring was the predominant feature. Both Huertas and I turned to her as she stepped into the room. I nodded my head respectfully, as my hat had been removed when I entered the house.
Gazing sternly at her brother, she snarled, “Diselo, Xavier, cuentale sobre ese cerdo, Smalley. (Tell him, Xavier, tell him of that swine, Smalley.)”
Huertas looked from her to me and a pained expression came over his face. In English, and shaking his head, he said, “This past Carnival, Smalley came here, drunk. It was night, I was at the jail. The bastardo brought a flour sack with him and he put it over her head, and then he tore her...” Huertas’s voice trailed off and, shaking his head again, he gave me a pleading look, his lips pressed tightly together.
From what Huertas said, I knew that Smalley’s assault would have been in early March, as I recalled the Shrove Tuesday fiesta occurring the day after a humdinger of a rainstorm had undermined a portion of our adobe courtyard wall and flooding had caused other problems around town, incidents which had put a damper on the annual Martes de Carnaval, or Carnival Tuesday, in Santa Fe.
To forestall his embarrassed narration, I told Huertas, “No hace falta. Creo que lo entiendo. (There is no need. I think I understand.)”
But now his sister addressed him in Spanish, her tone an accusing one. “Are we to remain beholden to these swineherds for all our days?”
Huertas replied, “Valeria, how else would we live? Where would we live?”
She switched to a mix of English and Spanish. “We live now in constant fear, querido hermano (dear brother). Nosotras soportamos, sobrevivimos. (We endure, we survive.) Every day we expect the next bad thing to happen. This is not living, this is muerte lenta (slow dying).”
She turned away and began to cry. He went to her and turned her face into his shoulder, his arm enfolding her. He looked at me helplessly over the top of her head.
I had an impulse. Still in Spanish, I asked, “If you had a place to go, and a livelihood, would that free you from the Sheriff and Smalley?”
Huertas shook his head. “Moving to Alamosa would do us no good. The Sheriff has a long reach. He could hurt us in Conejos County, too.”
I shook my head. “Not Alamosa. I’m talking about Santa Fe.”
“Santa Fe?” he exclaimed. “We can not afford to move there. Even if we could, where would I find work? Where could we live?”
I said, “You could work at the Santa Fe County Jail, under the Marshals Service. Valeria would work for my wife, helping with the children, and the cooking, and housework.”
In fact, Elfego Baca had worked out that, with our increasing use of the county jail, we could save money by offering to replace one of their jail wardens in exchange for eliminating other support fees. For that matter, it would cost us nothing more to make the position a deputy marshal in title. We could add the jail to the training rotation.
At home, since the tragic death of Estela Guerrero, our children’s Abuela, both Feliza and I had been hard-pressed, tending to home, my job as Marshal, and our business investments, the latter having flourished under Feliza’s stewardship. Feliza had also been managing the de Lorenzo family trust, while the usual custodian, her oldest sister, Sofia Salazar, had taken charge of the Guerrero mills in Mora County. The mills were the birthright of our son — my adopted son — Neto. That inheritance had followed upon the death of his father, Feliza’s first husband, Ernesto Guerrero, who had been killed four years earlier in a tragic shooting accident.
Huertas looked at me with a skeptical frown. “Where would we live?”
“Valeria would have her own room at our house. You would have to find your own accommodations. There is a boarding house the Deputy Marshals use when they are in town. I’ve stayed there. It’s quite comfortable, the food is good, and we have a contract rate, which you could make use of. You could also have suppers with us.”
I knew I would have to add a room to the house for Valeria, but adobe construction and a central courtyard made that fairly easy and economical.
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