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Falcon nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is. You might send a few patrols out,” he said. “And if you see any prospectors getting over onto Indian land, discourage them. Oh, and while you are at it, it would strengthen my hand greatly if you would open up that dam and let some of the Santa Cruz River water back onto the reservation.”

Colonel Dixon shook his head. “I can’t. I wish I could do that, Mr. MacCallister. Because, in fact, I do think the Indians are being cheated out of their rightful supply of water. And I know that the Indian agent has made an appeal to the territorial governor, but the governor hasn’t made a decision yet. He figures there are too many white people who want the dam to stay closed, and if he does anything, they’ll contact Washington and he’ll wind up losing his job.”

“The territorial governor is a feather merchant, a civilian appointee who is afraid to take a piss without first getting authorization from Washington. Never mind him, he’s an asshole anyway. You make the decision,” Falcon said. “You alone. That is what Army commanders do, isn’t it? Good commanders make tough decisions.”

Falcon had perceived that Colonel Dixon was an officer of honor, integrity, and pride, and he knew this approach would appeal to him. Dixon smiled and nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “That is exactly what Army commanders do, and it is what I should have done a long time ago. All right, Mr. MacCallister, you can count on it. I will see to it that enough water begins flowing through that dam to provide for the Indians.”

“You do that, Colonel, and I guarantee you you will have no trouble from Keytano.”

“And Chetopa?” Colonel Dixon asked. “Will that stop Chetopa?”

“No,” Falcon said. “I’ll have to stop Chetopa.”

“Damn if I don’t believe you will,” Colonel Dixon said. “I’m not sure just how legitimate this is, but I will make no effort to stop you. And, as you asked, I will have my own troops on patrol, keeping prospectors out of the Indian land. Good luck, Mr. MacCallister.”

“Thanks,” Falcon replied.

CHAPTER 16

Ponci had lain in the cave for two days, looking over at the rotting piece of meat that had been his leg. The stench of it was overpowering, but until now, he had not been able to move well enough to get rid of it.

His horse had found a little graze within hobble range, as well as a puddle of water from the last rain. The puddle had survived only because a rock overhang had shielded it from direct sunlight, thus keeping it from evaporating. But now, even it was beginning to dry up, and if Ponci didn’t get out of here soon, he and the horse faced the possibility of dying of thirst.

The horse was actually faring better than Ponci, who had not eaten in two days. Oddly, though he knew he should be ravenously hungry, he had no appetite. He had taken a few sips of water, having filled his canteen from the catch pool ... and he had taken a few sips of laudanum, just enough to make the pain manageable.

For the last two days Ponci had run a fever, but now, for the first time since his self-amputation, he felt that the fever was gone. The bleeding had also stopped, and the pain in his stub had subsided to a dull throb. If he was ever going to make it into Mesquite, now was the time to do it.

Painfully and laboriously, Ponci managed to get his horse saddled. Then, he tried to mount. Automatically he swung his right leg, or what should have been his right leg, over the horse’s back for balance and to carry him on into the saddle.

But the leg wasn’t there, and Ponci’s attempt to get mounted left him badly off balance. He felt himself slipping, made a desperate grab for the saddle horn, missed, then fell hard onto his wounded stump.

“Ahhh!!!” he screamed as pain shot up through his body.

Ponci lay there for a long moment, getting his breath and trying to regain his composure. Then he tried to mount again, this time holding tightly onto the saddle horn until he was seated. The sensation of sitting in the saddle with only one leg in the stirrup was unsettling, but he knew it was something he would have to get used to. Clucking at the horse, he left the cave, then rode out into the bright sunlight, headed for Mesquite.

Mesquite was ten miles ahead, and he figured on making it in two hours, given that he had no intention of trying to hurry.

Corporal Gibson left the sergeant major’s office, still seething over his run-in with the sheriff and his deputy. When he returned to the guardhouse, he saw Private Carter lying on the bunk, waiting for the next relief change. Carter would be posted as one of the guards of the next relief.

Like Corporal Gibson, Private Carter had been in the Army for many years, and like Gibson, Carter had been up and down the ranks. Last month he had been a sergeant, but he got into a drunken fight with a cowboy over a whore he met in a saloon in Papago. His thirty days in jail in Papago were counted as unauthorized absence from his duty post, so he was busted.

Now, as a private, Carter had to perform the post duties like any other private.

“Carter, what are you doing here?” Gibson asked.

“I’m on the next relief, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Hey, come on down to the sutler’s store and have a drink with me. We’ve got time.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Carter said, hopping up from the bunk and following his friend out of the guardhouse. It never dawned on him to suggest that what they were doing was against army regulations.

As the two men sat in the sutler’s store drinking whiskey, Gibson told about his run-in with the two civilians who had come onto the post this afternoon.

“The deputy was a real bastard,” Gibson said. “I’d like to know just who he thinks he is, coming in here like he owns the place. Why, he marched in to see the colonel without so much as a fare-thee-well.”

“Are you talking about the fella that was with Sheriff Corbin?” the sutler asked. It was easy enough for the sutler to overhear their conversation. It was right in the middle of duty hours, and nobody else was in the place.

“Yeah, the deputy,” Gibson replied.

The sutler laughed. “He was no deputy.”

“Sure he was. At least, that’s what Sheriff Corbin said.”

“Maybe that’s what Corbin said and maybe, for some strange reason, he is acting as the deputy right now. But I’ll tell you this. He sure as hell ain’t no ordinary deputy. Don’t you know who that was?”

“No.”

“That was Falcon MacCallister.”

“Falcon MacCallister? Are you sure?”

“Who is Falcon MacCallister?” Carter asked.

“He’s a gunfighter,” Gibson said.

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve never met him, but I’ve sure heard of him. How do you know that was Falcon MacCallister?” Gibson asked the sutler.

“I know because I used to live in Tombstone. I met him when he was down there. He ran with the Earps and Doc Holliday then.”

“I’ll be damn,” Gibson said in awe. Then, his awe turned to fear as he remembered that MacCallister had threatened to kill him. His hand started shaking and some of the whiskey in his glass splashed out.

“You all right, Gibson?” Carter asked.

“Yeah,” Gibson said. “I’m all right. Sutler, bring us another round.”

Nearly an hour after what should have been the changing of the guard, Lieutenant Kirby, the Officer of the Day, showed up and saw Gibson and Carter drunk. He had two men with him.

“Place these two men under arrest and take them to the guardhouse,” Kirby demanded.

Under the escort of the two privates, Gibson and Carter returned to the guardhouse, not as part of the guard detail now ... but as prisoners.

When Private Wilson came into the guardhouse a little later, he threw his hat onto the bunk in anger.