Moon said, “I'm just seeing how easy it would be.”

“Let him come up all the way.”

Pretty soon now.

The skirmishers were firing from a hundred yards and the tail end of Sundeen's men was moving through the narrows. The firing increased. Sundeen positioned a line of shooters behind cover, just across the open ground-about twenty of them-gave a signal and they all fired at once.

Seeing this about to happen, the people behind the wall ducked down or went to one knee. All except Bren Early. After the second fusillade he said, “At Fredericksburg, where Doubleday's Iron Brigade stood up to the Rebel guns, D.H. Hill sent a flag of truce over with his compliments to General Doubleday-”

Another volley ripped out from the brush slope. Bren tried not to hunch his shoulders.

“-saying he had never in his experience seen infantry stand and suffer casualties under artillery fire more bravely.”

Moon said, “You have got something in your head about having to die to win glory. If that's the deal, I pass…Bo, let's close the back door. Give your troopers the signal.”

Bren, standing, said, “Hold there,” and picked up the glasses from the wall. “Some more are coming up behind.”

Kate had said to Moon, “I'm not staying in the house; you know that.” He said no, he guessed not. “But if you worry out there about me instead of yourself, you'll get shot. So think of me as another hand, not as a woman or your loved one.” Moon had agreed because there was no fighting her. Though he had said, “If something happens to you, your old dad will kill me.”

At the wall now Kate was alert, aware of being in the middle of men's business and would pick out little things that surprised or impressed her. The stoic look of the Apaches. Were they afraid? Was Eladio afraid? Yes, he looked it; but didn't leave when given the chance. Was Bren afraid, standing up to their rifle fire? Or was he beyond fear, playing his hero role? Bo Catlett and the other cavalryman-she thought of them as professional soldiers who would stand because that's what you did. Moon. Moon had good sense, he must be afraid. But his look was the same, his gaze, his unhurried moves, the hunk of tobacco in his jaw. She did not think of herself until the concentrated fire came from the slope and she crouched close to the adobe, feeling the pistol in the waistband of her skirt digging into her, clutching the Henry tightly and seeing her knuckles, close to her face, standing out white and hard. There was a feeling of terrible pressure. She could die on this spot…hearing Moon say if that was the deal he'd pass, saying it so calmly…all of them appearing calm as the rifle fire cracked and sang through the air. Determined, not resigned, but quiet about it. You'd better be, huh? Was it that simple? Run and they'd shoot you in the back. It was fascinating, even with the feeling of pressure. The ultimate, a life or death situation. Bren said, “Hold there…” The firing stopped. They began to raise up from the wall.

“They're riding through Sundeen's people,” Bren said. “They're not his. Some other bunch.”

“That's your friend,” Moon said. “What's his name.”

“Maurice. Christ Almighty, one of'em's leading a pack animal.”

Kate could see the shooters who had been down in the scrub and rocks standing now, looking around, as this parade of single-file riders came through them led by Maurice Dumas…nine, ten of them, the packhorse carrying something covered with canvas, poles sticking out, bringing up the rear. They came across the open ground and now the second rider, wearing a tall white hat, drew even with Maurice in his cap. As Kate got a good look at the man she said, “My God,” and turned to Moon who was staring at them and showing the first expression of pure surprise she had ever seen on his face.

The man in the white Stetson and fringed buckskin dismounted in the yard. Maurice, still mounted, was saying something as the others rode into the yard behind him. The man in the white hat raised his hand to stop Maurice. “No need,” he said, and walked over to Moon and Bren Early.

“Gentlemen, I would know you anywhere. Even if I had not seen your renowned C.S. Fly photographs I would know you are the famous scout, Dana Moon…and you, sir, Captain Brendan Early.” He was taking something out of his fringed coat now-his false teeth and waxed handlebars agleam, something that looked like picture postcards in vivid colors, and said, “Gentlemen, may I present myself…Colonel Billy Washington, here to extend a personal invitation to both of you to join the world-famous Billy Washington All-American Wild West Show as star attractions and performers…if, of course, you get out of this jackpot you're in alive. What do you say, gents?”

Moon looked at Kate. Kate looked at Moon.

Bren was saying, “What-”

The man from Beuhman & Hartwell and his assistant were setting up their camera, both of them glancing up at the sun. The news reporters were looking around at the scenery and down the slope toward the skirmishers standing in the scrub, judging the distance with keen gaze, beginning to make notes…the Mimbres, the Mexican farmers, the two black cavalrymen looking at the reporters and the bill-show man in the white hat and buckskins, staring at them. Where did they come from?

Bren was saying now, “Will you all kindly move out of the way? Go inside the house. Go on.” Shooing them, going over to the photographer who was beneath his black cloth now. “Mister, will you move out of the way-”

Kate kept looking at Moon. She said, “What are we doing here?”

Moon didn't say anything; but his eyes held hers until they heard the voice all out from the slope.

“What in the hell's going on!”

Sundeen stood with several of his men at the edge of a brush thicket, looking up at the wall, at the people they could see close beyond the wall and through the gate opening. Now he yelled, “Get those people out of there!” and waved his arm.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to the man in the derby hat next to him, who had been with Sundeen since the beginning of this company business, “you believe it?”

The man didn't say anything; he was squinting in the glare, frowning. The man didn't seem to know what to think.

“Goddman it,” Sundeen said, “give'em a round.”

When the man in the derby hat didn't move or raise his Winchester, Sundeen took the rifle from him, levered as he jerked it eye-level, fired, levered, fired…seeing them scatter now…levered and fired again, sending his shots singing off the adobe wall where some of them had been standing, then yelled, “We're coming up!”

He half turned and began waving to his men to come on. Not one of them moved. Sundeen pulled his hat off, stared, put his hat on again close over his eyes, pushed the rifle at the man in the derby hat, placed his hands on his hips and looked all around him at his mean Turks. They stood in the hot dusty scrub and shale watching him or looking up the slope.

Very slowly, Sundeen said, “What is going on?”

Before the man in the derby hat could answer-if he was going to-a voice from the yard yelled, “Hold your fire, I'm coming out!”

Sundeen watched the picture-taker and his assistant appear with their camera and heavy tripod, coming out of the yard and moving to a rise off to the side where they began to set up the equipment. Sundeen stared, pulling his funneled hat brim lower. As the picture-takers were getting ready, the man in the bill-show cowboy outfit appeared at the wall and called out, “Mr. Sundeen!-”

Sundeen let go, yelling now as loud as he could, “Get that fancy son of a bitch out of there!” Said, “Jesus,” in his breath and started up the slope by himself.

Kate saw him first. She had begun to feel a letdown, a tired after-feeling; but now the pressure of fear returned. Looking around, she said, “Dana?”