Apache Canyon

"That's a large assignment," Harris said, without surprise.

'To do the job," the major answered, "we're getting an additional company of cavahy from Fort Apache, and two companies of infantry from Fort Lowell. They're sending Al Sieber down as chief of scouts. Brady, you'll be his second."

"No, sir."

The major's head drew back. "What's that?"

"My contract's run out," Brady said. Fatigue dragged his shoulders down, slowed his voice and dimmed his vision. "I'm through, Major."

The major frowned and said slowly, "I see."

Harris said, "Going to build that horse ranch, Will?"

"I guess I am."

"It may not be too peaceful around those parts," Harris said. "Not until we get the Apaches rounded

"I'll take my chances," Brady said. "I doubt Inyo will get that far west."

"He will if he's pushed."

Brady's only answer was a tired shrug. Major Cole said, "What can I say to make you change your mind?"

'"Nothing," Brady said. "I'll pick up my pay at the adjutant's. So long. Major." He stepped forward to shake the major's hand, and turned away.

Halfway to the door, Harris stopped him, offering his hand. 'Well, then," he said warmly, "good luck, Will."

"Ill drop in now and then, when Tm down this way," Brady said, and met Harris's deep glance. He nodded and walked outside. As he went through the door, he heard the major's businesslike voice behind him, talking to Harris: "My plan is to release Tonio from the guardhouse and then trail him. With luck, he'll lead us right into Inyo's main camp."

So that was the major's plan; that was why Tonio was kept prisoner. Brady shrugged it ofiF; it was no longer any of his concern. He paused a moment on the major's porch to hght his cigarette, then dropped his feet into the dust of the parade ground and walked up to the adjutant's office for his pay.

When he came out, the sun burned harshly against his shoulders, and far down the compound a drill sergeant was marching Harris's troops. A tangible gloom had settled over the garrison, evidence of the grief that had come back with news of the massacre of Sutherland's command.

Harris came out of the major's office, saluted wearily and headed across the parade ground, obviously going toward the sutler's where Sadie Rand awaited him.

Brady went over to the guardhouse, nodded to the half-dozing sentry, and squinted in through the high small opening, taking a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the interior.

Tonio prowled forward and looked at him blankly. Brady said, "You're a good kid, Tonio."

"Why do they keep me here, Brady? When will they let me go?"

"Soon," Brady said. "Plenty soon, kid. Take it easy." He made a vague gesture of farewell and turned away, leaving the proud youth standing in sohtary pride within the hot, dark place.

Brady stood under the sun, took off his mangled hat and turned it around in his hands, considering it thoughtfully. It was not a good time for what he had in mind, but it was the only time he had; so he turned his eyes and his steps, and walked up the line to the Sutherland quarters.

She was waiting for him. He said, "Hello, Eleanor," and she said, "Hello, Will," without much ex-pression in their voices. She wore black, and tliat was fitting; but the set of her features was more regretful than grieving.

The moment was quiet and calm. He spoke his piece briefly but without hurry; he had little enough to say. "I'm going," he told her. "Maybe one day I'll be back. Where will you be?"

"I think I'll go to Tucson for a while."

"Tucson," he said.

Her eyes met his, holding them with frank honesty. There was no longer any pretense between them. "That valley of yours," she said, "it's near Tucson, isn't it?"

"A day's ride, maybe less," he murmured.

"Look for me, then."

He nodded. "I guess it wouldn't be a good thing for you to come with me now."

"No. First, I've got to straighten out some things in my mind."

He nodded; he felt the same way. "All right," he said. "I'll see you in Tucson."

"So long, Will," she said softly.

He planted his hat on his head, touched a forefinger to its brim, and turned out of the place.

Pete Rubio was just then leaving the post hospital, his arm hanging in a fresh white sling. Brady set a course that would intersect with Rubio's, and came up beside the scout when they were halfway to the stables. He extended his hand and said, "I'm pushing on, Pete. Good luck to you."

"Sure," Rubio said, shaking hands. "Don't take any wooden Indians, Will." He turned then, walking away, his squat, compact legs hitting the ground solidly. Pete Rubio, though perhaps he didn't know it, was as army as any man on this post.

Brady shook his head; it was no longer for him; he had had his fill of it. The call of the peaceful hills was strong. A little horse ranch, a hand-hewn cabin by the waters of a spring, a fireplace for winters and the shade of tall trees for summers. There would be game in plenty for his rifle, and an end to combat.

It was four days' ride. The sun was angling westward, striking his face. He was tired, but anxious-ness kept building in him, and so he saddled his horse and rode from the post, heading for the Santa Catalinas. He never looked back.