"You're bluffing."
"There's one way to find out."
Rellis glanced quickly at the antlers next to the door. A tan coat hung there; a gun belt could be beneath it, but it could also be in Flynn's hand beneath the cloth.
John Willet's face turned paler under the eye shade. He said, his voice faltering, "Gentlemen, please…" But that was all.
Rellis moved suddenly toward the chair, but Flynn's boot kicked out in the same motion and caught him in the pit of the stomach. Rellis went back with a rip up his shirt front where Flynn's spur had slashed, and as he staggered back, Flynn came out of the chair and swung the hand mirror hard against the side of Rellis' head while his right hand wrenched at the Winchester.
The rifle barrel swung back toward Rellis, even while his hand was still on the stock, and came down across his skull. He didn't go down, but staggered backward with Flynn pushing him toward the open door, and in the doorway Flynn stopped, holding the rifle, while Rellis kept going, stumbling, until he landed in the dust on his back and rolled over. He was raising himself to his knees when his saddlebags came flying out to catch him full in the face and knock him flat again.
Flynn turned back into the shop and placed the rifle against the wall below the antlers. "Give him his rifle back when he gets some sense," he said to John Willet.
Joe Madora came out of the chair. "Some other time, John. You look a mite too nervous to be wielding scissors." He nodded to the broken glass from the hand mirror. "David, you just acquired seven years of the worst kind of luck."
Flynn paid Willet, who took the money silently, then moved to the antlers. He took down his coat, then lifted off his gun harness and passed his arm through the sling so that the holster hung well below his left armpit, the long-barreled.44 extending past his belt. He put on the tan coat, faded, bleached almost white. His light Stetson was sweat-stained around the band and he wore the stiff brim straight, close over his eyes. Putting it on, he said, "We'll see you again, John."
Willet said now, "He's not going to forget that. Dave, you don't know that man."
Madora said, "But he knows Dave now."
2
They rode out of Contention toward the cavalry station which was two miles north, up on the San Pedro. It was a one-troop post and Flynn wondered why it had been chosen for the meeting place. He had been working out of Fort Thomas since his return, and Bowers was from Whipple Barracks. But that was like Deneen. He'd pick it so you would wonder. Deneen, the departmental adjutant, whom he'd known for a long time. Too long. Since Chancellorsville. And there was a day at Chancellorsville that he would never forget. Madora had said once that you ought to take a good look at Deneen because he was one of the few honest-to-God full-blooded sons of bitches left.
They rode relaxed, walking the mares, Flynn on a buckskin and Madora on a chestnut. It was close to four o'clock and already the sun was low off to the left, a long crimson streak above the colorless sierra of the Catalinas.
Madora said, "Remember Anastacio Esteban?"
Flynn looked up, surprised. "Very well."
"He came through here yesterday with about the whole tribe. Four or five wagons of big and little Estebans hanging on every place you looked."
"Here? They live down in Sonora. Soyopa."
"I know it," Madora said. "They were up the line for some shindig. You know Anastacio made a lot of friends when he was packin' mules for the army. It don't take much to get him back for a celebration."
Flynn said, "I came through Soyopa. I was digging just southeast of there and stopped off on my way back. Anastacio had me spend the night at his dobe."
"He mentioned he saw you."
"His brother Hilario is the alcalde now. Least he was six months ago when I passed through."
Madora nodded. "The quiet one."
"Unlike his brother," Flynn said. "He wasn't along, was he?"
"No; his daughter was. Did you meet her?"
"I think so."
"You don't think so about her. You either did or you didn't."
"Anita?"
"Nita," Madora said. "She could stand a few more pounds, but she's much woman the way she is."
"She was along?"
"Taking her father's place. They passed through here just yesterday. You might catch up with them…depending when you leave."
"We might," Flynn said.
He had become acquainted with the good-natured Anastacio while still in the army, during the time Anastacio transported supplies for them; Anastacio the mule skinner, the arriero, who talked to his animals as if they were his children, and drank mescal as if it were water. But he had not met the others until he passed through the pueblo of Soyopa. They had not come up into Arizona to work as Anastacio had done. Hilario, the quiet one. And Nita, whom one remembered well. Perhaps he would see them again.
"Deneen's here already," Madora observed, as they rode into the quadrangle of Camp Contention; a scattering of cottonwoods behind a row of drab, wind-scarred adobes, a flagpole, then a long low stable shed facing the adobes.
"That's his bay over there in the end stall the trooper's wipin' down," Madora said. "When Deneen's standin' next to it you got to blink your eyes to tell which is the genuine horse's-ass, and then you can never be dead sure."
At the end of the stable shed, a dozen or more figures sat about a smoking fire. The sun was behind them and Flynn could not make out who they were until he put his hand up to shield the sun glare.
"My boys," Madora said.
Flynn recognized them then-Coyotero Apaches, working for the army as trackers. The Apaches looked toward them then and one of them stood up and waved. He wore a faded issue shirt, but it lost its regulation worn with the rest of his attire. Red cotton headband and gray breech clout, and moccasin leggings that reached his thighs.
Madora said, "You remember him?"
"Three-cents," Flynn said. "He worked with me awhile."
"That red son's better than a bloodhound," Madora said.
A sign marked the adobe headquarters. Black lettering on a whitewashed board to the right of the door: TROOP E-SIXTH U.S. CAVALRY.
A trooper who had been at parade rest by the door took their reins and they went inside.
By the left wall, an officer, holding a kepi in his hand, came up quickly off the bench that was there and Flynn knew that this was Bowers. He glanced at the sergeant seated behind the desk and nodded, then looked back at the officer. A young man-no, he looked more a boy-above medium height, red hair cropped close and a pinkish clean-lined face with a serious set to it. His dark brown eyes held the question, though it was plain he was trying to seem incurious.
"Bowers?"
The young man nodded.
"Dave Flynn. You know Joe Madora."
The officer nodded again, taking the outstretched hand. His grip was firm and he returned Flynn's close inspection as they shook hands.
"We had a divisional commander named Bowers."
"He was my father."
"Good soldier."
"Thank you."
Then Flynn beckoned to the door leading into the post commander's office. "Is Deneen in there?"
Bowers nodded. "With Lieutenant Woodside."
"Have you seen him yet?"
"Only for a few minutes."
"He hasn't explained anything, then."
"I don't see the necessity of an explanation," Bowers stated. "I've already received my orders."
"May I see them?"
Bowers hesitated.
"Look, I'm on your side."
He drew a folded paper then from inside his jacket. "You are mentioned here," Bowers said quietly. "I assumed, though, that this would be discussed in a more private manner."