Hondo pushed the dog aside with his foot. "Don't block the door," he said quietly.

Major Sherry gestured to the guidon. "Where did you get this?"

"About half a day's ride south of Twin b.u.t.tes."

"How?"

"Off two Indians. Running Dog Lodge of the Mescaleros."

"So the Mescaleros are up, too. That makes all the Apache lodges."

Hondo shoved his hat back and began to build a smoke.

"Went up there," he said, "and backtrailed them Mescaleros. Davis ambushed Vittoro. Figure he got twenty or more. He was pullin' out of the ambush when they hit him from behind. 'Nother outfit, maybe a hundred strong. He never had a chance."

"All there?"

"Yes. They got no prisoners, if that's what you mean." Hondo hesitated, and then said quietly, "Clanahan fought 'em off Davis' body at the end. They went out together, him an' the Lieutenant."

"Clanahan?" The Major's eyes brightened a little. He remembered the man, a big, black-haired Irishman with a brutal face. A drunk, a brawler, a troublemaker, but a fighter. And he was Army. "He was a good man."

Hondo described the action briefly as he had seen the sign on the ground. It was a clear, accurate picture and had its value. Every battle was a lesson; in each there was something to be learned. Major Sherry never ceased to marvel at what these men would read from the ground, yet he had seen their facts proved too many times to doubt them.

"They won," Hondo said, "but it hurt. They got hit hard."

He took a long drag on his cigarette and turned to the door, then paused. "Any settlers out of the north basin since I been away? Lately?"

"A few."

"Handsome woman? Fair? With a small boy, maybe six years old?"

"No. All middle-aged or elderly people."

Hondo Lane walked to the door and found Buffalo waiting with his war bag. He reached for it but Buffalo pushed his hand away. "I'll tote it."

Hondo walked out into the cool of the evening. They had not come out, then. He had hoped that after he had gone Angie would change her mind. She could have made it through while he rode north to follow through on the story of Company C. But there was nothing.

Buffao walked along beside Hondo, shifting the war bag to his other hand. "Old Pete Britton was scoutin' with C Company. Wintered with Pete once up on the Divide. Ornery cuss."

"Last of them," Hondo said. "Maybe an hour, alone on a hilltop."

They walked on in silence. At the door of the jacal where Hondo stopped, Buffalo put down the bag.

"Old Pete, he worried himself a lot. That winter on the Divide he was laid up lot of the time. Rheumatic, he was. Skeered of being crippled."

They stood together and smoked quietly. Hondo explained about the body. Buffalo dropped his cigarette, then walked away, saying no more. Hondo stood alone then, looking into the night.

He was no man to be thinking about a woman. He had never lived with a woman ... wouldn't know how to. He wouldn't know how to handle a kid, either. And women ... It was one thing with a squaw. After a while you knew them. But a girl like Angie, now, that would be different. He was a fool to even think about it. What did he have to offer a woman?

He sat down in the doorway and took off his boots. He saw a soldier coming down the line of tents. It was the same trooper that had been in the headquarters building.

"That fellow, complaining to the Major. Who was he?"

The trooper hesitated, liking the big man and ready to talk. "Don't know his name."

"Why doesn't he go in?"

"Same reason he walked around your dog when you told him." He waited, wanting to talk, hesitating. "Them Indians you took that C pennant off'n. Dead Indians?"

"Finally."

He got up and turned inside. The trooper stood outside in the dark, a faint shadow in the greater darkness of the night.

The cot creaked. Almost at once there were snores. The soldier stood alone, looking into the night, thinking of a night in his own little New England village. A night like this, cool, quiet...

There had been a girl there. He could not even remember her name, just a quiet, pretty girl. He wished he could remember. He would like to write her a letter.

He thought of Company C, lying under the rain, and under the stars.

A man needed somebody to think about, he needed somebody somewhere.

Chapter Eight.

It was after ten when Hondo awakened. Accustomed to sleeping in short s.n.a.t.c.hes, when and where it was possible, his body could not attune itself to long, unrestricted rest. To oversleep was dangerous, and despite his weariness, he awakened suddenly and with a start.

He stared up into the dark, not moving until his mind knew where he was and the countless tiny sounds began to sort and adjust themselves. Slowly his muscles relaxed. He was at the post.

Groggily he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. His body felt heavy and his mouth tasted bad. He swore, walked to the bucket on the table, and lifted it to drink, then he spat into the street.

It was very dark but there were stars. A coolness left by the rain still pervaded the desert night. He bathed his face, combed his hair, and then picked up his hat. From up the company street he heard the sound of an out-of-tune piano, and with it a clear Irish tenor singing "Brennan on the Moor," an old Irish folk song of a highwayman and his love.

Hondo Lane stepped out into the night and looked around, sensing the darkness, taking his feel of it before moving on. Far out over the hills a coyote yapped his loneliness to the listening stars. A faint breeze stirred the tent flaps. A tent not far away showed the dull glow of a lamp and he heard a murmur of voices and a slap of cards.

Hondo Lane walked up the street toward the sutler's store, his boots grating on the gravel and clay of the parade ground. Two men sat outside the store, smoking. One of them murmured a greeting, and Hondo replied with a short "Howdy," not knowing the man.

Inside the room was crowded. It was a long and dingy room without color, without light, without women. Several men leaned against the homemade bar at one end. At the other there was a counter where trade goods were dispensed, with shelves behind it.

The Irish tenor leaned on the battered upright piano, wearing a rumpled but once fashionable gray suit and a derby hat with a dent and a badly scuffed brim. He was a young man with a dashing mustache, and he needed a shave. The man at the piano was a cow hand, bearing out the fact that in the melting pot of the West there was no estimating the hidden talents of a drifting man.

All were roughly dressed but the soldiers. A few were still around, although most had turned in by now. The men of the crowd were cow hands, cattlemen, gamblers, prospectors, drifters, and scouts. There was a tension in the group, and n.o.body was talking of what they were all thinking. In the morning a burial party would go out to inter the bodies of Company C--a party that must in itself be strong. Not a man here but might be called upon to go, and not a man here who had not lost a friend or drinking companion in the ma.s.sacre of Company C.

Hondo walked to the bar and the sutler reached underneath for a bottle of Irish whisky. He winked at Hondo, filled his gla.s.s, and said quietly, "On the house." Then the bottle vanished again, unseen by the habitues of the saloon and store.

Hondo looked around slowly. A card game was going at the other end of the room. Buffalo was sitting in, and Hondo recognized the man with whom he had had trouble at headquarters. There was another character of whom he had seen a good deal, not only here but at the Pa.s.s, over in Texas. A sour-faced man with a snaky look to his eyes and a habit of winning in poker games, no matter how. The last of them was Pete Summervel.

Pete was seventeen, a hard-riding youngster, c.o.c.ky, overconfident. Now he was not quite drunk, but nearing it. Obviously he was in no condition to play poker, and obviously the gambler was encouraging him to drink. Hondo tossed off his own drink and watched the game. The man with whom he had had trouble earlier seemed adept with the cards. Hondo put down his gla.s.s, drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and walked over to the table.

Ed Lowe looked up when Hondo stopped by the table, and something in him tightened. "Three sixes and two pretty fours," he said, spreading his cards. "I win. Let's go again."

Pete looked up and grinned. "Hi, Hondo! Broke my heart when I heard you made it."

"Your pa know when you started going against that so-called whisky, Pete?"

Pete grinned. The whisky was already having its effect. "Ain't seen him for a month."

Hondo dropped his hand to his shoulder. "I know you haven't, an" I've got a message from him for you. Come on."

Pete got to his feet, staggering a little. "Sure Hondo."

"Come down to the bar where we can talk. These gents'll excuse you."

"I won't."

The words were low-spoken, but Hondo heard them clearly. He turned. It was the man with whom he had had trouble earlier.

"I'm out almost a hundred simoleans."

"That I can figure," Hondo replied mildly, "with Buffalo in the game. Come along, Pete."

Lowe came to his feet quickly and caught Hondo by the shirt front. "Wait a minute!"

Hondo looked at the hand gripping his shirt, then lifted his cold eyes to Lowe's. "I just bought that shirt," he said mildly. The other men were on their feet, too.

Hondo pushed Pete out of range as Lowe started a punch. It was the wrong thing for Lowe to do. As the punch started, Hondo's left hand came up and knocked the grip loose from his shirt and he stepped inside of the looping left with a lifting right uppercut to the chin.

Lowe staggered, and instantly Hondo swung a right that knocked Buffalo into a corner. Lowe had gone down hard, but as Buffalo sat up, Lowe gathered himself.

"What did you hit me for?" Buffalo demanded in pained surprise.

"Because you're the most dangerous."

Hondo had started to turn away when Lowe went for his gun. "Not in the back!" Buffalo shouted. "Leather it!"

Turning swiftly, Hondo kicked the gun from Lowe's hand, then he grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him to his feet. Hondo smashed a right into Lowe's stomach, then shoved him away and hit him in the face with both hands. Lowe lunged, swinging, but Hondo knocked down Lowe's right and crossed over his left. Lowe staggered and Hondo walked in, his face expressionless. He hit Lowe with a left to the body, then a right.

Lowe backed up, not liking it, and Hondo slapped him. It was a powerful, brutal slap that jarred Lowe to his heels and turned him half around. Then Hondo dropped him with a straight right.

Lowe sprawled on the floor and Hondo picked him up by the scuff of the neck and the seat of the pants, and when somebody opened the door, he heaved him out into the dirt Lowe landed on his face in the gravel and Hondo waited an instant in the door.

Ed Lowe rolled over. His body was alive with vindictive hatred and he stared up at Hondo. "You ain't heard the last of this!" he said thickly.

"Then I'll keep listenin'," Hondo said, turning back into the saloon. The door closed and Ed Lowe remained on the ground, staring at the blackness.

The two men seated outside had not moved. One's cigarette glowed red.

Lowe gathered himself and got shakily to his feet. He spat blood from a cut lip. His head felt foggy and there was a raw pain in his side. "I'll kill him!" he said into the night. "I'll kill him for this!"

The cigarette glowed briefly. "I was you," the voice said mildly, "I'd figure I was lucky he wasn't packin' a gun. That's Hondo Lane."

Inside, Hondo walked over to Buffalo. He put his hand on the big man's shoulder. "Sorry, friend. I didn't know who all was in that shindig an' I figured I wanted no part of you in a brawl."

Buffalo chuckled. "All right. I was wishin' the kid was out of it. Ed an' that sidewinder from the Pa.s.s roped him in."

Hondo jerked his head toward the door. "This is the second time I've tangled with that mouthy no-good. Who is he, anyhow?"

"Calls himself Lowe. Ed Lowe."

Ed Lowe ... Hondo looked at the gla.s.s on the bar. Angie's husband, and alive.

What kind of man would leave a woman and child alone at such a time as this? And he had been lifting the roof at headquarters about his cattle. Nothing said about his wife and child.

When F Company rode out of the post at daylight Hondo Lane was standing by to watch them go. With them was riding a company of scouts commanded by Lieutenant Crawford. These were a mixture of Apaches, Yaquis, Opatas, and Mexicans, with a scattering of Americans. All were skilled Indian fighters. It was a strong force for a burial detachment, but their orders were explicit. They were under no concern to attempt to follow Vittoro or to engage in any battle unless first attacked.

Hondo watched them go, his face somber. There was small chance they would encounter Vittoro, although the company of scouts carried enough wild-country brains to have found him no matter where he fled, if they had been permitted. The orders of Major Sherry had been definite, however, and he did not intend to overstep them unless the situation was drastic. To send good men after those who had died with Company C would be worse than foolish. When Crook was present in force, it would be a different story.

Hondo watched them ride out, then walked back to the jacal and began mending gear. He was thinking of Angie. It was no business of his. She had a husband. But she should not be out there alone.

Restlessly he went to the corral and curried the surprised lineback, then fed him a couple of carrots he found in a garden patch near the end of the village.

Buffalo wandered over and joined him. "Don't you be careless, Hondo," he advised. "That Lowe ain't liable to forget what you handed him last night."

"I won't forget."

He worked over the horse a little longer, then released him with a slap on the shoulder. As he watched the line-back cross the corral, he asked, "Lowe been around long?"

"Month, maybe more. Plays a little poker." Buffalo bit off a chew of tobacco. "Hangs out with that rattler Phalinger."

All day reports came in of moving Indians. Twenty Chiricahuas had left the reservation, all young bucks. Some Tontos had been seen crossing the Francisco River heading south. There was a gathering of the tribes.

Twice groups of settlers came into the post, worn and tired from travel, and found shelter in the abandoned tents of a departed Army unit. Each time Hondo made inquiries among them, but they had come in from farther south and there was no report of anyone in the Basin country. Restlessly he awaited return of the burial detail. They had no orders to go beyond the scene of the ma.s.sacre, but the scouts would be riding over more country, and they might have some information.

It was unnaturally quiet at the post. There was no roistering or loud talk around the bar in the sutler's store. Men came and went hurriedly, and the mounted patrols that left the post moved in and out like clockwork. The last patrol in before dark reported a running battle with a handful of Indians in which one Indian was slain and a trooper wounded.

As the hours pa.s.sed, tension grew. It was noon a day later before the burial detail rode in. No Indians had been seen, although they had cut the trails of several small groups.

Shortly after the burial detail returned, Hondo Lane walked into the headquarters building. The sergeant looked up as he entered.

"Major Sherry in?"

"He's in. Just a minute."

The sergeant returned. "Go on in. He said he wanted to see you, anyway."