"Home," Mitchell answered. No, she didn't exactly fit the type. She talked too freely.
"Where is that?"
"Banderas. I just left Whipple Barracks yesterday. Discharged."
"I thought so," the woman said. "Just the way you stand."
"I suppose some of it's bound to rub off, after twelve years."
"You don't look that old."
"Older'n you. I'm almost thirty-one."
"Were you an officer?" "No, ma'am. Sergeant."
"You're going home to your folks?"
"Yes, ma'am. My dad has a place near Banderas."
"They'll be glad to see you."
Mitchell half turned as Hyatt said, "How do we know you're from Whipple?"
"I just told you I was."
"What proof you got?"
"I don't have to show you anything."
Hyatt's hand hung close to his holster. "You don't think so, huh?"
"Look," Mitchell said. "Why don't you quit standing on your nerves."
"Let's see your proof," Hyatt said.
Mitchell glanced at the woman. "You ought to keep him locked up."
The woman half smiled. "Do you have discharge papers?"
Mitchell's hand slipped into his open coat and patted his shirt pocket. "Right here."
"Why don't you show him?" the woman said.
"So we'll have a little peace."
Mitchell shook his head. "It's a matter of princi ple now." A matter of principle. And a matter of twelve years someone telling you what to do. You can take it when you're being paid to take it. But this one isn't paying, Mitchell thought. Take that handgun off him and bend it over his head? No, just get out. You don't have any business here. The woman said, "Men are always talking about principle, or honor."
"Well, I'm through talking about it tonight,"
Mitchell said. He handed the empty cup to her.
"Much obliged. I'm moving on now." She looked at him, but said nothing.
He saw her eyes shift suddenly.
Behind you!
It snapped in his mind and he heard the movement and he wheeled, bringing up his arms, throwing himself low at Hyatt who was almost on top of him. His shoulder slammed into Hyatt's knees and he drove forward as the pistol barrel came down against his spine. His arms clamped Hyatt's legs and he came up suddenly, His boots digging into the sand, throwing Hyatt's legs over his shoulder. Hyatt landed on his back, rolling over almost as he struck the ground, frantically reaching for the revolver knocked from his hand, almost touching it as Mitchell dropped on top of him.
They rolled in the sand, Hyatt's fingers tearing through Mitchell's shirt, clawing at his throat.
Mitchell's hand found the revolver. He threw it spinning across the sand and his fist came back to slam against Hyatt's face. He pushed himself free, rolling, rising to his feet, and as Hyatt came up he swung hard against his jaw. Hyatt staggered. He started to go down and Mitchell hit him again, holding him momentarily with his left hand as his right clubbed into the upturned face. Hyatt's head snapped back and he went down. Mitchell turned to the woman. He was breathing heavily and his left hand was pressed to the small of his back. "Are you married to him?" he asked. She shook her head. "Not really."
Mitchell hesitated. If he turned away he'd never see this woman again. Something made him ask, "Do you love him?"
She looked at him, her face softly impassive in the firelight. "You'd better move along," she said quietly.
For a moment Mitchell's eyes remained on her, as if he were reluctant to leave. He turned to the sorrel, then hesitated again and walked over to Hyatt.
"Mister, you brought this on yourself. Your man out there thought I was somebody named Cliff and he brought me in because he was too scared to do anything else. I don't care who you are. . . . I don't care who Cliff is--" Mitchell broke off. "If you want to know the truth, I think you're crazy." He glanced momentarily at the woman before telling Hyatt, "Maybe you got some good points, but if you do you keep them a secret."
Hyatt's head came up slowly. He watched Mitchell go to his sorrel and mount. He watched him silently, his hand covering a folded piece of paper on the ground beneath him. A square of paper folded four times just to fit into a shirt pocket. Mitchell urged the sorrel into the trees, letting it have its head, but holding it enough to reach the road farther down from where Rady would be. The woman stayed in his mind: standing in the firelight, her eyes meeting his and not lowering even when he continued to stare at her.
Some woman.
His body came alive as the shot sounded behind him and his hand instinctively went to the booted carbine. He turned in the saddle drawing the Springfield, the sorrel sidestepping nervously, kicking the dry leaves, throwing its head. There were other sounds in the leaves and suddenly a man's voice: "Throw up your hands!" And almost with the words Mitchell was dragged from the saddle. Men were all around him in the darkness, two holding his arms, and as he tried to rise a fist came from nowhere, stinging hard against his face. A rifle barrel jabbed into his back and he was taken through the trees, a man holding each arm. There were more men at the clearing and the nearest ones stepped aside as Mitchell was brought in. One man was building the fire. Another was climbing the wagon wheel, now looking inside. The rest stood in a semicircle around Hyatt and the woman. The man holding Mitchell's left arm shouted, "Dyke, we got the other one!"
Mitchell saw one of the men turn and nod his head, then beckon them to come closer. He stood relaxed, a tall man wearing a stiff-brimmed hat low and straight over his eyes, and a tawny tip-twisted mustache that in the firelight blended with the weathered cut of his features. His coat was open, a dark coat . . . and then Mitchell saw it. The deputy star against the dark cloth and everything was suddenly perfectly clear. Hyatt was saying, "What're you doing! We're camped here and you barge in, shooting--"
A man said, "You scrambled for that gun quick enough."
"How'd I know who you were?"
"You know now." The man laughed. Mitchell looked from this man to the others. There were perhaps a dozen in the group, but only Dyke and two or three more wore deputy stars.
"Listen"--Hyatt's voice calmed--"I think you could've announced yourselves, that's all. You're looking for somebody and you want to ask some questions, that it?"
Dyke shook his head. "I don't have any questions."
Hyatt's eyes shifted along the line of men.
"We're on our way down to Tucson. I'm going in business with a man down there."
Dyke said nothing. His eyes were on Hyatt, studying him.
"In the freight business," Hyatt said. "This man's already got contracts."
"Are you through?" Dyke said then.
Hyatt frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'll tell a story now," Dyke said. "It starts the day before yesterday when the Hatch & Hodges was held up an hour out of Mojave. One of the passengers, Mr. J. A. Hicks, was shot and killed when he raised an objection. Now, this Mr. Hicks was owner of the Mogollon Cattle Company--Slash M--of which I'm foreman. Mr. Hicks, besides being boss, was my best friend . . . which doesn't mean much to the story aside from it's the reason I was deputized to take out a posse." Hyatt said, "I'm sorry to hear that, but--"
"I'm not finished," Dyke stated. "You see, these holdup men separated after the robbery. We spent a whole day scratching for sign and finally we got on one we were pretty sure of. Last night we caught up with a man named Cliff something. Now, at first he said he didn't know anything about it."