THAT NIGHT JACK Cameron rode into Contention City under a skyful of stars.
He’d rested only three times since leaving the gorge where he’d left Perro Loco, and he hadn’t eaten anything but his two remaining strips of jerked beef. He’d drunk nothing but water. He was craving a stiff drink, food, and sleep, and he intended to pursue them in that order.
But first he wanted to find the officer in charge of the Army detail from Fort Bowie, and tell him what had happened.
He was hoping he’d be able to get the reward money in spite of his not having proof of Loco’s demise. It could be a tricky situation, he knew, and it all depended on which of the blueshirts was here. If it was a man he knew personally, Cameron thought he’d get the money. If not … well, then he might have some fancy talking to do.
He dismounted his buckskin at the livery barn, slipping out of the saddle with a weary groan. Every muscle in his body ached, and his knuckles were still sore from his fight with the Indian. His skin was burned raw from sun and wind, and his eyes felt like they’d been gone over with sandpaper.
He led the horse into the barn, where he found the hostler, a short, wiry Mexican whose shaggy black hair was flecked with hay, and negotiated a price for stabling, feed, and a rubdown. He asked the man if he’d seen Hotchkiss and the others. He had, and Cameron felt relieved.
He threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and shucked his rifle from its boot, then asked, “You seen any blueshirts in town, Alvin?”
“Sí,” the Mexican said as he loosened the buckskin’s latigo, giving Cameron a curious frown. “They hang around here giving the Mexican girls a hard time. Someone’s going to get shot if they mess too long with the wrong girl, Jack.”
“Where they been doing their drinkin’ and … and diddlin’?”
“The Dew Drop. They waitin’ for you, Jack?”
“I reckon.”
“You join up again, fight the Apache?”
“That’ll be the day,” Cameron said with a grunt.
“Will they go now? Give us Mex boys a chance with the señoritas?” Alvin grinned.
“I reckon. Thanks, Alvin.”
“See ya, Jack. Tell the blueshirts good riddance for me, huh?”
Cameron didn’t ordinarily frequent the Dew Drop. It was run by a Swede who treated his girls roughly but got away with it because most were orphans who had nowhere else to go. The Army boys liked to frequent the spot whenever they were in town, so they could tell their friends back in Iowa and Illinois what screwing a Mex girl was like.
It was a little adobe building with a second story constructed of rough lumber. The yard was a confusion of ladderback chairs, horse troughs, and chickens. A big saguaro stood sentinel by the low-slung door, its needles silvery with reflected starlight. Pigs grunted in the thatch-roofed barn behind the place. The air smelled of homemade corn liquor and a variety of manures, and Cameron could hear bedsprings getting a workout in the second story.
Inside was dusky with smoky lamplight. There was no music. Four cavalrymen sat playing cards. A fifth sat in the corner with a girl on his knee, brushing his mustache with a small comb. She gave little giggles as the man spoke to her in low tones.
Cameron moved into the room slowly, the saddlebags draped over his left shoulder, rifle in his right hand. The Swede stood behind the bar, his big, rawboned face ominous in the shunting shadows, his fists on the bar. He stared at Cameron but said nothing. He knew how Cameron felt about him. For that reason, he didn’t care for Cameron, either.
The age of the man with the girl on his knee told Cameron this was the soldier he was looking for—that, and the bars on his shoulder. The others in the room didn’t look like they were shaving yet. The card game came to a halt. The pounding and singing of the bedsprings above them stopped.
In the silence, Cameron asked the man in the corner, “You in charge of these men?”
The man only now noticed him. He dropped his knee and the girl almost fell, then gained her feet with an angry complaint. She didn’t look much older than twelve. Pointy little breasts pushed against her low-cut, lace-edged dress.
“Git,” the soldier told her. “You Cameron?”
Frowning, the girl slouched away. The Swede said something to her in a brusque, low voice, and she slipped through a curtained doorway and disappeared.
“That’s right,” Cameron said.
“Well, well,” the soldier said, “you’re overdue.”
Cameron walked to the man’s table, assessing the officer’s blunt face, his broad nose, deep-set eyes, and red hair the texture of corn silk. He wore captain’s bars on his shoulders, and something told Cameron they’d been there a long time—and would likely still be there when he died or retired. Probably he had a chip on his shoulder, as well, and wasn’t picky about showing it.
Cameron cursed to himself. Of all the lousy luck—why couldn’t they have sent Gretchel or McCaig? He wasn’t going to get his money, but he sat down anyway.
“There was a problem,” Cameron said, a tired sigh rattling up from his chest. He dropped his saddlebags on the floor and slapped his knee, watching the dust billow. “The Indian got away from us. I tracked him and killed him, but I don’t have proof. He fell into a canyon.”
The soldier watched him for several seconds. Finally he said, “You want a drink?” and indicated the half-full bottle on the table.
“No.”
“Well, if you don’t have any proof the Injun’s dead…”
“You could take my word for it.”
“That wouldn’t be very businesslike, now, would it?”
There was the sound of boots on stairs, and Cameron saw a uniformed young man appear at the bottom of the stairway at the back of the room. The private looked around sheepishly and joined the other soldiers at the table near the bar. One of the men gave a soft whoop and jumped to his feet, making his unsteady way to the stairs.
“You pay first,” the Swede said. He hadn’t moved from his position behind the bar. The soldier handed over some cash, walked to the bottom of the stairs, then ran up the steps. The other men snickered.
The officer watched with a bemused grin. His eyes were drunk and watery.
“Why don’t you take my word for it?” Cameron said. “Ask any officer at Bowie. I always get my man.”
“You couldn’t have climbed down and cut his head off?”
Cameron shook his head. “Not if I wanted to climb back out again. The walls of that canyon were sheer rock for twenty feet.”
“Well, I ain’t here to pay for air. If I don’t have proof that renegade’s dead, you ain’t gonna get your money.” The man smiled grimly and spread his soft, freckled hands. “Sorry.”
Cameron felt a surge of anger. “Why don’t you ride out and see for yourself?”
The man wrinkled his nose. “’Cause that ain’t my job.” He turned to the Swede. “Send her back.”
“Corona,” the Swede yelled.
“You’re a horse’s ass, Captain,” Cameron said.
What burned him most was that he knew the man was right. It was not the soldier’s job to ride out and verify the kill. Either Cameron had proof, and got his money, or he didn’t.
He knew it should be enough that the Indian was dead—the Blue Rock Valley would no longer be haunted by Perro Loco—but Cameron had been banking on that money to get him through the winter. His ranch was not yet established, and he was still trying to bring his first herd to market fat. His larder was down to a few pounds of sugar and some wild game, maybe half a bag of Arbuckle’s.
The officer crinkled his eyes with a scowl. “And you’re nothing but a goddamn saddle tramp.”
The girl returned and resumed her seat on the soldier’s knee. He gave her a lascivious grin, dismissing Cameron.
Cameron stood up, shoving the chair back with his legs. It went over with a bark. Cameron picked up his saddlebags and rifle and headed for the door, feeling humiliated and angry and just plain shit-upon.
“Stay for a drink?” said the Swede, enjoying the display.
“Kiss my ass,” Cameron growled, and stepped out the door.