Lando

captain said, 'go on across the border. You've had trouble enough.'

'If you'll grant me the pleasure, Cap'n,' I said, 'I'll stay. There's men in that crowd who have struck me and beaten me, and I owe them a little. Bess,' I added, 'I carried off their shotgun. It is only fair that I return the loads from the shells.'

Here at the river the air was still cooler because of the dampness rising from the water--and it was free air.

For the first time in years I was out in the night, with free air all about me.

The outlaws came with a rush, sure they would catch the Rangers at the border before they got across the river, but they were met with a blast of gunfire that lanced the night with darting flame.

One rider toppled from his saddle, and his fall as much as our fire turned their retreat into a rout.

They vanished into the mesquite.

Several Rangers rode out to look at the body, and I followed Mcationelly. 'Well,'

I said, 'seems to me if you had to kill only one, you got the right one. That there is Flores himself.'

We swam the river back to the Texas side and I followed on to their camp, which was on the bank of a creek a few miles back from the river.

Reckon I looked a sight. My shirt was in rags and the only pants I had were some castoffs they'd given me when my own played out. There I stood, bare-footed and loaded down with guns.

'You'd better let us stand you an outfit,'

Mcationelly commented dryly. 'You're in no shape to go anywhere in that outfit.'

They were good boys, those Rangers were, and they rigged me out. Then, to raise some cash, I sold one of them my pistol for six dollars--it was the spare I'd picked up (i'd come away with three); and I sold the shotgun for twelve to Mcationelly himself. The Captain had taken Flores' gold- and silver-plated pistol off the body--it was a rarely beautiful weapon.

The horse I'd ridden across the border was a handsome, upstanding roan.

'Anybody asks you for the bill of sale for that horse,' Mcationelly commented, 'you refer them to me.'

The first thing I did was to head for the creek and take a long bath, getting shut of my old clothes at the time. When I lit out for Rio Grande City, come daybreak, I felt like a different man.

Yet being free wasn't what it might have been. First off, I didn't know where to go.

Mcationelly had heard nothing of my pa, and only remembered some talk of Jonas Locklear being dead several years back. What had become of his land, he didn't know.

So there I was, a free man with no place to go, with a rightful share in the gold that might have already been spent. But something I did own, if I could find them. I owned a mare and a mule colt.

I showed up in Brownsville wearing shirt and jeans that didn't fit, a pair of boots that hurt my feet, and a worn-out Mexican sombrero. Dark as I was and wearing cartridge belts crossed over my chest, I even looked like a Mexican.

I walked into a cantina and leaned on the bar, and when the bartender ignored me I reached out my Henry and laid it across to touch the back bar.

'I want a whiskey,' I said, 'and I want it now. You going to give it to me, or do I take it after I put a knot on your head?'

He looked at me and then he looked at that rifle and he set the bottle out on the bar.

'We don't cater to Mexicans in here,' he said.

'You do wrong,' I told him. 'I'm no Mex, but I've known some mighty fine ones.

They run about true to form with us north of the border --some good and some bad.'

'Sorry,' he said. 'I thought you were a Mexican.'

'Pour me a drink,' I said, 'and then go back and shut up.'

He poured me the drink and walked away down the bar. Two tough-looking cowhands were sizing me up, considering how much opposition I'd offer if trouble started, but I wasn't interested in a row. So I just plain ignored them. Anyway, I was listening to talk at a table behind me.

'He's wise,' one man was saying. 'He hasn't squatted on range the way most have done. Captain King clears title on every piece he buys. That's why he's held off on that Locklear outfit--there's a dispute over the title. Deckrow claims it, but his sister-in-law disputes the claim.'

'Bad blood between Deckrow and her husband, too. It'll come to a shooting.'

'Not unless Deckrow shoots him in the back,'

I said, 'that's the way he killed Jonas Locklear.'

Well, now. I'd turned and spoken aloud without really meaning to, and every face in the room turned toward me.

One of the men at the table looked at me coldly. 'That's poor talk. Deckrow's a respected man in Texas.'

'He wouldn't be the first who didn't deserve it,' I said. 'You see him, you tell him I said he was a back- shooter. Tell him I said he shot Jonas Locklear in the back, and Deckrow was riding with Mexican outlaws at the time.'

There wasn't a friendly face in the cantina, except maybe for the other man at that table.

'And who might you be?' he asked quietly.

'We'd like to tell him who spoke against him.'

'The name is Orlando Sackett,' I said, 'and I'll speak against him any time I get the chance. ... Jonas,' I added, 'was a friend of mine.'

'Orlando Sackett,' the man said thoughtfully.

'The only other Sackett I know besides Falcon was killed down in Mexico, five or six years ago.'

'You heard wrong. I ain't dead, nor about to be.'

Finishing my drink, I turned and walked out of the place and went across the street to a restaurant.

A few minutes after, a slender blue-eyed man came in and sat down not far from me. He didn't look at me at all, and that was an odd thing, because almost everybody else at least glanced my way.

In Rio Grande City I'd gotten myself a haircut and had my beard shaved off.

I still held to a mustache, like most men those days, but it was trimmed careful. In the six years below the border I'd taken on weight, and while I was no taller than five-ten, I now weighed two hundred and ten pounds, most of it in my chest and shoulders. Folks looked at me, all right.

As I ate, I kept an eye on that blue-eyed man, who was young and lean-faced and wore a tied-down gun. Presently another man came in and sat down beside him, his back to me. When he turned around a few minutes later and he looked at me, I saw he was Duncan Caffrey.

He'd changed some. His face looked like it always did, but he was big and strong-looking. His eyes were a lot harder than I recalled, and when he put his hand on the back of the other man's chair I noticed the knuckles were scarred and broken. He'd been doing a lot of fighting.

Reminded me of what the Tinker had said about the knuckles of Jem Mace, that champion fighter who'd trained him.

Caffrey looked hard at me, and he sort of frowned and looked away, and suddenly it came on me that he wasn't sure. True, I was a whole lot heavier than when he'd last seen me, and a lot darker except where the beard was shaved off, and even that had caught some sun riding down from Rio Grande City.

When I stood up and paid for my supper I saw in the mirror what was wrong. The mustache changed me a good bit, and the scars even more. I had forgotten the scars. There were three of them, two along my cheek and one on my chin, all made from the cuts of that quirt, which had cut like a knife into my flesh, and no stitches taken in the cuts.

Outside on the street a sudden thought came to me. If that blue-eyed man was a killer, and if Caffrey was pointing me out to him, then I'd better dust out. With my hands I was all right, but I hadn't shot a six-shooter, except for the other day, not in six years.

Riding out of town, I headed east, then circled and took the north road. A few days after, I pulled up at the jacal where I'd left the mare.

A young woman came to the door, shading her eyes at me. She looked shabby and tired. The little boy who stood beside her stared at me boldly, but I thought they were both frightened.

'Do you not remember me, se@nora? I rode from here many years ago--with Miguel and Se@nor