At a quarter to eleven Bruckner stopped pacing around the front room of the jail, moving from the railing that divided the room to the front window and back, went into his office and sat down, wishing he had just a couple swallows of that Green River drying on the floor.

At five to eleven he thought he heard voices outside. He turned to the window, but came around again as he heard the door open and close. Bren Early appeared in the doorway to his office wearing his .44's, saddlebags over his shoulder and carrying a sawed-off shotgun. At this moment Bruckner's plan began to go all to hell.

“O.K.,” Bruckner said, getting up and coming out to the front room as Early stepped back. “You got his horse?”

Early nodded.

“I'll fetch him. Go on outside.”

Early looked at Bruckner's empty holster, then over at the gun rack, locked with two vertical iron bars. “Where the keys?”

“Don't worry-go on outside.” Bruckner took a ring of keys from the desk in the front room, walked to the metal-ribbed door leading to the cell block and unlocked it before looking back at Early.

“What're you waiting on?”

Early moved toward him, making a motion with the sawed-off shotgun.

Early coming back with him wasn't in the plan. But maybe it wouldn't hurt anything. It could even make it easier, having the two right together.

Bruckner glanced over his shoulder walking down the row of cells. He raised his hands as one of the prisoners, then another, saw them and pushed up from their bunks. A voice behind Early said, “Hey, partner, open this one. Let me out of this shit hole.”

Moon stood at his cell door. He stepped aside as Bruckner entered, made a half-turn and came around to slam a fist into the side of Bruckner's face. The deputy hit the adobe wall and slid to the floor. Moon stood over him a moment, seeing blood coming out of the man's nose. He said, “Don't ever put your hands on me again,” and gave him a parting boot in the ribs, drawing a sharp gasp from Bruckner.

Early held the lockup door open as Moon came through, then slammed it closed, cutting off the voices of the prisoners yelling to be let out.

“Sundeen was out in front. Just him I could see, but it doesn't mean he's alone,” Early said.

From the saddlebags Moon took his folded-up coat and shoulder rig and slipped them on, saying, “How far you going in this?”

“See you get out of here, that's all. But Sundeen's a different matter. I mean if he wants to try.” Early paused. “If he doesn't, maybe we should go find him, get the matter settled.”

Moon was smoothing his coat, adjusting the fit of the holster beneath his left arm. He took the sawed-off from Early. “I ain't lost any sleep over him. Least I haven't yet.”

“No, but he's gonna bother you now, he gets the chance. I'd just as soon finish it.”

Moon seemed to study him, forming words in his mind. “Is it you've been sitting around too long, you're itchy? Or you just wanted to shoot somebody?”

“I can go home and leave it up to you,” Early said, a cold edge there.

“Yes, you can. And I'd probably handle him one way or the other.”

Early stared at Moon a moment, turned and walked toward the door.

Moon said, “You understand what I mean? I want to be sure about him.”

Early pulled the door wide open and stepped aside. “Go on and find out then.” Still with the cold edge.

Shit, Moon thought. He said, “Get over your touchiness. You sound like a woman.” And walked out the door past him-the hell with it-out into the middle of the street, looking around, before he saw his horse over by the side of the bank. He didn't see any sign of Sundeen and didn't expect to; the man wasn't going to shoot out of the dark and not get stand-up credit for his kill.

Early came out to the board sidewalk, pulling the door partly closed behind him. He said, “Go on home, sit on your porch. Kate's waiting up by the bend.”

“Thanks,” Moon said, glancing over, already moving toward Fourth Street.

“You don't have to thank me for anything,” Early said. “We're even now, right? Don't owe each other a thing.”

Jesus, Moon thought. He should hear himself.

He saw the light in the half-closed doorway behind Early widen. He saw a figure, Bruckner, and yelled, “Bren!” and had to drop the sawed-off with Bren in the way and the door too far; he had to drop it to pull the goddamn saddlebags off his shoulder and come out with the Colt's, seeing Early throwing himself out of the way as Bruckner's shotgun exploded and Moon's revolver kicked in his hand and he saw Bruckner punched off his feet as the .44 took him somewhere in the middle of his body. Bren was up then, yelling at him to go on, get out of here, waving his arm.

You better, Moon thought, picking up the sawed-off. He could see Bruckner's feet in the doorway, beyond Early. And sounds now from across the street, people starting to come out of the Gold Dollar, standing there, looking this way. Moon reached his horse and stepped up; he pointed toward Mill Street and was gone in the darkness.

11

Moon stopped at White Tanks on the way home “to put in an appearance,” he told Kate, say hello to the reservation Apaches he hadn't seen in weeks and sort through his mail-any directives, bulletins or other bullshit he might have received from Washington.

Kate said she was glad she didn't have to read it. She would go home and light the fire. He watched her take off across the pasture toward the brushy slope and start up the switchback trail that climbed through the field of saguaro, watching her until she was a tiny speck, his little wife up there on the mountain, and said to himself, “You know how lucky you are?” He was anxious to get home to her. Maybe he'd look at the mail but check on the reservation people tomorrow.

He sat down at his desk though, to read the letter from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Interior Department, Washington, D.C. It took him about a quarter of an hour to find out all the two and a half pages of official language actually said was, he was fired…would be relieved of his duties for disregarding such and such, as of a date three months from now. Fired because he hadn't brought his Indians down off the mountain, failing to comply with directive number…some long number. The fools. They could have said it in two words.

He'd go home and tell Kate and watch her eyes open-Kate poised there, not knowing whether to show relief or rail at the imbeciles in the bureau, pausing and then asking, “Well, how do you feel about it?”

How did he feel?

Relief, yes, able to wade out of the official muck, walk off. Or would he be walking out, leaving the reservation people when they needed him? Well, they may need somebody, but he wasn't doing them a hell of a lot of good, was he? And what difference did it make now, since he didn't have a choice but to leave? Thinking about all that at once, blaming himself for not having thought of an answer sooner…and hearing the bootsteps on the porch, the ching-ing sound, without first hearing a horse approach-

The Mexican stood in the open doorway. The one from Sonora. The one from Duro's yard with the white flag. Hesitant. Raising his hands from his sides.

“You didn't walk here,” Moon said.

“I didn't want to startle you. Maybe you come out shooting you hear me,” Ruben Vega said. “Listen to me and believe it, all right? I don't work for Sundeen no more, but he's up on the mountain.”

“Where?” Moon came out of his swivel chair.

“Going to your house.”

“When was this?”

“Last night, very late.”

Moon came around his desk and Ruben Vega had to get out of his way. He followed Moon out to the porch.