"I won't tell a soul," Flynn said. He glanced at Bowers' serious face and wanted to smile, but he did not.
Madora moved next to him then, to look over his shoulder. "That's a nice hand," he said.
Flynn held it close to his face. "I don't smell any perfume on it."
"Well, don't get it too close or you're liable to smell something else," Madora said. They read the orders in silence.
FROM:.R.L. Deneen, Col. ept. Adjutant, Department of Arizona n the field, Camp Contention, Arizona Terr. O: egis Duane Bowers, Second Lt. th Cav. Reg. hipple Barracks, Prescott, Arizona Terr. UBJECT: ransfer and Reassignment 17 Oct. 1876 As of this date, R. D. Bowers is formally assigned to the office of the Departmental Adjutant, Department of Arizona, and is hereby instructed to report to Camp Contention, Arizona Terr., for detailed instructions concerning the following outlined orders:
Within one week, or, before 25 Oct., R. D. Bowers will have made preparations for extended patrol.
R. D. Bowers will contact one D. Flynn, civilian contract guide. However, herenamed contract employee is free to decline assignment. Substitute, if needed, will be selected by the office of the Department Adjutant.
R. D. Bowers and civilian guide will proceed to that section of Sonora (Mexico) indicated at a future date.
Aforementioned are to make contact, without show of arms, with one Soldado Viejo, hostile Mimbreno Apache, and return said hostile to Apache Agency, San Carlos, Arizona Terr.
R. D. Bowers is warned that if detained by Mexican authorities, because of the nature of the assignment he will not be recognized by the United States as a lawful agent.
The subject matter contained herein is of the strictest confidential nature.
The office of the Department Adjutant extends its heartiest wish for a successful undertaking.
A. R. L. DENEEN Department Adjutant Madora said, "That last line's the one."
Flynn returned the sheet to Bowers and moved to the bench; sitting down, hooking a boot heel on the edge, he made a cigarette and took his time lighting it, then exhaled the smoke leisurely, studying the young officer who was trying to appear composed, trying to look West Point. And it was plain that the orders meant very little as far as he was concerned.
This was the man he would take across the Rio Grande-which they would call the Bravos then-to find Soldado, a broncho Mimbre, who had been fighting longer than Bowers or he had lived. Four dollars a day to guide a new lieutenant with only one year of frontier station behind him. To take him across sun-beaten nothingness and into scrambling rock-strewn puzzling never-ending canyons in search of something that would probably not be there. But always with eyes open, because the Apache knows his business. He knows it better than anyone else. How to kill. That simple? Yes, that simple, he thought. That's what it boils down to. That's what it is from where you're standing, so that's what you call it. Four dollars a day. More than a lieutenant makes. His uniform compensates for the low pay rate…though he could die naked as easy as not.
He heard Madora say, "What's he got on you?"
"I beg your pardon?" Bowers said, startled.
"He must a caught you with his old lady."
Bowers looked at him steadily, but said nothing.
Flynn took his hat off, leaning back, and felt the adobe cool against the back of his head. "Mister," he said to Bowers, "what do you think?"
"About what?"
God, the calm one. He's tensed-up being calm. "About your orders."
"You almost answer your own question. They are orders. Under the circumstances I doubt if an opinion would affect them one way or the other."
Madora grinned. "Look out, Dave. You got yourself a serious one."
"I don't believe this concerns you in the least," Bowers said coldly.
There was silence. Flynn watched the lieutenant grip his hands behind his back and walk to the single window. Flynn said to the back, "Do you know what you're talking about?"
Bowers turned on him sharply. "Mr. Flynn, I assure you I am capable of interpreting a military order. It is a precise, unadorned, quite literal description for a specific assignment which I have been trained to obey without question, without hesitation. Since my opinion is of no value, I see little reason in discussing it…especially with a person who is in no way related to the order in question. Is that quite clear?"
"Very clear, Mr. Bowers." Colonel Deneen stood in the doorway of the post commander's office. Lieutenant Woodside could be seen behind him. "And I might say unduly modest of you. Your opinion is worth…something."
He hesitated, his eyes roaming over the group in the outer office. He was a man of medium height, in his early forties, carefully dressed, from the trace of white showing above his collar to the highly polished black boots and silver spurs that chinged softly as he moved into the room. And though he took only a few steps, a faint limp was noticeable, a favoring of the right foot as he put his weight on it. One hand picked idly at the front of his tunic, as if removing invisible lint, and he looked at the three men closely, individually, as if to command their attention.
"At ease, Mr. Bowers." He nodded to Madora, who stood relaxed with thumbs in vest pockets, then his eyes went to Flynn and stopped there. Flynn had not moved his position. He leaned against the wall with a half-boot still hooked on the edge of the bench, his arm resting idly on the raised knee and the extended hand holding the stub of a cigarette. He drew on it as Deneen looked toward him.
"Don't get up, Flynn."
Dave Flynn returned his stare, looking up at the smooth features, dark hair well combed and shining. He dropped the cigarette then, but did not step on it. He glanced at Woodside, the post commander. "Don, good to see you again." Then back to Deneen-"How's the foot, Colonel?"
For a moment the face tightened and the dark eyes did not blink, holding squarely on Flynn, as if waiting for him to say more, but Flynn remained silent. The face relaxed then and Deneen said, "Very well, thank you."
There was the hint of a smile playing at the tips of Flynn's mustache. "That's good. Sometimes those old wounds start aching, especially when the weather's damp."
"Fortunately the climate is uncommonly dry."
"Fortunately."
"I can't say I expected to see you here."
"I don't imagine you did."
"You know why you were asked, of course."
"As well as you do."
"Because of your knowledge of the country. I'm told you've been on a mining venture down there for something like a year and a half. I assume it was unsuccessful, or you would not have returned to scouting. Did you see signs of Soldado Viejo?"
"There are always signs."
"And less cryptically, that means what?"
"The dead."
"I suppose the Mexican government has done little."
"On my way up I talked to a man in Soyopa who said that Porfirio Diaz was sending police to help them. They were expected any day."
"Rurales?"
Flynn nodded.
"His newly formed police. Bandits to fight bandits."
"Maybe that's the way," Flynn said.
"What about the scalp bounty?"
"The government's still paying it if you're man enough to take an Apache's hair."
"I'm told there's an American outlaw down there making something of a success of scalp hunting. Lazair. Have you heard of him?"
"He was pointed out to me once."
"Where?"
"In Guazapares, over a year ago. At that time scalps had to be taken to Guazapares for the bounty. Lazair rode in with some of his men and I saw him at a distance. I saw his face before that on wanted dodgers up here."