Sanchez, the state police investigator, agreed. He pointed up to the disturbed narrow ledge and the tumble of broken slate.

"Your amigo died in a hiking accident," he said, hunching his shoulders and spreading his palms outward. "He was, forgive me, foolish to be on a trail of this nature."

The evidence, at first glance, seemed to point rather squarely at the scenario voiced by the general and the police captain. But where was the corpse and True's backpack? Diaz had been here only two days earlier. There were no obvious signs of activity: No footprints, no drag marks, no freshly turned earth. Had someone moved or buried the body? If so, why didn't they claim the 10,000 peso reward?

Fonseca ordered everyone to spread out and walk the area in circles. The doctor and I stayed and began to dig with our hands around the heavy concentration of blood. Perhaps True was buried right there. Inches down, we hit rock.

We joined the others, circling the area, looking to see if wild animals had dragged True's remains into the underbrush. That seemed unlikely. Animals, if there were any left in the overhunted sierra big enough to drag a human corpse, would have left some sign. Animals don't drag off backpacks.

The doctor pointed to a small circle of ash and charcoal, the remnants of a small campfire a few feet from where True had reposed in death. A cigarette butt lay in the carbonized wood residue. Had True somehow survived his painful fall and managed to light a fire as night descended? He didn't smoke, I thought to myself.

A Huichol close by but out of sight cried out in his native language, and soon several of the men were talking excitedly. One of them approached us with a few small feathers in the palm of his hand.

"Mira, plumitas," he said. Look, little feathers. He handed them to us to examine.

They looked like they were from a juvenile bird.

"Those are goose down feathers from Philip's sleeping bag," Chase declared.