"Perhaps." Corsen looked at the Apache curiously.
"It would be wise," Bonito said, "if you went far from here." He turned his pony then and loped off.
ROSS CORSEN followed the road to Rindo's and the Mescalero's parting words hung in his mind like a threat, and for a while the words made him angry. The running of their tribe was no concern of his. Not now.
But it implied more than just Bonito opposing Bil-Clin. There was something else. Bonito was a renegade. He was vicious even in the eyes of his own people. Not the type to be followed as a leader unless the people were desperate. Unless he came just at the right time. And it occurred to Corsen: like now, with a man they don't know taking over the agency . . . and with unrest on every reservation in Arizona, I'd like to stay, just to handle Bonito. . . . But again, the hell with it. Working under Sellers wasn't worth it.
He planned to go up to Whipple Barracks and talk to someone about a guide contract. He would leave his horse at Rindo's and catch the stage there, and while he was waiting he'd have a while to be with Katie.
Chapter Two.
THE HATCH & HODGES' Central Mail section had headquarters at Fort McDowell. From there, one route angled northwest to Prescott. The Central Mail swung in an arc southeast. From McDowell the route skirted the Superstitions to Apache Junction, then continued on, changing teams at Florence, White Tanks, Gila Ford, and Rindo's. Thomas was the last stop, the southern terminal.
Rindo's Station had been constructed with the Apaches in mind. An oblong, thick-walled adobe building had an open stable shed at one end. The corral, holding the spare stage teams, connected behind the stable. And circling the station, out fifty-odd yards, was an adobe wall. It was thick, chest high. At the east end of the yard a stand of aspen had been hacked down and only the trunks remained. Beyond the wall the country was flat on three sides--alkali dust and heat waves shimmering over stubbles of desert growth--but to the east the ground rose gradually, barren, pale yellow climbing into deep green where pinon sprouted from the hillside.
Corsen had skirted the base of the hill and now he was in sight of Rindo's. He nudged his mount to a trot.
Someone was in the doorway. Another figure came from the dark line of the shed and moved to the gate which was in the north side of the wall. He could make out the man in the doorway now--Billy Teachout, the station agent. And as the gate swung open there was the Mexican, Delgado, in white peon clothes.
"Hiiiii, man!" "Senor Delgado, keeper of the horses!"
Corsen reached down and slapped the old Mexican's thin shoulder, then dismounted.
"God of my life, it has been months!"
"Three or four weeks."
"It seems months."
Corsen grinned at the old man, at the tired eyes that were now stretched open showing thin lines of veins, smiling at the sight of a friend.
Billy Teachout moved a few steps into the yard, thumbs hooked behind his suspender straps. "Ross, get in here out of the sun!"
"Let the keeper of the horses take yours," Delgado said, still smiling.
"We will talk together after."
Corsen followed the station agent's broad back into the house and opened his eyes wide to the interior dimness. It was dark after the sun glare. He pushed his hat brim from his eyes and stood looking at the familiar whitewashed walls, the oblong pine table, and Douglas chairs at one end of the room, the squat stove in the middle, and the redpainted pine bar at the other end. Billy Teachout edged his large frame sideways, with an effort, through the narrow bar opening.
"You wouldn't have beer," Corsen said.
"It's about six months to Christmas," Billy answered, and leaned his forearms onto the bar. He was in no hurry. Time meant little, and it showed in his loose, heavy build, in his round, clean-shaven face that he most always kept out of the sun's reach unless it was stage time. He had worked in the Prescott office until Al Rindo's death two years before, then had been transferred here. Al Rindo had died of a heart attack, but Billy Teachout said it was sunstroke and he'd be damned if he'd let it happen to him. He had Katie to think of, his sister's girl who had come to live with him after her folks passed on.
It wasn't a bad life. Five stages a week for him and Katie; Delgado and his wife to take care of. Change horses; keep them curried; feed the passengers. Nothing to it--as long as the Apaches minded.
"You can have yellow mescal or bar whiskey," Billy said.
"One's as bad as the other." Corsen put his elbows on the bar.
"Whiskey."
"Kill any bugs you got."
Corsen took a drink and then rolled a cigarette. "Where's Katie?"
"Prettyin'. She saw you two miles away. After Delgado all week, you don't look so bad."
CORSEN GRINNED, relaxing the hard line of his jaw. A young face, leathery and immobile until a smile would soften the eyes that were used to sun glare, and ease the set face that talked eye to eye with the Apache and showed nothing. Corsen knew his business. He knew the Apache--his language, often even his thoughts--and the Apache respected him for it. Corsen, the Indian agent. He could make natural-born raiders at least half satisfied with a barren government land tract. The Corsens were few and far between, even in Arizona.
"Billy, I just saw Bonito."
"God--he's returned to the reservation?"
"I don't know--or much care. I'm leaving."
"What?"
"Sellers fired me day before yesterday. He's got somebody else for the job."
"Got somebody else! Those are Mescaleros!"
"I'm through arguing with him. Sellers is reservation supervisor. He can run things how he likes and hire who he likes. I should have quit long ago."
"Who's taking your place?"
"A man named Verbiest."
"Somebody looking for some extra change."
"He might be all right."
Billy Teachout shook his head wearily. To him it was another example of cheap politics, knowing the right people. Agency posts were being handed out to men who cared nothing for the Indians. There was profit to be made by short-rationing their charges and selling the government beef and grain to homesteaders, or back to the Army. Even that had been done.
"Sellers has been trying to get rid of you for a long time. Finally he made it," Billy Teachout said. He shook his head again. "Your Mescaleros aren't going to take kindly to this." "Verbiest might know what he's doing," Corsen said. Then, "But if he doesn't, you better keep your windows shut till he hangs a few of them and they calm down again."
"Where you going? I might just close up and go with you."
"What about the stage line?"
"The hell with it. I'm getting too old for this kind of thing."
Corsen smiled. "I'm going up to Whipple to see about a guide contract."
"So if you can't nurse them, you fight them."
"Either one's a living."
"Ross--"
He turned to see Katie standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. His gaze rested on her face--tanned, freckled, clear-eyed, a face that smiled often, but now held on his earnestly.
"Ross, I heard what you were telling Billy."
"I can't work for that man anymore."
"Can't you find something else around here?"
"There isn't anything."
"Fort Thomas. Why can't you guide out of there?"
Corsen shrugged. "There's a chance, but I'd still have to go through the department commander's office at Whipple."
"Ross . . ." Her voice was a whisper.
It showed on her face that was not eager now and seemed even pale beneath the sun coloring. The face of a girl, sensitive nose and mouth, but in her clear, blue, serious eyes the awareness of a woman.
Katie was nineteen. She had known Ross Corsen for almost three years, meeting him the day after she had arrived to live with her uncle.
And she expected to marry him, even though he never mentioned it.
She knew how he felt. Ross didn't have to say a word. It was
in the way he looked at her, in the way he had kissed her for the first time only a few weeks ago--a small, soft, lingering, inexperienced kiss. She loved Corsen; very simply she loved him, because he was a man, respected as a man, and because he was a boy at the same time. Perhaps just as she was girl and woman in one.
"Are you coming back?"
"Of course I am."
"What if you're stationed somewhere far away?"
"I'll come and get you," he answered.
Billy Teachout looked at them, from one to the other. "Maybe I've been inside too much." To the girl he said, "Has he behaved himself?"
"Billy," Corsen said, "I was going to ask you. This is all of a sudden--"
Then, to Katie, "I'm taking the stage." He smiled faintly. "If I leave my horse here, I've got to come back."
"THE STAGE!" Delgado was in the doorway momentarily. The screen door banged and he was gone.
It came in from the east, a thin sand trail, a shadow leading the dust that rose furiously into a billowing tail.
Delgado was swinging out with the grayed wooden gate. Then the stage, rumbling in an arc toward the opening, and the hoarse-throated voice of Ernie Ball, the driver.
"Delgadooo!"
The little Mexican was in front of the lead horses now, reaching for reins close to the bit rings.
"Delgado, you half-a-man! Hold 'em, chico!"
Ernie Ball was off the box, grinning, wiping the back of a gnarled hand over his mouth, smoothing the waxed tips of his full mustache.
His palm slapped the thin wood of the coach door, then swung it open to bang on its hinges.
"Rindo's Station!"
Billy Teachout came out carrying a paintbrush and a bucket half full of axle grease. Ross and Katie were already outside.
"You're late," Billy told the driver.
Ernie Ball pulled a dull gold watch from his vest pocket. "Seven minutes! That's the earliest I've been late." He replaced the watch and dipped a thumb and forefinger daintily into the grease bucket, then twirled the tips of his mustache between the fingers.
"Ross, how are you? Katie, honey." He touched his hat brim to the girl.
Ross Corsen was looking past the stage driver to the man coming out of the coach--the familiar black broadcloth suit and flat-crowned hat. The man reached the ground and there it was, the bland expression, the carefully trimmed mustache. He carried a leather business case tightly and carefully under his arm. W. F. Sellers. Field supervisor. Southwest Area. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
"Fifteen minutes," Ernie Ball was saying, "for those going on. Time enough for a drink if the innkeeper's feelin' right. Hey, Billy!" His voice changed as he turned to Sellers. "End of the line for you and your friend."
Another man was out of the coach. He stepped down uncertainly and moved next to Sellers. Two others came down, squinting at the glare--thin-lipped, sun-darkened men in range clothes. They stretched and looked about idly, then moved beyond the back of the stage, walking the stiffness from their legs.
Sellers had not taken his eyes from Corsen.
"I thought you might have had the politeness of staying to meet your successor."
Corsen looked at the other man now. "Mr. Verbiest," he said, "I hope you know what you're doing."
"I've instructed Mr. Verbiest on how the agency should be run," Sellers said.
"Then you both ought to make a nice profit," Billy Teachout said mildly.
Sellers stared at him narrowly. "All we want from you is a couple of horses."
"What for?"
"None of your damn business."
Verbiest said, smiling, "We're riding north to the San Carlos Agency.
I'd like to take a look at how a smooth-running reservation operates."
"Sellers'll learn you without riding way up there," Ernie Ball said.
"All you need is some spare weights to heavy your scale for when you're passing out the 'Paches their beef." Ernie laughed and looked at Teachout. "Hey, Billy?"
"You're insinuating something that could get you into a great deal of trouble in court," Sellers told the stage driver.
"Insinuatin'!"
Sellers turned on Billy Teachout. "I said two horses. Good ones!"
"I'm not the stable hand. Wait for Delgado or get them yourself."
Sellers's face showed no reaction. But he said quietly, "Mr. Teachout, you're through here--as of the next time I get to Prescott."
The station agent shrugged. "While I'm waiting, I'll go inside and pour drinks for those that wants."
Corsen relaxed, exhaling slowly, and watched them all go inside. It was a relief not to have to put up with Sellers anymore. Just seeing him had made his stomach tighten. He glanced at Katie.
"This is a poor way to say good-bye."
"For how long, Ross?"
"Maybe a few months."
The screen door slammed. Corsen remembered the two men in range clothes then. They must have just gone in. Then he was looking at Katie, at the expression changing on her face, eyes alive, looking at something behind him. He turned sharply.
Standing a few feet away was one of the men in range clothes. He stood with his legs spread, as if bracing himself, a short man in faded Levi's, holding a pistol dead on Corsen's stomach.
Chapter Three.
"RAISE YOUR HANDS up." He motioned with the pistol. "You too, honey." He came forward slowly. "I'm not armed," Corsen said.
"Take your coat off and drop it."
Corsen took off the worn buckskin and let it fall. He backed up as the man motioned with the pistol, then watched him trample on the coat to make certain there was no gun in it.
"Inside now," the man said.
His partner stood one legged, his left boot on a chair, leaning slightly, elbow on knee, hand holding the pistol idly.
Billy Teachout was behind the bar. Ernie Ball, Sellers, and Verbiest stood in front of it, all with their arms raised. Three pistols were on the floor, along with the business case Sellers had been carrying. Ygenia, Delgado's wife, stood in the kitchen doorway, unable to move. The one on the chair waved Ross and Katie toward the others. They moved across the room and stood by the front window. "Buz," he said then, "round up that Mexican. He's outside somewhere."
Ernie Ball was squinting at the gunman. "Your face is starting to ring a bell, but your name don't register."
"How would you know my name?"
"You entered Ed Fisher in the book when you paid your fare at Thomas."
The gunman shrugged. "That'll do. . . . What're you carrying this trip?"
"Mail."
"That all?"
"Swear to God. It's on the rack if you want to look."
The one called Buz came in through the kitchen, pushing past the Mexican woman.
"He ain't in sight. Not anywhere."
Corsen glanced out at the yard. Just the stage was there. The horses had been taken away, but the change team had not yet been harnessed.
"That's all right," Fisher said. "Hand me your gun and go through their pockets. We got to move."
He watched Buz search them, stuffing bills and coins into his pockets as he went along. "About how much?" he asked when he had finished.
"Not more than a hundred and fifty."
"What about that satchel there?" He pointed to the business case on the floor.
INSTANTLY SELLERS said, "Those are government papers!" More calmly he said, "Bureau statistics."
Ed Fisher said, "Buz, open it up."
The gunman lifted the case and looked at Fisher with surprise. "If there's writin' in here, it's cut on stone." He carried it to the table and unfastened the straps and opened it. He brought out something folded in newspaper and unwrapped it carefully. A leather pouch. He pulled the thongs quickly, eagerly, and dumped the pouch upside-down on the table. The coins came out in a shower.
"Ed! Mint silver!"
Fisher was grinning at Sellers. "How much, Buz?"
"Four, five, six pouches . . . about two thousand!"
Corsen was looking out of the window. There was something, a movement high up on the slope. Then, hearing Buz, he glanced quickly at Sellers. That was it, plain enough. Sellers didn't make that kind of money with a Bureau job. It could only come from selling Indian rations. But now, as the others watched Buz at the table, Corsen's eyes narrowed, looking out into the glare again, and now he could make out the movement. Far out, coming down from the slope, reaching the flat stretch now, were tiny specks, dots against the sand glare that he knew were riders. They were coming from where he had seen Bonito that morning, and suddenly, abruptly, Corsen realized who the riders were.
Ed Fisher was saying, "Get two horses and run off the others. One's saddled already." He looked at the men in front of him. "Whose mount is that in the shed, the chestnut?"
Corsen looked from the window as the screen door slammed behind Buz going out. "The chestnut's mine," he said.
"Thanks for the use."
"You're not going anywhere."
Fisher looked at him quickly, then smiled, his eyes going to Katie. "If you want to play Mister Brave for your girl, wait for when I got more time."
"It's not me that's stopping you," Corsen said, "but I'll tell you again--you're not going anywhere."
"You can talk plainer than that."
"All right. Call to your partner."
"What'll that prove?"
"Just see if he's still there."
Fisher, yelled, "Hey--Buz!"
There was a silence, then boot scuffing and Buz was at the door.
"What?"
Fisher looked at Corsen, then back to Buz. "Nothing. Hurry up."
Buz looked at him queerly and moved off again.
"Now what?" Fisher said. "It'll come," Corsen said. "He hasn't seen them yet."
"Seen who?"
And there it was, as if answering his question--the sound of running, boots on packed sand. Buz's voice yelling, hoarse with panic.
Then he was at the door, stumbling against it. "'Paches!"
"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Fisher held his pistol on the men at the bar and backed toward the door. He glanced out. "How many?"
"Six of them! Let me in!"
"Keep watching!"
Through the window Corsen could now see the cluster of riders plainly, walking their ponies. They were in no hurry--not six, but five, coming across the flat stretch.