Apache Canyon

"Go ahead."

Tucker left the stable and Harris busied himself taking down his saddle and blanket. By that time, Brady had put the bridle on the captain s horse and led it forward. Harris smoothed the blanket down across the horse's back, threw the saddle over and cinched up. Then he stood regarding Brady soberly. "It's a rotten trick, Will-you ve only got thirty-six hours left on your contract."

"That's all right, I reckon," Brady drawled cahnly, and went back to lead his own saddled mount forward. Then he went back again, and came forward leading another horse. "What's that for?" Harris said.

"Yeager. I borrowed the horse from him to bring Tonio back. Told him I'd return it next time I was up his way."

"All right," Harris said. "Here comes Tucker. Mount up."

Sutherland sat his horse impatiently, waiting for Pete Rubio to get up from his crouching position and remount his horse. The scout was taking a long time about it. Finally Rubio mounted and trotted back to the column. "Cattle tracks and unshod horses on top of that," Rubio said. "I expect it's just a few Agency buck out trailing some of their own cattle that got loose."

"All right," Sutherland said. "Ride on ahead, Rubio, and keep me informed of what you find."

"Sure," the half-breed said. His face was blank. He wheeled his horse and rode away at a gallop. Sutherland looked back at the troopers, all of them coated with dust. He lifted his arm, called "At a trot," and dropped the arm forward, leading the patrol out. His sergeant, Tom Brophy, rode wordlessly at his side. Brophy was a man whom Sutherland had found to be uncommunicative, at least in his presence. Whatever thoughts ran through Brophy s mind were kept locked up tight inside his skuU.

The sun moved steadily across the far quarter of sky, striking against his left shoulder, making him tilt his head to the side to shade his eyes with the brim of his hat. The desert was quiet and vast; its loneliness was a threatening kind. A low pall of yellow dust followed in the wake of the column, held listlessly above the ground; ahead the white unfriendly glare of powder-sand and mica particles and glossy rocks beat against his eyes. Just the same, Sutherland's hat made a flat, precise line across his view; his back was straight and his shoulders squared. He had lived a good part of his hfe according to the strict rules of Cooke's Cavahy Tactics, and there seemed to be no reason for change in sight. An eager, restless, impatient energy thrust out of him at all times, even when he was still. Now he viewed the hard blazing sky with resolute, level eyes. He glanced at the raw-boned, sun-blackened features of Brophy.

Brophy rode with the ease of long habit, slouched as comfortably as possible on the spht-fork Mc-Clellan saddle. Sutherland's glance filled with intolerance and contempt; he turned straight forward once more.

On the horizon lifted the ragged edges of high, serrated mountains, blue-gray in the distance. Heat condensed breathless around them; behind him were the voices of the troopers in idle conversation, the soft rise and fall of one man's voice softly singing an old song, the tramp of hoofs and creak of leather. Sutherland's Hps were pinched together.

They neared the second day of patrolling, and there was nothing but the wide desert. His hand slowly moved, forming a tight fist, smacking gently into the other palm. Ahead was a rise of ground, and beyond it the lift of the Yellows. This would be near the northern end of the swing; soon they would turn about, ride down parallel with the high Mogul Rim, and pick up the Smoke again at the near end of the Arrowhead range. Was this all it was to be—an empty ride across the burning plain? Rubio's squat shape appeared on horseback atop yonder rise; Rubio lifted one hand in lazy signal and trotted forward, finally swinging into line at his right side and talking calmly: "Three more miles into Spanish Flat. You figure to spend the night there?"

"No," Sutherland said, glancing back along the column. "I don't want to have to roimd up a dozen scattered drunks in the morning. We'll move on past the town and make camp at Willow Creek."

He glimpsed the half-angry turn of Sergeant Brophy's head; he ignored it. "See anything out of the ordinary, Rubio?"

"Nope," Rubio replied laconically. He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, swinging with loose comfort in the swaying saddle. "Not a thing. Captain," he murmured, and lifted his reins, sweeping away from the column at a canter.

Brophy's voice brought Sutherland's attention around: "Captain?"

"What is it?"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir—I don't mean to get out of line. But it's a long, dusty trail, and the men could do with an evenin's relaxing, sir."

Sutherland's answer was quick and sm:e: "Would you be willing personally to guarantee the good conduct of every man, Brophy?"

Brophy's answer was a long time coming.

Sutherland nodded grimly. "I thought not. Neither would I. We'll camp at Willow Creek."

Plainly holding back a great many tilings, Brophy only said, "Yes, sir," in a reluctant tone.

Sutherland paid the sergeant no more attention; on purpose, he remained insensitive to Brophy's feelings, whatever they might be.

Major Cole dropped into the sutler's store just after suppertime to pick up a can of pipe tobacco. It would have been impossible to miss the preoccupation with which Sadie Rand greeted him and waited upon him; and so, with more than an idle interest, the major inquired how she was getting along.

''All right, I suppose," was her lackluster answer. Her glance wandered around the place as though seeking a place to hght, a handle to hold. The major picked up the tobacco can, tossed it a foot in the air and caught it, and began to turn away, disincHned to press the girl.

"Major."

"Yes?"

"This mission that Justin's gone on—how dangerous is it. Major?"

He nodded, understanding; still, it was not in him to reassure her if it would require a falsehood and so he said, "There's no way of telling. It depends entirely on Inyo's mood."

"I see," she said quietly.

"You're an army girl," he added. "I wouldn't fool you about this, Sadie. When a man rides into a lion's den he's got to face the possibility that the lion may be hungry."

"I know. Thank you. Major."

"What for?" he said, with a slight sour feeling in his belly. His expression was gravely wooden. "I'm sorry. Should I have lied to you?"

"No," she said. But just the same, she turned from him, putting her back to the counter, gripping its edge with her hands—and he saw the knuckles whiten. He regarded the tobacco can gloomily. "He'll be all ri^t-rm sure of it. I've never known Inyo to fail to honor a flag of truce."

Her answer was quick and perceptive: "Inyo isn't the only Indian in that camp, Major."

"That's true," he admitted. "He's not" He grimaced and stirred. "I guess I'm not doing a very good job of this," he said.

"That's all right. Major." She turned about, meeting his eyes, looking away, locking her hands together. Her eyes were wide. "I guess you're worried, too."

"I guess I am," he confessed, touching his hat-brim. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Major."

The soft echoes of her voice followed him out into the twilight. Dull heat smothered the land; there was no wind.

Yeager's Indian wife had a tough, raddled face that stared at Brady in a discomforting, unfriendly ma