Apache canyon (4 page)

Harris shook his head. "I won't argue. You know them better than I do. But if they've got enough respect for Inyo's judgment, and if he's in favor of coming back to the reservation, it just might work."

"Sure," Brady said again. "It might. But it's a mighty thin chance. And you and I might get our heads cut off if we went into the middle of Inyo's camp and then they decided not to take up the offer."

Harris finished his beer and put down the empty mug. "That's the kind of business we're in," he answered. "We get paid to take risks."

"You, maybe. Like I said, my contract's up next week."

"Aagh," Harris said in disgust. "You won't quit any more than the major will—not until this thing's finished."

"Don't count on it, Justin."

"Just the same, that's one thing I'm not worried about," Harris hed. He went around the end of the counter and came back through the trough to the beer keg. "Want another?"

"Obliged."

Harris drew two fresh beers and sKd Brady's across the counter. Then he came around in front again and stood idly fingering a bolt of cloth on a wooden rack.

Brady said, "If you're worrying about Sutherland, maybe you ought to do something about it."

"Like what?" Harris demanded, wheeling on him.

Brady shrugged. "Talk to him—straighten this mess out before it gets bigger than you figured on."

Harris shook his head. "I know him better than that. You don't talk George Sutherland out of anything. He'll fight at the drop of a hat, but it takes a lot more to make him think. If he's got something in his head about me, I won't get it out by talk."

"Beat him up, then,'' Brady said in an offhand tone, and dropped off his seat. "I guess I've about emptied my bucket of wisdom for one night," he said, and grinned, and went out through the front door.

Harris shook his head, musing quizzically about Brady's strange, carefree personality, so much contradicting the man's physical powerfulness and heavy, craggy features.

Harris went back through the store to knock on the door that led into the Rands' living quarters.

Sadie Rand, all youth and blondeness and quiet prettiness, opened the door. "Dad's gone out to the saloon," she said immediately. "Do you want some coffee?"

Harris smiled. "Not on top of beer, thanks." He leaned forward, catching the point of her chin on his finger, and lifted her head for a kiss.

She seemed to notice his restraint; she came through into the store, closing the door behind her. "That was a cool greeting. Captain," she said in a playful tone. She glanced at the mug of beer in his hand and walked right past him to the counter. "Your friend left half a mug of beer," she said.

"Will Brady."

"I know. Dad told me he had something mysterious to talk to you about." She picked up Brady's half-mug of beer and put it to her lips, and drank in sips. Harris followed her forward and stood six feet distant, watching her with affection plain in his eyes.

She looked up, meeting his glance, her eyes holding his over a lengthening moment of stillness. Her gaze was too level—she had something on her mind.

Presently she said, "Captain Sutherland was in here a little while ago. He was drunk and he was talking pretty loudly. I couldn't help but overhear." She folded her hands in front of her and cocked her head to one side. "I assumed he was under the influence of a conclusion that he'd jumped to.''

"He was."

"I assumed he didn't know what he was talking about."

"Hell," Harris said, hearing the disgust in his own voice. "Now you, too. You didn't believe what you heard then, but you're not sure now. That's it, isn't it?"

He rammed his hands in his pockets and thrust his head forward, staring at the floor. After a while, Sadie's voice came to him: "I only want a little reassurance, Justin. All you have to do is tell me it isn't true."

His head came up. "Either you trust me, or you don't," he said flatly. He swung and pushed his way out of the store, with the heat of rising anger stinging his belly and throat.

Brady worked with methodical thoroughness, running the steel currycomb along the sleek hide of his horse. A single lantern hung from a nail at the end of the stall, bathing the interior of the stable in a flickering yellow glow. He gave the appearance of a very content, very mild and carefree man. But the revolver hung ready at his hip and his ears were always attuned to the many sounds of the night, so that he was aware of Captain Justin Harris's approach long before Harris came into the stable runway.

"Howdy again," Brady said mildly. "Looking for something?"

"Sutherland," Harris said in a taut voice that revealed his anger. "I want to get this settled. Have you seen him?"

Without changing expression, Brady pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "He s in that empty stall."

"What?"

"Drunk. I guess he slipped in there to sleep it off. Didn't want his wife to see him."

Harris came forward with a determined stride and peered into the dimness of the vacant stall. Brady watched him for a moment, then returned to his task of currying the horse. He heard Harris mutter something, after which the captain came forward and stood by him, watching him curry the animal, saying nothing. Brady said, "Where to now?"

"Home to bed," Harris grunted, swinging away. His walk was stiffer than usual.

Harris disappeared into the night and Brady continued his methodical task, moving around to the off side of the horse. When he was done currying, he rubbed the animal down carefully and slipped the almost-emptied nosebag off its head. He went forward to the water tiough and filled a bucket and brought it back for the horse. Finally he patted the horse's neck and put the bucket back where he had got it.

He was coming back to turn out the lamp when something disturbed him. He stood still, frowning. Then he heard a muffled scratching issue from the vacant stall where the diunken officer was sleeping. Brady grunted and moved toward the lamp.

By the time he got to it, Sutherland was standing unsteadily in the mouth of the stall. "Brady," Sutherland said thickly.

"That's my name."

Sutherland shook himself. In the pale wash of moonlight his round face seemed cherub-like. He

Tubbed his hands up and down against the side of -lis trousers, looking around confusedly. "Did anyone •Ise see me here, Brady?"

Brady said, smiling, "I reckon half the men on the post saw you walking around tonight, Captain. You'd had a few drinks."

"Did I say anything?"

"You came into the sutler's and asked if anybody'd seen Captain Harris. That's all I heard you say."

Sutherland shook his head as if to clear it. "I was in the sutler's twice tonight," he said. "Who else was there?"

"How would I know. Captain?" Brady kept his voice and face expressionless. He reached up toward the lamp.

"No. Wait—leave the lamp burning." Sutherland looked puzzled. "Damn it, where's my saddle?"

"On your own rack down there, I'd guess."

Sutherland shook his head again, violently.

"Sure—sure. Well, thanks. Good night, Brady."

"Going somewhere, Captain?"

"A ride, I guess—clear my head." Sutherland was in pretty bad shape, Brady could see. The scout touched his hatbrim in acknowledgment. "I hope you feel better, come mornin'," he said, and walked out of the stable.

Brady waited on the porch of the adjutant's darkened oJBBce, standing back deep in the shadows, rolling a smoke and lighting it. The night sky was a velvet depth of indigos and blacks; a thin rind of moon hung a third of the way up, affording little illumination. Brady put his shoulderblades against the wall of the building.

Presently the faint splash of hght in the stable doorway was extinguished, and shortly thereafter a horseman issued from the place. Sutherland rode within ten feet of Brady. Sutherland's horse cHp-clopped across the dusty length of the compound. Dimly through the night, Brady heard a few soft words exchanged between the mounted officer and the trooper on guard; then Sutherland rode on out of hearing.

Brady pulled a last drag of his cigarette and tossed the butt out past the edge of the porch. He was about to turn down the walk when he caught the sound of muffled steps through the powder-dust. He stood still and looked back.

The shape advancing was a very tall, very thin one. Brady stepped to the edge of the porch and said, "Howdy, Emmett."

The tall man came right ahead until he was close enough to make out Brady's features.

"Howdy yourself," said Emmett Tucker, who was Justin Harris's company sergeant.

Tucker was thin to the point of emaciation; his hair, brick red, was gray in this Hght. "Scouting for Injuns on the adjutant's porch, Will?"

"Sure enough," Brady answered in a lazy tone.

"I just saw Captain Sutherland on his way out the gate. Wonder where he's off to at this hour of a black night?" Tucker spoke in an Alabama drawl. He might have been thirty-five or fifty; it was impossible to tell.

He leaned a long bony-fingered hand against the porch post and spat toward the ground. "Cap Harris said we might be doing some riding in the next few days. Up into the Arrowheads, just the three of us."

Brady chuckled. "You never get left out of anything, do you?"

"Wouldn't want to miss anything," Tucker repHed. And he added, in a tone of dry good humor, "Somebody's got to go along and wet-nm-se the captain."

"Captain Harris doesn't need any wet-nursing, Emmett."

"Sure," Tucker murmured. His rawboned face cracked into a grin. "Almost as good an officer as I was, I reckon."

"You were an officer?"

"That was another war," Tucker murmured. He swung away abruptly and plowed through the night, apparently headed for the saloon. Tucker didn't drink often, but when he did, he put Sutherland's performance of tonight to shame.

Presently, Brady turned down the porch and walked toward the officers' houses. The night was deep and still. His footsteps along the porch boards sent back crisp echoes. He dropped off the end of the porch and went through the dust, walking with measured paces, pulling his hat forward across his brow, passing the major's house and the adjutant's and Surgeon Clayton's and Justin Harris's, and turning without hesitation up the stone-bordered walk of George Sutherland's house. A lamp burned inside; he lifted his fist and knocked.

Eleanor Sutherland owned a striking clear-featured beauty and the power to attract men strongly. And she knew it. When the door opened, she stood in dark silhouette against the hghted room; she tosSed her hair and Brady stood fast, letting her size him up, letting her take time to decide on her course of action.

It was some time in coming, but fmally she said, "Hello, Will."

He nodded and removed his hat.

"Well," she said a little dryly, "I suppose you want to come in." She stepped aside and swept her arm toward the room in a half-sardonic gesture. "Welcome to my parlor. Will."

Making a point of ignoring her sarcasm, he walked on into the parlor.

"Sit down. Will. What brings you, on such a fine night?" Everything she said seemed tinged with irony; he suspected it served mainly to cover up a monumental unhappiness; but that, for the moment, was not his concern. He sat, crossing his legs and hanging his hat over the lifted knee.

"I'll fix you a drink," she said, walking past him toward the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder: "That hat looks as though wolves have been chewing on it."

"I keep it out of sentiment," he said, matching her tone for dryness.

In a little while she came out of the kitchen with a half-filled tumbler of whisky in each hand. She put one on the table beside his chair, then looked around the sparsely furnished room with evident disdain. "You can't keep dust off things for five minutes here," she said, and shrugged, taking a place on the love seat facing him. She took a drink and regarded him blankly.

"Where I come from," Brady drawled, "ladies aren't supposed to drink hard Hquor in polite society."

"Since when is this polite society. Will?"

"I was under the impression your husband's an officer and a gentleman."

Her only response was a short laugh. She tossed her head back and watched him. Beautiful dark eyes she had; even now her beauty had the power to sway him, forcing him to maintain constant guard over his impulses.

She took another sip and said, in a far gentler tone, "It's been a long time since you've darkened my door, Will. To what do I owe the pleasm-e?"

She was now defensive and this surprised him; never before had she seemed to feel a necessity to construct shelters around herself in his presence.

She turned her supple body half-sideways on the love seat arid extended one long, graceful arm along the back of it and sat, drink in hand, regarding him through half-closed lids.

By way of answer to her question, he said, "Talk has been going around, Eleanor. I think you're playing dangerous politics."

"And just what," she rephed with mock sweetness, "is that supposed to mean?"

His drink sat where she had placed it on the table, untouched. His slouched posture was relaxed; long years of bone-pounding movement had trained him to treasure each available moment of inactivity and put it to best use.

He said softly, "I always figured you owned a little more respect for public opinion."

Her eyes flashed; he saw her hand clench white around the glass. Her words, though softly spoken, had bite in them: "You didn't seem to feel the same way a few months ago, Will. I didn't see any concern then on your part for George or for pubhc opinion."

"You and I were careful," Brady said. "We didn't let it get around."

"And that makes everything right," she answered.

He ignored the edge to her words. He said, "You've gotten careless."

She leaned forward, suddenly tense, suddenly dead serious. "Will, you and I were washed up months ago. You were the one who said so. Now what gives you the right to come in here and dictate my life to me?"

"I don't like what you're doing."

"Well," she said in measured syllables, "that is just too bad."

But her eyes behed the hard crust of her words; her eyes were too bright—the beginning glisten of tears. She stood, turned away, and walked across the room to the small window cut into the adobe-plaster wall; she snatched the curtains aside and leaned forward, arais braced against the sill. It was, he knew, another pose; there was nothing she could see through that window except her own reflection, and perhaps his. But her words were no pose. "What do you want from me, Will?"