"Tell the Rangers!"

"You think the Rangers care about some mule? They don't even interfere when bastards beat their wives and kids, much less their livestock!"

Kimble winced, remembering his own childhood. The Rangers hadn't saved him. It was the Territorial Medical Service that had taken his father out of his life. And that was for his father's sake, not his.

"It makes me sick," said the keeper. "That's a right pretty mule and deserves better."

Kimble turned back toward the trough. Heimie had limped over to the people pump, the one that drew water from a covered cistern that was filled from the spring above. He was letting the cold water pour over his bruised leg. Kimble walked over to the treadle pump and began working it hard. He got several inches of water into the trough before Heimie noticed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Heimie yelled. He struggled to his feet with the aid of his stick.

"Oh," said Kimble, smiling. "Saw you were laid up. Thought I'd help. You want me to start unloading her?"

Heimie was taken aback by this apparent conviviality. He frowned. "Why would I want to do that? You know how heavy that crap is? It would only have to be reloaded."

"Oh. Sorry. Just saw that the mule was all in, and with that bum leg you'd probably want to rest before moving on."

"You see too damn much. Get the hell away from my mule!" He lifted his stick as if to hit Kimble.

Kimble raised his eyebrows and took a step away from the mule, but closer to Heimie. He stared up into his Heimie's eyes. "You're kidding, right?" The man outweighed Kimble three to one.

Heimie lashed out at Kimble's side, just as he'd lashed at the mule's rump to drive it.

Kimble slid back a step and the tip of the stick missed him, cutting through the air a couple of inches away. "I'd think about that, if I were you," he said calmly.

Maybe Heimie wasn't used to people not being afraid of him. He jerked the stick high and this time aimed for Kimble's head, but Kimble skipped forward, inside the swing, and kicked Heimie in the calf, right on the mule's previous strike.

Heimie screamed and fell to the hard dirt, dropping the stick in his attempt to catch himself.

Kimble picked up the stick and stepped back. He raised it in the air experimentally and cut sharply through the air. "You hit your mule with this? I wonder how it feels?" He brought it hard down toward Heimie's face, but stopped short of his flinching head. "Tempting." He broke the stick over his knee and threw the pieces far out into the brush.

Heimie swore at Kimble. He rolled over and tried to get up, but his leg buckled under him.

"Looks like you're not walking anywhere for a while. How about I unload that mule." He didn't make it a question.

The mule did try to kick him as he unloaded her, but it was half-hearted and Kimble sidestepped it easily. He left the beams and cement stacked neatly off to the side where they wouldn't block the watering trough and tied the mule to a pinon where the runoff from the people pump had greened the grass. There he rubbed the mule down with tufts of dried grass and fed it an apple from his food bag. She didn't try to kick him once after that.

While Kimble tended to the mule, Heimie had scooted back into the shade of the cistern. Without comment, Kimble dropped the saddlebags and bedroll beside the man, keeping his distance.

Kimble was swearing at himself. Invisible. You're supposed to be invisible! He sighed heavily.

"You'd probably do a lot better with carrots than a stick," he said.

"Go fuck yourself," Heimie said.

KIMBLE walked up the ridge to the spring, and then higher, where he could see off to the west, where the caravan route cut across the lava flows of the malpais-the Bad Lands. The old freeway also cut through the lava flow north of the tanques, near old Grants, but it swarmed with bugs.

He sat in the shade of a pinon and tried to make out movement but there was no sign of the caravan. Well, Bentham had said it could be another four days. He took a nap by the spring before returning to the watering stop, trying to avoid any more conflict with Heimie. Could Heimie be the drug contact? If so, and if he distributed drugs like he managed his livestock, the drugs weren't going far. As nice as it would be to ID Heimie as the distributor, he doubted it was the case.

When he got back down to the tanques, the neat pile of building materials was still there but Heimie and the mule were gone.

"He had to hop on one leg, but he managed it," Tomas told him. "The mule tried to kick him several times, though, until he put a twitch on its lip. He said he'd be back for his materials and that you'd better be gone when he got here. What the hell did you do to him?"

"I watered his mule and unloaded it."

"And he let you?"

Kimble said vaguely, "I think his leg hurt."

Before sunset that evening, a group of Dineh drove in in four wagons, returning from a trade fair at the capital. They laughed with Tomas and traded some pottery for dry goods at his store.

About sunset, the clip-clop of hooves came up the path and Heimie's mule walked up to the watering trough and stood there. Heimie wasn't on her and the cinch strap was loose and the packsaddle hung under the mule's belly. Though she still wore her bridle, one rein was missing completely and the other was snapped off near the ground.

When Tomas walked up she shied away, showing her backside, one hind hoof lifting, and Tomas backed off. He circled around until the trough was between them, then pumped several gallons of water into the trough.

"She bucked him off, you figure?" asked Kimble.

"Looks like. Don't blame her, really," said Tomas. He tried to reach the mule's bridle as she drank but jerked his hand back when her head shot forward and her teeth snapped together.

"Uh, kid? You want to see what you can do with her?"

Kimble went back to his food bag and returned with an apple, which he broke into small chunks. He didn't approach the mule but sat upwind on a stump. When she'd drunk her fill, the mule turned her head. Over the course of several minutes, she worked her way over to Kimble. He hand-fed her half the apple before he attempted removing the bridle. The composite bit was worn and jagged, and when he unbuckled the straps, she spat it out, glad to get rid of it.

Kimble put the rest of the apple on the stump and, while she ate it, he got the twisted cinch and saddle pad off. He went over to where the dry grass grew, to pull some tufts to rub the mule down, if she'd let him. He thought that once the apple was gone, she'd move off, but instead, she lipped up the last of it and followed him.

"Heading back to the path, girl?" Experimentally, he stepped off to the side, to give her room to pass, but she swerved toward him when he did. When he stopped, she walked right up to him and nudged his stomach with her nose.

Aren't you the vicious beast, he thought as he rubbed her down. Ah, well, in the morning, you'll probably be gone.

He woke the next morning with her standing next to his mosquito netting, pulling grass from the ground beside his bedroll.

When Tomas watched the mule follow Kimble up to the store, he said, "I guess she's not so scary after all, are you girl?" He raised his hand to pat her neck and the mule's mouth jerked around and snapped like a striking snake. Tomas jerked his arm back and tripped over the porch step.

Kimble stepped between the store and the mule, concerned, and the mule turned back to the trough. As she drank, Kimble stroked her neck and she stood there, meek as a kitten, leaning into it.

Tomas picked himself up, rubbing his backside. "O-kay. Wonder how she'll react to Heimie when he gets back."

But Heimie didn't show up and, by noon, Tomas was frowning. "Hate to say it, but someone should go look for him. He could be lying out there with a broke back or something."

Kimble had just returned from one of his walks up the ridge. He knew the caravan wasn't anywhere close and, since the Dineh left that morning, there were no candidates around for him to evaluate as possible drug distributors. "Where was he going?"

"He's got a place due south of here, right next to his big brother's ranch. I got a lot more use for Linc, his older brother. Family man-certainly doesn't mistreat his livestock."

Is that what a family man is? "How far?"

"Ten miles, maybe."

"Huh. Why do you think the mule came back here, then?"

Tomas shrugged. "Well, the water here is especially good. Most of the wells hereabouts are brackish. Linc has some pretty good rainwater cisterns but Heimie just has the one well. Reliable-doesn't dry up, but brackish, not like our sweet spring." He looked over at the mule's hindquarters. There were some raised welts and a little crusted blood left over from Heimie's rod. "And maybe she just didn't want to go home."

Kimble got detailed directions to Heimie's place and packed up some food, some parachute cord, a blanket, his first-aid kit, and refilled his half-gallon water jug. He didn't want to be gone overnight but he also didn't want to be stupid about travel in the territory.

He started walking down the trail and he heard noise behind him. It was the mule, braying. He turned and looked. She was stretching out her neck toward him but she was standing back by the watering trough. When he turned, she straightened and put her long ears up. He waved, and then walked on. More braying, getting more and more urgent.

"What?" he shouted. The mule danced in place, moving forward and back, reminding Kimble of nothing more than a child who really needs to go to the bathroom. He shrugged and walked on, doing his best to ignore the frantic braying.

When he reached the first bend, a gentle switchback to help wagons get up the hill, he heard hooves pounding down the road. He glanced back and saw her galloping after him.

His first fear, that she was going to attack him, calmed when she dropped back to a canter, then a trot as she neared him, but then she passed him and turned, blocking the path.

He tried to walk around her and she sidestepped, swinging her shoulder across his path. He moved back the other way and she brayed at him. He stopped again and stroked her cheek, letting her shove at his other hand with her soft nose.

Still stroking her head he started walking. After a moment she seemed to give up on the blocking and let him continue on his way, but she followed right behind him. "Not much water out here," he told her.

She snorted.

He thought about riding her but decided against it. He might be able to survive being bucked off better than Heimie, but so much of the landscape consisted of jagged lava or thorned branches that he didn't want to risk it.

Heimie was about four miles along the southern trail. He hadn't broken his back but had badly sprained his good leg by trying not to land on his injured one. He had his saddlebags and his water bottle and he'd rigged his bedroll for shade. He was not happy to see Kimble and he was even less happy to see "that god damned bitch of a mule."

"Well, glad to see you're alive," Kimble said. "Tomas thought you were lying out in the sun with a broken back."

"You telling me you came looking for me?"

"Well, when Molly came back, figured she threw you."

"Her name is Mrs. Perdicaris!"

"That's a mouthful. Who's responsible for that?"

"The original owner. She named her for some movie character. Why did you come after me? Revenge?"

"Revenge? I don't need revenge. Maybe Mrs. Perdicaris wants revenge." He patted the mule's neck. "As I said, it wasn't my idea."

"Well, if you thought to loot the body, I don't have five bucks to my name."

Kimble grinned. "Well, that wasn't my idea either. Guess I just have a soft spot for dumb animals. You want to try and ride her again? Doubt you're walkin'."

The suggestion was not popular, so he rigged a sledge of lashed cholla skeletons and deadwood, padded with Heimie's blankets. Kimble's rolled blanket became a strap across Mrs. Perdicaris' chest with lines of parachute cord running back to the sledge and held up with more line running over her withers and her back. The sledge lines were doubled for strength. He would've liked to triple it but this would've put Heimie perilously close to Mrs. Perdicaris' rear hooves.

Kimble didn't know who was more uncomfortable. Heimie swore at every bump.

Mrs. Perdicaris kept her ears pointed back and rolled her eyes a lot but as long as Kimble stayed at her side and fed her occasional chunks of apple, she kept pulling. They reached Heimie's brother's adobe ranch house an hour and a half later.

Kimble tried to leave the mule there. After Kimble had removed the jury-rigged harness, she walked calmly into a large, chest-high paddock of split rails where a half-full water trough stood. Linc, Heimie's brother, closed the gate while she was drinking.

Kimble let Linc's wife refill his water bottle, reclaimed his blanket and cord, and accepted the family's thanks-if not Heimie's-for his efforts. He refused an offer of food and a bed for the night.

As he walked away from the ranch house, Mrs. Perdicaris began braying more and more urgently from the paddock.

"Sorry, girl," he muttered.

There was a cracking noise and he turned in time to see the top rail of a fence flying up into the air. The door to the ranch house opened and people came out onto the porch. He saw the mule's rear hooves flash once, then again, followed by another crack of breaking wood. The next lower rail broke in half and the splintered ends fell outward, onto the packed earth, hanging down from their lashings on the uprights. Then he heard hoof beats and Mrs. Perdicaris came flying over the low spot in the fence.

Nice form.

Mrs. Perdicaris darted past two adults and one child who, to their credit, were not trying to catch the mule. They were trying to get out of her way. The mule galloped hard until she was out of the ranch-house yard, then she dropped back to a trot and came on toward Kimble, her tail flying like a flag and her ears held up high.

Kimble sighed and petted the mule. "You really ought to go back. You belong to Heimie." Yeah, Heimie who beats her. He walked back toward the ranch yard, Mrs. Perdicaris followed at his side, bouncing like a big puppy. But as they approached the group on the porch, she snorted and shied back.

Kimble paused for a moment, hanging back with the mule. He dug down into the food bag and found an apple for her. At the same time he took a covert look at just how big the bundle of emergency cash was that Bentham had left him.

"HEIMIE sold her?"

"He was going to lose her anyway. She wouldn't stay. Kicked her way out of Linc's biggest paddock and kept following me out of the yard."

Heimie had demanded $2,000, "For a premium broke mule. She was born and trained at Mercy Mules. I paid three thousand for her." Kimble had asked if Heimie didn't mean "broken" as in ruined with all the beating and overwork. Then he asked Heimie to demonstrate the broken-to-saddle bit. Heimie wasn't really in any shape to ride her and his brother, Linc, refused. In fact, Linc refused to let his kids or wife anywhere near the mule. Heimie's next offer was an even thousand and Kimble had started to leave. Trouble was, so had Mrs. Perdicaris. Kimble finally settled for two-fifty, "If you throw in the saddle pad."

Kimble showed the bill of sale to Tomas. "Mrs. Perdicaris has seen the last of Heimie."

A MOUNTED courier running messages north to the heliograph in Parsons brought word that the eastbound caravan would make it in the next day. They'd had trouble with flash floods and then bugs, as an old mining installation had eroded, washing metal tailings across the caravan route. They'd had to detour south.

Meanwhile, the westbound caravan had arrived and would stay two nights before heading on. This was a regular rest stop in both directions, but the schedule was normally set to avoid hitting the tanques with both caravans at once. Tomas took some soundings and decided it would be all right, especially if they got some of the late summer thunderstorms.

Kimble didn't think the westbound caravan would carry his target. The meeting had been set for the tanques according to the DEA. But one thing is sure. The east and westbound caravans would've passed each other at some point.

Meanwhile, two ranch families, three different peddlers, and a freight outfit with two six-team wagons had all hit the tanques that afternoon and planned to stay at least the night.

After evaluating all the travelers, his money was on one or more of the peddlers, though he hadn't ruled out the freighters. He couldn't see the ranch families, traveling with young children, as the drug-dealing type. After playing with some of the kids and fetching water for some of their mothers, his conviction was strengthened.

Mrs. Perdicaris continued to follow Kimble, though she shied away from other livestock and would threaten grown men who came too close. She didn't seem to mind the kids or women, though.

For the last three days he'd put Mrs. P's saddle pad on and cinched it in place. The day before, he'd added his bag and bedroll, tied behind. Mrs. Perdicaris had twitched a bit, but when Kimble made no attempt to climb aboard, she would still thrust her head at his hands and pockets, and if not tied, she would follow him around, even once having to be shoved back out of Tomas' store when Kimble was buying oats for her.

Now, whenever she came up to him, he put his weight on the pad, leaning into it. She just twitched her ears and leaned back. She was with him when he spotted the caravan. They were still at least ten miles out. Kimble patted the side of Mrs. P's neck.

"Well, let's go."

Kimble figured they could wander slowly down to the tanques and find an unobtrusive spot by the store from which to watch the arriving group. He turned away from the ridge's cliff edge and saw Mrs. P's ears stand up and swivel back up the ridge, not toward the tanques.

After a moment, Kimble heard hoofbeats, horses at a walk, more than one.