'Are you holding a trial?'
'Someone shooting at me arouses a fair amount of curiosity.'
'So your men chased out and spotted me and thought I was the one.'
McGrail said nothing. He extended his left hand to the side and the sergeant stepped quickly, placing in it the carbine he'd been holding.
McGrail handed the carbine to Walker. 'We took the liberty of examining it,' he said. 'You see, the bullet struck my mount. From something with a large bore a Sharps perhaps.'
'And mine's a carbine that hasn't been fired.'
'A Perry that hasn't been fired,' McGrail corrected. 'A Confederate make, isn't it?'
'As far as I know, this gun doesn't know north from south.'
'I suppose not.' McGrail smiled. 'Which way are you going?' he said then.
'Valverde.'
'Well, I can repay some inconvenience by offering you a remount home.'
'I didn't say it was my home.'
'In fact ' McGrail smiled ' you haven't said anything.'
The Union Cavalry Station, Valverde, New Mexico, was a mile north of the pueblo. McGrail swung his troop in that direction as they approached Valverde and Lou Walker sat his mount for some time watching the dust rise behind the line of cavalry.
Then he went on though the image of McGrail, red beard and tired eyes, remained in his mind.
Before reaching the plaza, he turned into a side street and tied the borrowed mount in front of a one story adobe and went through the doorway that said eat above it in large faded letters.
The man behind the bar looked up and nodded as he entered and the waiter, who was Mexican and wore a stained apron, also nodded. There were no patrons in the room, but Walker passed through it to a back room which was smaller and had only three tables. And as he sat down, the Mexican appeared in the doorway.
'You're limping.'
'My horse threw me.'
'That's a bad thing.' The waiter considered this and then said, 'What pleases you?'
'Brandy and coffee.'
His knee was becoming stiff and was sensitive when he touched it. He rubbed it idly, becoming used to it, until the waiter returned and placed his tray on the table. The waiter poured coffee from a small porcelain pot, then raised the brandy bottle.
'In the coffee?'
He shook his head and watched as the waiter poured brandy into a glass. He looked up as a man came through the doorway.
Walker nodded and said, 'Beckwith.'
The man, in his mid forties, was thin and he wore a heavy mustache that made his drawn face seem even narrower.
He said, 'What's that?' 'Brandy.'
'You better watch it.' Sitting down, Beckwith's hand flicked against the waiter's arm. 'We'll see you,' he said and waited until the scuffing sound of the waiter's sandals had faded out of the room while he watched Walker closely.
'I saw McGrail ten minutes ago.'
'I missed him.'
'That's like telling me I've got eyes. All you had to do was aim at his beard.'
'That's what Risdon said.'
'Where is he?'
'He went back to del Norte.'
'He was supposed to stay with you,' Beckwith said.
'He went back to tell you what happened. I didn't know you were here.'
'You don't seem too concerned about this.'
'I'm tired,' Walker said.
Beckwith stared at him without expression, coldly. 'Listen,' he said after a moment. 'Every day that man stays alive, the Yankees get more to fight with. Not just beef and remounts, but recruits he sweet talks into joining Sam Grant ' Beckwith paused.
'You've heard of a place called Five Forks in Virginia?'
'Go on.'
'A week ago Pickett got his pants beat off there.
Fitz Lee's Cavalry was cut to pieces.'
'Then it's nearly over,' Walker said quietly.
'Hell no it ain't! Kirby Smith's still holding out in Mississippi. We got more land than just Virginia.'
'And how many more lives?' Walker said.
'Quitting?'
'All of a sudden I'm tired.' Beneath the table his hand rubbed the knee.
'Or is it scared?' Beckwith said.
'Leave me alone for a while.'
'I asked you a question.'
Walker's face hardened. 'Where've you been for four years, Beckwith del Norte? Or did you get over to Tascosa once. Tell me what you do to keep from getting scared?'
After a moment he said, 'My knee's turning stiff.'
'That's too bad,' Beckwith said.
'Everything's too bad.'
'You haven't answered me,' Beckwith said.
'What are you going to do?'
Walker drank off the brandy and dropped his arm heavily. 'Kill him,' he said finally.
He took a room at the hotel and stretched out on the bed without removing his clothes, just his coat and boots. He hung his shoulder holster on the foot of the bed, but took out the handgun and placed it next to his leg; and he was asleep before he could think of the war or of Beckwith, the Confederate agent who'd never seen a skirmish, or McGrail, who had to be killed because he was a valuable Yankee officer. He did think of Barbara, Risdon's daughter, but it was only for a few minutes.
It was early morning when he awoke and before he opened his eyes he felt the stiffness in his knee.
Without moving his leg he knew it was swollen: then, when he raised it, it began to throb.
It was the same leg a year ago. No, he thought now. Yellow Tavern was eleven months ago. He had been with a Texas Volunteer company assigned to Stuart's Cavalry. The defense of Richmond.
They could have stayed in the redoubts and waited, but that wasn't Stuart. He came out and threw his sabers in Sheridan's face at Yellow Tavern straight on into the Whitworths the Yankees had captured and turned on them and it wasn't enough. Sheridan wasn't McClellan. Walker remembered Stuart going down, shot through the lungs, and then his own mount was down and he was conscious only of the scalding pain in his right leg.
It was during his stay in the Richmond hospital that the civilian had come and asked him strange questions about how he thought about things, and finally began talking about soldiers without uniforms. 'Spying?' he'd asked. Call it what you want, the civilian said. There's more than one way to fight a war.
They had picked him because he was a Texan, could speak some Spanish, and his war record was good. Three months later he was in Paso del Norte, with Beckwith's organization, buying guns for the Cause. Ed Risdon guided for them. Risdon had traded goods down through Chihuahua and Sonora for over fifteen years. He knew the country and he brought them through each time. About one trip a month.
His daughter, Barbara, waited in del Norte, watching for Lou Walker. Between trips they were together most of the time.
Then one day, that was two weeks ago, Beckwith told him what had to be done about McGrail. For only two troops of blue bellies his command was doing a mountain of harm, getting men and supplies headed east safely. That would have to be stopped.
