"Why, what does that mean, sir?"

"Forget it," Harris said. He put on his hat and went out into the twilight.

An hour .later, after a bath and a shave and a change of clothies, he emerged from the officers' mess and stood on the edge of the parade ground, glancing up at the stars. He stretched, Hghted a cigar, and went across the compound through the night, his red cigar tip glowing and bobbing with his progress. On his way out of the garrison area, he saluted the guard and then tramped a well-packed trail toward the civilian camp, passing the end of the row of laundress shacks. The sound of a girl's calculated laughter came to him dimly from the saloon when he went by it; he continued to the sutler's store and went up onto the porch, and stood in the darkness a moment before he put his thumb on the doorlatch and went in.

The big, disorderly room of the store was warmly illuminated by oil lamps suspended on the walls. Chet Rand, the sutler, stood behind the beer counter talking to the only customer, Will Brady. Brady had changed out of his trail costume into town garb-broadcloth trousers and a colorful flannel shirt. The scout's unruly black hair needed cutting; it always seemed to need cutting. Brady grinned when he saw Harris and waved a half-full beer mug in greeting; Harris came forward, still wearing the troubled expression that had burdened him since leaving Major Cole's office, and said in a subdued tone, " 'Evening, Will. Chet."

"Sadie's out back in her room," Chet Rand said. He was a florid-cheeked man of some fifty years, dressed in a soiled and ill-fitting dark suit. "I'll tell her you're here, Justin."

Will Brady put up his hand in a gesture. "A little later, Chet. I want to palaver with the captain first."

"Why," Rand said, looking puzzled, "why, all right, Will." He drew a mug of beer and put it on the counter before Harris, and went back through the rows of drygoods to a rear door, through which he went out.

When the door had closed, Harris regarded the scout and said, "What's on your mind, Will?"

Brady indicated the full mug wth his hand. "Drink up. You just put that uniform on fresh?

"Yes."

"It's already dusty," Brady said. "Hell of a country." He set his mug down and hoisted himself up to a sitting position on the counter, swinging his legs loosely, lightly banging the counter-front with the backs of his bootheels. Presently he said, "George Sutherland was in here a while ago. Pretty drunk. Asked if you were here, and then left. Somebody's put a bee in his bonnet, Justin." Harris uttered a small groan. "Not you, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The major gave me a little speech tonight.''

"So it's already got to him, has it?"

"Hell," Harris said, with a soft viciousness. "I'd like to go out and tell the world to mind its own business."

Brady chuckled. "That won't happen for a while yet, I suspect. I'll shut up if you want, but I just thought I'd warn you—Captain Sutherland looks like he's out for blood." Brady's emphasis on the word "Captain" was heavy and a trifle sarcastic; Harris knew, from many months of traiUng with Brady, just what Brady's opinion was of the B Company commander.

"Thanks for the warning," Harris said.

"We had a little excitement while you were gone," Brady said in an idle tone. "Tonio busted out. Pete and I went up after him and caught him at Yeager's ranch. He's back in the guardhouse now, plenty snug, I guess."

"Sounds like a good job done."

"Wasn't hard. Tonio's too young to have learned all the tricks yet. If he'd been smart enough, or a little older, we'd have lost him. A smart one wouldn't have headed for Yeager's—he'd have stayed in the rocks. Nobody could find a man in that rockpile soutli of Yeager's."

Harris nodded. "Did the major show you that telegram from General Sherman?" "He did."

"He made some remarks to me about the two of us going up to Inyo's camp to try and talk him into coming back to the reservation peacefully."

If Brady was surprised, he didn't show it. All he said was, "When?"

"The major's still waiting for orders." "My contract's up next week," Brady said. Harris's hand with the beer mug paused halfway to his mouth. He lifted it slowly the rest of the way and drank, looking closely at Brady over the rim of the mug. "You're not going to quit us now, are you?" "I'm thinking on it," Brady said. "Listen, Justin, don't get your hopes too high. Talking to Inyo wouldn't do much good at this point." i

"Why not?"

"Inyo might be willing to come down, but I doubt we'd get much co-operation out of that pack of young bucks with him. And if we took this kind of a proposal to him, he'd have to hold a council of warriors. He may be a war chief, but he doesn't have the authority to tell any of them what to do when it comes to giving up the fight."

"Why shouldn't the rest of them accept the offer? It's a good one."

"Sure," Brady said softly. He shifted his seat on the counter. "But those young bucks have tasted blood, now. They know the smell of a fresh kill. They'll never get the kind of excitement on the San Carlos reservation that they're getting right now, raiding all over the Territory and downi into Mexico."

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.