his people in a war he cannot win.'
Bonito's heavy face creased into a grim smile. 'Is he strong . . . and wise?' Then he said, his tone changing, 'Do you go away from here?'
'Perhaps.' Corsen looked at the Apache curiously.
'It would be wise,' Bonito said, 'if you went far from here.' He turned his pony then and loped off.
Ross Corsen followed the road to Rindo's and the Mescalero's parting words hung in his mind like a threat, and for a while the words made him angry. The running of their tribe was no concern of his. Not now. But it implied more than just Bonito opposing Bil-Clin. There was something else. Bonito was a renegade. He was vicious even in the eyes of his own people. Not the type to be followed as a leader unless the people were desperate. Unless he came just at the right time. And it occurred to Corsen: like now, with a man they don't know tak- ing over the agency . . . and with unrest on every reservation in Arizona, I'd like to stay, just to handle Bonito. . . . But again, the hell with it. Working under Sellers wasn't worth it. He planned to go up to Whipple Barracks and talk to someone about a guide contract. He would leave his horse at Rindo's and catch the stage there, and while he was waiting he'd have a while to be with Katie.
Chapter Two
The Hatch & Hodges' Central Mail section had headquarters at Fort McDowell. From there, one route angled northwest to Prescott. The Central Mail swung in an arc southeast. From McDowell the route skirted the Superstitions to Apache Junction, then continued on, changing teams at Florence, White Tanks, Gila Ford, and Rindo's. Thomas was the last stop, the southern terminal. Rindo's Station had been constructed with the Apaches in mind. An oblong, thick-walled adobe building had an open stable shed at one end. The corral, holding the spare stage teams, connected behind the stable. And circling the station, out fifty- odd yards, was an adobe wall. It was thick, chest high. At the east end of the yard a stand of aspen had been hacked down and only the trunks remained. Beyond the wall the country was flat on three sides--alkali dust and heat waves shimmering over stubbles of desert growth--but to the east the ground rose gradually, barren, pale yellow climbing into deep green where pinon sprouted from the hillside.
Corsen had skirted the base of the hill and now he was in sight of Rindo's. He nudged his mount to a trot.
Someone was in the doorway. Another figure came from the dark line of the shed and moved to the gate which was in the north side of the wall. He could make out the man in the doorway now--Billy Teachout, the station agent. And as the gate swung open there was the Mexican, Delgado, in white peon clothes.
'Hiiiii, man!'
'Senor Delgado, keeper of the horses!'
Corsen reached down and slapped the old Mexican's thin shoulder, then dismounted.
'God of my life, it has been months!'
'Three or four weeks.'
'It seems months.'
Corsen grinned at the old man, at the tired eyes that were now stretched open showing thin lines of veins, smiling at the sight of a friend. Billy Teachout moved a few steps into the yard, thumbs hooked behind his suspender straps. 'Ross, get in here out of the sun!' 'Let the keeper of the horses take yours,' Delgado said, still smiling. 'We will talk together after.'
Corsen followed the station agent's broad back into the house and opened his eyes wide to the interior dimness. It was dark after the sun glare. He pushed his hat brim from his eyes and stood looking at the familiar whitewashed walls, the oblong pine table, and Douglas chairs at one end of the room, the squat stove in the middle, and the redpainted pine bar at the other end. Billy Teachout edged his large frame sideways, with an effort, through the narrow bar opening.
'You wouldn't have beer,' Corsen said.
'It's about six months to Christmas,' Billy answered, and leaned his forearms onto the bar. He was in no hurry. Time meant little, and it showed in his loose, heavy build, in his round, clean-shaven face that he most always kept out of the sun's reach unless it was stage time. He had worked in the Prescott office until Al Rindo's death two years before, then had been transferred here. Al Rindo had died of a heart attack, but Billy Teachout said it was sunstroke and he'd be damned if he'd let it happen to him. He had Katie to think of, his sister's girl who had come to live with him after her folks passed on.
It wasn't a bad life. Five stages a week for him and Katie; Delgado and his wife to take care of. Change horses; keep them curried; feed the passengers. Nothing to it--as long as the Apaches minded.
'You can have yellow mescal or bar whiskey,'
Billy said.
'One's as bad as the other.' Corsen put his elbows on the bar. 'Whiskey.'
'Kill any bugs you got.'
Corsen took a drink and then rolled a cigarette.
'Where's Katie?'
'Prettyin'. She saw you two miles away. After Delgado all week, you don't look so bad.'
Corsen grinned, relaxing the hard line of his jaw. A young face, leathery and immobile until a smile would soften the eyes that were used to sun glare, and ease the set face that talked eye to eye with the Apache and showed nothing. Corsen knew his business. He knew the Apache--his language, often even his thoughts--and the Apache respected him for it. Corsen, the Indian agent. He could make natural-born raiders at least half satisfied with a barren government land tract. The Corsens were few and far between, even in Arizona. 'Billy, I just saw Bonito.'
'God--he's returned to the reservation?'
'I don't know--or much care. I'm leaving.'
'What?'
'Sellers fired me day before yesterday. He's got somebody else for the job.'
'Got somebody else! Those are Mescaleros!'
'I'm through arguing with him. Sellers is reservation supervisor. He can run things how he likes and hire who he likes. I should have quit long ago.'
'Who's taking your place?'
'A man named Verbiest.'
'Somebody looking for some extra change.'
'He might be all right.'
Billy Teachout shook his head wearily. To him it was another example of cheap politics, knowing the right people. Agency posts were being handed out to men who cared nothing for the Indians. There was profit to be made by short-rationing their charges and selling the government beef and grain to homesteaders, or back to the Army. Even that had been done.
'Sellers has been trying to get rid of you for a long time. Finally he made it,' Billy Teachout said. He shook his head again. 'Your Mescaleros aren't going to take kindly to this.'
'Verbiest might know what he's doing,' Corsen said. Then, 'But if he doesn't, you better keep your windows shut till he hangs a few of them and they calm down again.'
'Where you going? I might just close up and go with you.'
'What about the stage line?'
'The hell with it. I'm getting too old for this kind of thing.'
Corsen smiled. 'I'm going up to Whipple to see about a guide contract.'
'So if you can't nurse them, you fight them.'
'Either one's a living.'
'Ross--'
