"It could get him a promotion."

"It could get him killed, too. But he thinks it's more a job for a truant officer than a cavalryman. He said to Deneen, 'Sir, isn't bringing an old Indian back more a task for the reservation agent?' "

"Did you tell Bowers what it's all about?"

"He didn't ask me."

Flynn shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"You ought to be used to that; you've worked for Deneen before," Madora said. "His naming Bowers doesn't make sense…though he must have a reason. But it's plain why he's sending you."

"Why?"

"You know as well as I do. He wants to make you quit again. You've done it twice before. Maybe he thinks one more will finish you for good."

"What do you think?" Flynn asked.

"I don't blame you for anything you did before. Deneen's Department Adjutant…with more weight than you got. When he says dance, you dance, or else go listen to a different tune. I wouldn't blame you too much if you backed out of this one. Only I think it can be done. I think you just might be able to drag Soldado Viejo-the old Indian, as the kid calls him-back to San Carlos."

"Two of us?"

"Two make less noise."

"Give me a better reason."

"Because I taught you what you know. And I'll give you one more," Madora added. "Because you might be mad enough to do this one just so you can throw it back in Deneen's face."

Flynn smiled. "You sound like you want to go."

"Maybe I should."

"Maybe you volunteered"-Flynn was still smiling-"but they said it wasn't something for an old man who looked like he was standing in a hole."

Madora shook his head. "I was wrong. You'll last down there about a day and a half."

"I've lasted ten years so far…plus three in the war when I didn't see you around."

"I was watchin' the frontier for you sword-clickin' bastards back East."

"About three thousand miles from Lee."

Madora was composed. "David," he said quietly. "All during that war of yours we had us a Mimbre named Soldado Viejo…the same one you're supposed to bring home. And I'll tell you something else. Bobby Lee, in his prime, couldn't rear-guard for Soldado if all the old Mimbre raided was whorehouses."

John Willet had looked from one to the other, trying to piece the conversation into some sense. Now he put down his comb and scissors and offered a hand mirror to Flynn.

"See how it looks," he said.

His gaze went to the window, idly, and he watched a man come out of the Republic House and start diagonally across the street toward the barbershop. Over the thick green lettering that read WILLET'S from the street side, he watched the man approach; long strides, but weaving somewhat, carrying a rifle in his right hand and saddlebags over his left shoulder. Then he recognized the man.

"God, I hope he hasn't been drinking."

Neither Flynn nor Madora had noticed him yet.

Willet spoke hurriedly, watching the man reach the plank sidewalk. "That's Frank Rellis…sometimes he acts funny when he's had a drink, but don't pay any attention to him."

Flynn, holding the mirror, glanced up. "What?"

But Willet was looking toward the door. "Hello, Frank…be with you in a minute."

Frank Rellis stood in the doorway swaying slightly, then came in and unslung the saddlebags, dropping them onto the seat of a Douglas chair next to the door. He eyed the occupied barber chairs sullenly; a man about Flynn's age, he wore range clothes: a sweat-stained hat, the curled brim close over his eyes, leather pants worn to a shine and a cotton shirt that was open enough to show thick dark hair covering his chest. His pistol was strapped low on his thigh and he still held the rifle, a Winchester, pointed toward the floor.

He looked at Willet. "Where's Irv?"

"Irv had to go to Willcox," John Willet said pleasantly. "I'll be with you in a minute…take a chair."

"I don't have a minute."

Willet smiled. "Frank, this being herd boss keeps you on the go, don't it?"

Rellis looked at the barber impassively. His deep-set eyes were half closed from drink and an apparent lack of sleep and a two days' beard stubble made his heavy-boned face menacing. "I said I don't have a minute."

Willet smiled, but now it was forced. "I'm finishing up, then I have to trim this here gent's beard"-he nodded to Joe Madora-"and I'll be with you."

"You can do better than that."

"Frank, I don't see any other way…"

"I do…you're taking me right now."

"Frank…"

"You can finish them up after."

Flynn glanced from Rellis to Madora. The chief of scouts was watching Rellis closely. "Are you in a hurry?" Madora said then.

Rellis ignored him, moving toward the first chair. He stopped at the footrest, in front of Flynn's boots. The mirror was still in his hand, but Flynn was looking over it at Rellis.

"You look prettier'n a French pimp," Rellis said. "Now get out of the chair."

Flynn felt the sudden flush of anger come over his face, but he took his time. His eyes left Rellis as he raised the mirror and studied his reflection, and he was surprised that his anger did not show. Perhaps the brown face had a reddish tint to it, but that was all. Then he said, quietly, "John, you're a little uneven right in through here"-his left hand following the part-"let's try parting it a little higher."

"Looks fine to me," Willet said uneasily. "That's the way you always wear it."

"I want to try all kinds of styles," Flynn said evenly, "before I get old and set in my ways and have to live with it the rest of my life." He looked at Rellis, whose mouth had tightened. "I've got all afternoon. You can try parting it on the other side, then in the middle, then if you run out of ideas get your book out and look up a new one."

There was a silence and suddenly a brittle tension that was ready to break. Rellis' jaw tightened and colored a deeper red beneath the beard stubble. His body was stiff as if poised to make a move.

And then Joe Madora laughed. It was a soft chuckle, but it split the silence.

Rellis turned on him. "Are you laughing at me!" His face was beet-red now.

Madora's smile straightened and suddenly his dark face was cold and dead serious. He said to Rellis, "If you're not man then you shouldn't drink that lizard-pee they pass off as whisky over at the Republic."

Rellis didn't move. Flynn felt the tension and it made him ease up straighter in the chair. He looked at Rellis standing on the edge of his nerves gripping the Winchester tightly, cradled under his arm now. Rellis' eyes were wide with disbelief, staring at the little man with the beard…a head smaller than he was, older, and wearing his pistol in a high, awkward position. But Madora looked back at him calmly and something stopped Rellis at the peak of his anger.

"Mister," Flynn said now, and waited until Rellis looked at him. "You don't need a shave as bad as you think you do. Maybe you better get while your luck's still holding out."

Amazement was on Rellis' face, but he was near the end of his patience and the anger was plain on his face. "What's your name?" he said.

"Flynn."

"We ever met before?"

"I doubt it."

"Are you going to get out of that chair, or do I pry you out with this?" He raised the Winchester slightly.

"You raise that another inch," Flynn said calmly, "I'll kill you."

Rellis stopped. He looked at the long barber cloth that covered Flynn to the knees, smooth striped cotton that told nothing.

"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.