"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.
Beckwith is a strange man, he thought. He can become fanatical about the Cause, though he's never been east of the Panhandle. That's it, he thought now. That makes the difference. He didn't see the Wilderness, or Cold Harbor, or Yellow Tavern.
The morning wore on and he began to feel hungry, but his body ached and he remained on the bed, smoking cigarettes when it would occur to him, not moving his leg. He wasn't worried about the knee.
He was dozing again when the light knocks sounded on the door and he sat upright with the suddenness of it and winced, feeling the muscles pull in his knee.
"Who is it?" His palm covered the bone handle of the pistol next to him.
A girl's voice answered him.
He was off the bed, went to the door, opened it, and the girl was in his arms. Close to her cheek he said, "Barbara " but her mouth brushed against his and that was all he said. For a moment they clung together, then he drew her inside and closed the door.
"How'd you find me?"
"Beckwith told us."
"Your father's with you?"
She nodded. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a chignon and it made her face seem delicately small. "I told him I wanted to be with you."
"That must have touched him," Walker said. He led her to the bed and sat down next to her. There was no chair in the room and he felt suddenly embarrassed at being alone with her, and at the same time he was conscious of his uncombed hair and the two day beard, even though he knew it would not matter to her.
"Lou, you hurt your leg!"
Her gaze remained on his knee, but she said, "You're going to try again, aren't you?"
"You're not supposed to know about that."
Her eyes lifted to his, frowning. "What good will it do?"
"If I knew all the whys, I'd be wearing yellow epaulettes with fringe."
"One more dead man isn't going to help anything."
"You didn't talk to Beckwith very long."
For a moment the girl was silent. "We're leaving," she said then.
"For where?"
"I don't know toward California."
"Your dad's idea?"
"Partly. But maybe I'm more worn out than he is."
She looked at him longingly. "Lou come with us."
"You know better than that."
"Why?"
"I'd be a deserter."
Her eyes begged him again, but she said nothing and finally her head lowered and she stared at her hands in her lap. Walker made a cigarette and smoked it in the silence, trying to rationalize going with them: but he could not.
The girl was rising when they heard the footsteps outside the door. Then the three knocks.
"Walker?" Beckwith's voice came from the hall.
Walker looked at the girl, then went to the door and opened it. Risdon stood in the doorway. Behind him, Beckwith said, "Go on," and Risdon moved into the room. Beckwith followed a step behind, with the barrel of his pistol pressed into the man's back.