Leonard, Elmore - The Law at Randado

 1

 At times during the morning, he would think of the

 man named Kirby Frye. The man who had brought

 him here. There had been others, most of them soldiers, but he remembered by name only the one

 called Frye. He had known him before and it had

 been a strange shock to see him last night.

 Most of the time, though, Dandy Jim stood at

 the window of the upstairs jail cell and watched the

 street below in the cold sunlight and tried not to

 think of anything.

 He would see riders walking their horses, then

 ?at-bed wagons—most often with a man and

 woman on the seat and children at the back end

 with their legs swinging over the tailgate—and now

 and then a man leading a pack mule. They moved

 both ways along the street that appeared narrower

 from above with the ramadas making a shadow

 line along the building fronts.

 Saturday morning and the end of a trail drive

 brings all kinds to town. The wagon people, oneloop ranchers and their families who would be on

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 their way home before dark. A few prospectors

 down out of the Huachucas who would drink

 whisky while their money lasted, then buy some to

 take if their credit was good. And the mounted men,

 most of them on horses wearing the Sun-D brand—

 a D within a design that resembled a crudely drawn

 ?ower though it was meant to be a sunburst—men

 back from a month of trail driving, back from pushing two thousand cows up the San Rafael valley to

 the railhead at Willcox, twenty days up and ten back

 and dust all the way, but strangely not showing the

 relief of having this now behind them. They rode

 silently, and men do not keep within themselves with

 a trail drive just over and still fresh in their minds.

 Dandy Jim knew none of this, neither the day

 nor why the people were here. Earlier, he had

 watched the street intently. When he ?rst opened

 his eyes, ?nding himself on the plank ?oor and not

 knowing where he was, he had gone to the window

 and looked out, blinking his eyes against the cold

 sunlight and against the throbbing in the back of

 his head that would suddenly stab through to

 above his eyes.

 But the street and the store fronts told him only

 that this was no Sonoita or Tubac or Patagonia, because he had been to those places. Now he looked

 out of the window because there was nothing else

 to do, still not understanding what he saw or remembering how he came here.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 3

 Dandy Jim was Coyotero Apache; which was the

 reason he did not understand what he saw. The

 throbbing in his head was from tulapai; and only

 that much was he beginning to remember.

 His Coyotero name was Tloh-ka, but few Americans knew him by that. He had been Dandy Jim

 since enlisting as a tracker with the 5th Cavalry.

 They said he was given the name because he was a

 favorite with the men of the “Dandy 5th” and they

 called him Jim, then Dandy Jim to associate him

 with the regiment, because to say Tloh-ka you had

 to hold your tongue a certain way and just to call

 an Apache wasn’t worth all that trouble. Tloh-ka

 was handsome, by any standards; he was young,

 his shoulder-length hair looked clean even when it

 was not, and his appearance was generally better

 than most Apaches. That was another reason for

 his name.

 He slept again for a short time, lying on his

 stomach on the bunk, a canvas-covered wooden

 frame and an army blanket, but better than the

 ?oor. He opened his eyes abruptly when he heard

 the footsteps, but did not move his face from the

 canvas.

 Through the bars he saw two men in the hallway.

 One was fat and moved slowly because of it. He

 carried something covered over with a cloth. The

 other was a boy, he saw now, carrying the same

 thing and he stayed behind the large man, moving

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 hesitantly as if afraid to be up here where the cells

 were.

 As they came to his cell the Coyotero closed his

 eyes again. He heard the door being opened. There

 was whispering, then a voice said, “Go on, he’s

 asleep.” Dandy Jim opened his eyes. The boy was

 setting a dishtowel-covered tray in the middle of

 the ?oor. As the boy stood up he glanced at the

 Coyotero. Their faces were close and the boy

 looked suddenly straight into the open black eyes

 that did not blink.

 “Harold!” The boy backed away.

 “What’s the matter?”

 “He’s awake!” The boy was in the hallway now.

 “We let them do that,” the fat one who was

 called Harold said, and locked the door again.

 They went to the other cell and the boy took the

 tray while Harold unlocked the door. The boy went

 in quickly and put the tray on the ?oor, not looking

 at the two Mexicans who were lying on the bunks.

 The door slammed and they were moving down the

 hall again. Dandy Jim could hear the boy whispering, then going down the stairs Harold was telling

 him something.

 The Coyotero sat up and ate the food: meat and

 bread. There was coffee, too, and after this he felt

 better. The throbbing in his head was a dull pain

 now and less often would it shoot through to his

 eyes. The food removed the sour, day-old taste of

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 5

 tulapai from his mouth and this he was more

 thankful for than the full feeling in his stomach.

 And now he was beginning to remember more of

 what had happened.

 He heard the cell door close again, this in his

 mind. It was dark and he was lying on the ?oor and

 now he remembered the men leaving, one of them

 carrying a lamp. They walked heavily and the ?oor

 against his face shook with their walking. Then

 darkness, and silence, and when he opened his eyes

 again he was here. But before that—

 Tulapai. No, before that.

 It came to him suddenly and his mind was not

 ready for it. The shock of memory stiffened his

 body, then left him limp the next moment and he

 groaned, closing his eyes tight to squeeze the picture of it from his mind. He saw her face clearly.

 She was on the ground and he was astride her, holding her arms with his knees. Her eyes were open

 wide, but she did not scream, not until he drew the

 knife, and holding her head down by the hair,

 slashed off part of her nose.

 It was the fault of the tulapai, the corn beer he

 had been drinking as he rode home; but it was also

 his rage. The shock of seeing her with Susto. Across

 the stream, through the willow branches, seeing the

 two of them lying close to each other. He was

 halfway across the stream when they saw him.

 Susto ran for the brush thicket and disappeared;

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 but Dandy Jim’s wife ran to their jacale, as if she

 knew she would be caught, but should at least run

 at a time like this. And that was where he found her

 and did what he had to do, what had been the customary act of a cheated Apache male longer than

 anyone could remember. A woman without a nose

 would not easily fall into adultery again.

 And now he remembered more of the things that

 had happened the evening before: sitting with his

 friends drinking tulapai, drinking too much while

 they told him what he had done was the right thing.

 Then the sudden warning that soldiers were approaching the rancheria; but it was hard to think,

 even then with the tulapai, and they made noise

 ?eeing on their ponies. Their minds would not calm

 long enough to think out their escape and do it

 properly. So they just ran, and all the time, for

 hours, the soldiers were never more than a mile behind. Just before dark the soldiers caught up and

 shot Dandy Jim’s pony and that was the end. He remembered walking, stumbling, between their

 horses for a long time until they reached a place

 that was light and there was much noise.

 And he remembered brie?y, vaguely seeing a

 man he had once known, Kirby Frye. Then up the

 stairs . . . the plank ?oor of the cell, then daylight

 and the sour taste of tulapai.

 He did not know what had happened to his companions. Perhaps they are still ?eeing, he thought.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 7

 With the darkness they could have escaped the soldiers. And that one whose name is Frye . . . he was

 there. I have not seen him for a long time. But he is

 not here now.

 He looked at the two Mexicans in the cell across

 the hallway. One of them was eating, but the other

 man was still lying on the bunk with his arm over

 his eyes. For a moment the Coyotero wondered

 why they were there.

 Downstairs, the boy was talking to Harold Mendez.

 His name was Wordie Stedman; he was eleven and

 he liked better than anything else to sit in the jail of?ce with Harold Mendez or Kirby Frye and have

 them tell him things. Sometimes he got upstairs; like

 just a while ago when Harold let him carry one of

 the trays. The boy had an excuse to stay there now.

 He had to wait for the prisoners to ?nish eating before he could take the trays back to the Metropolitan Café.

 He said to Harold, who was middle-aged and at

 this moment looked comfortable in the swivel chair

 with his feet propped on the desk edge, staring out

 the window, “I’m glad I got a chance to see them

 close-up. They really look mean, don’t they?”

 Harold Mendez said, “Everybody looks that

 way when they wake up.”

 “Those two Mexicans, I saw them the other day

 when Kirby brought them in. One with his hat

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 gone, shot smack off his head.” Wordie grinned.

 “Kirby must’ve been off a ways else he’d a hit

 him.”

 “Maybe he was aiming at the hat.”

 “Why would he do that?” the boy said. “When

 you catch two men stealing other people’s cattle

 you might as well aim a little lower and save the

 county some hangin’ expenses.”

 “How much does it cost to hang a man,

 Wordie?”

 “What?”

 “You’ve been overhearing your father.” Harold

 Mendez, the jailer, lighted a cigar now and drew on

 it gently, holding it the way a man does who considers cigar smoking a luxury.

 “The one in the other cell’d scare the wits out of

 anybody,” Wordie Stedman said.

 “Dandy Jim?”

 “That ’Pache.”

 “He’s considered a nice-looking boy.”

 Wordie nodded, indicating upstairs. “There

 wasn’t anything nice about him a while ago. He

 stunk to high heaven.”

 “I’ll see he gets a bath and rinses out his mouth,”

 Harold Mendez said.

 The boy was thinking, looking absently at the

 stairway, then he said, “I’ll bet he murdered somebody and Kirby come up and caught him redhanded!”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 9

 “The only thing he was murdering was his

 stomach.”

 The boy looked at the jailer, frowning and twisting the corner of his mouth. “He was drinking tulapai,” Harold Mendez explained. “Soldiers from

 Huachuca out looking for stills found him and

 some others with tulapai. They chased after the Indians, about six braves, to get them to tell where

 the stills are, but Dandy Jim’s the only one they

 caught.”

 “What are they doing with him here?” the boy

 said.

 “He was close by when they caught him, so they

 asked Kirby if they could keep him here while they

 chased after the others.”

 The boy said excitedly, “And Kirby went along

 to give them a hand!”

 Harold Mendez nodded. “Of course.”

 “He’ll ?nd them,” the boy said con?dently.

 “What if he doesn’t?”

 The boy looked at the big jailer. “What do you

 mean?”

 Harold Mendez shrugged. “I mean what if he

 doesn’t bring them back?”

 Wordie looked at him, frowning again. “ ’Course

 he’ll bring them back.”

 “I’ve known him to come home empty-handed.”

 “Nobody’s perfect,” the boy said. But if that’s

 true, the boy was thinking, then Kirby Frye’s sure

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 the closest thing to being it. He said now, “Should I

 get the trays?”

 “We’ll give them a few more minutes.”

 “I don’t see how they can eat. In jail.” The boy

 went to the window and looked out just for something to do. “There’s sure a lot of people here today.”

 “It’s Saturday,” Harold Mendez said.

 The boy turned to Mendez suddenly. “The Sundeen crew’s back.”

 “So I heard.”

 The boy seemed disappointed that what he said

 wasn’t news, but he tried again, saying, “I’ll bet

 there’s something you don’t know.”

 “There might be,” Harold Mendez said.

 “They haven’t been paid off yet.”

 Mendez turned his head to look at the boy. “No,

 I didn’t know that.”

 Wordie Stedman grinned. “I heard my dad talking about it a while ago with Mr. Tindal. Says they

 moved that big herd all the way up to the railhead,

 come all the way back, and still haven’t been given

 their trail wages.”

 “Your dad say why?”

 “No, but Mr. Tindal said a man does that just

 once and then he ?nds himself without a crew. Even

 a man like Phil Sundeen. Mr. Tindal said Old Val

 Sundeen used to always pay off the hands when

 they reached the railhead, like it should be. He said

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 11

 Phil better take some lessons from his dad pretty

 soon if he wants to stay in the cattle business. Said

 if Phil minded his ways instead of drinking and

 carousing he wouldn’t be losing stock and refusing

 to pay rightful trail wages.”

 “What did your dad say to that?”

 “Mr. Tindal was doing most of the talking. My

 dad would just nod his head. I never seen my dad or

 Mr. Tindal look so worried.”

 “They might have good cause,” Harold Mendez

 said. He drew on his cigar thoughtfully and his

 hand idly ?ngered a name-plate shingle that was on

 the desk. Harold Mendez had carved the lettering

 on it himself, an inscription that read: KIRBY FRYE,

 and under it: DEPUTY SHERIFF—RANDADO. It had

 taken him almost a month to carve it.

 2

 Across the street, in De Spain’s cardroom, R. D.

 Tindal was about to make a speech.

 He had begun forming the words in his mind the

 night before as he lay in his bed staring at the darkness and because of it he did not fall asleep until

 long after midnight. In the morning, as soon as he

 opened his eyes, he began recalling the words, hearing his own voice as it would sound, going over and

 over again the opening sentence that had to sound

 natural. No, more than natural, casual; but words

 that would hold them right from the start, words he

 would speak dryly in a sort of don’t-give-a-damn

 way, an off-the-cuff understatement, but loaded

 with meaning. Eating his breakfast he smiled thinking of the reaction. They wouldn’t laugh when he

 said it, because he wouldn’t; but they’d shake their

 heads thinking: By God, that R. D. Tindal’s something! His wife watched him from the stove; his

 daughter, Milmary, watched him while she drank

 her coffee, and neither of them spoke. Opening the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 13

 store, The R. D. Tindal Supply Company, and waiting on the ?rst Saturday morning customers, he

 went over the other things he would say, even anticipating questions and forming the exact words

 for the answers. At ten o’clock he put on his hat

 and coat and told Milmary to hold down the fort

 till he got back. Milmary asked him where he was

 going and did it have anything to do with his being

 so quiet all morning?

 Going out the door he said, signi?cantly, “Milmary, the Citizens Committee.” That was all.

 And now he looked at the men at his table and

 the ones beyond at the other three tables and the

 men over against the wall, De Spain, one of them,

 standing with his back to the closed door and his

 hand behind him on the knob. He stood by the

 door, in case he was wanted out front. Saturday his

 saloon did good business even in the morning. And

 in the cardroom they could hear the sounds of the

 good business, the boots and the chairs scraping

 and the whisky-relaxed laughter.

 R. D. Tindal wished they’d be quiet, these men

 laughing over nothing, only because it was Saturday. His eyes returned to the three men at his

 table—Earl Beaudry, landowner, probably his closest friend. George Stedman, manager of the Randado Branch of the Cattlemen’s Bank, a good man

 to know. And Haig Hanasian, owner of the Metro-14

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 politan Café, a man you’d never know in seven

 hundred years, Tindal thought—and then he was

 ready to begin.

 He cleared his throat. He had not intended to,

 because there was a chance someone might think

 he was nervous, but it just came out. He remembered though to sound casual and began by saying,

 “Gentlemen, it just occurred to me a minute ago,

 watching you boys ?le in, that there isn’t one of us

 here who hasn’t been shaving at least twenty

 years.” He watched some of them ?nger their

 chins, as he had known they would. “Yet those

 people up to the county seat would have a special

 representative down here just for wiping our noses

 if we’d let them.”

 He paused to give them time to shake their heads

 and appreciate fully this dry, spur-of-the-moment

 humor.

 Beaudry, Stedman and Haig Hanasian kept their

 eyes on Tindal, but did not shake their heads, not

 even faintly.

 Across the room De Spain shook his head, but he

 was thinking: He isn’t even a good actor.

 Tindal leaned forward resting his elbows on the

 table and said, “Now I think we’re all old enough

 to take care of ourselves, regardless of what opinion the people up to the county seat hold.” He

 paused again, but not so long this time. “Which

 means we’re old enough to take care of our own af-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 15

 fairs right here in Randado without crying help

 from the county. Isn’t that right, Earl?”

 Earl Beaudry looked up. “Absolutely.”

 Tindal went on, “Earl’s lived right here for a long

 time, even before there was a Randado, and his dad

 before that, one of the ?rst men in the Territory.

 Now I’d say a man like Earl Beaudry should have a

 fewwords to say about how his town affairs are

 run. There are others of you who’ve been out here

 almost as long, got your roots planted ?rm now.

 There are some who’ve been here only a few years,

 like our friend George Stedman, but men who’re

 damn well the backbone of the community.” R. D.

 Tindal’s mouth formed a faint grin. “What do you

 say, George? You think we’re old enough to wipe

 our own noses?”

 George Stedman grinned back. “I don’t see why

 not.”

 De Spain blew his nose and every man in the

 room looked at him stuf?ng the handkerchief into

 his pocket again. He said to Tindal, “You’ll have to

 excuse me. I’ve got to get back to work.”

 “Wait a minute now,” Tindal said. “This is important.”

 “This is Saturday.”

 Tindal glanced around the room, leaning on his

 arms. “I’d say the question we’re discussing is a

 shade weightier than whether or not some hands

 get drunk.”

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 De Spain nodded resignedly. “All right, but get

 to the point.”

 Tindal gave him a stare, took time to suck at his

 teeth, then leaned back as slowly as he could.

 “Three days ago,” he began, “our sheriff brought

 in single-handed two men caught in the act of

 rustling Sun-D stock.” He grinned. “That wasn’t

 too hard for Kirby, doing it alone. You know he’s a

 Randado boy, done most of his growing up right

 here.” Seriously again. “But we had something to

 say about signing on Kirby. Pima County give him

 to us as a deputy, but by God our committee passed

 on him! We looked over this Kirby Frye, along with

 others, and accepted him only after we were sure he

 quali?ed. He’s young, but he’s a hard-working boy

 and we know he can do the job. See what I mean?

 This committee took hold of the problem and we

 come up with the best deputy in the county!” Now

 get to the point, quick.

 “Kirby Frye, Deputy Sheriff of Randado,

 brought in two men caught stealing cattle from a

 citizen of Randado . . . yet we have to wait until

 John Danaher’s good and ready to send for the two

 outlaws before they’re tried. We sit here waiting on

 the whim of a county sheriff eighty-?ve miles away

 from us.” Now give ’em the big casino! “Gentlemen, here’s the point. We sit here doing nothing

 while we’re damn-right able to handle it ourselves!”

 Earl Beaudry and George Stedman both nodded.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 17

 From the door De Spain said, “When was Phil

 Sundeen talking to you?”

 Tindal looked at him, momentarily surprised,

 because this wasn’t one of the questions he had anticipated, and feeling a sudden embarrassment he

 kept his eyes steadily on De Spain’s dark face as if

 to prove that he was sincere and he said, “Do you

 think I’m trying to hide something? I’m not denying

 we talked to Phil Sundeen. I was coming to that . . .

 if you’d give me time to tell it my own way. Maybe

 I’m not a polished enough speaker for you!”

 De Spain shook his head. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

 “I’m trying to do a job that could be a damn

 sight pleasanter. I don’t see anybody volunteering

 to head this committee.”

 “You’re doing a ?ne job,” George Stedman said

 encouragingly. “Go ahead, tell them the rest.”

 “If this is an imposition on Mr. De Spain, maybe

 we should meet somewhere else,” Tindal said.

 De Spain said nothing.

 George Stedman spoke up. “Go on with the

 rest.”

 R. D. Tindal cleared his throat and was embarrassed again and swore at De Spain in his mind. He

 said, almost angrily now, “Those two Mexicans

 over in the jail belong to Randado, that’s what I’m

 getting at. And it’sour duty to see justice done to

 them . . . nobody else’s!” He brought his ?st down

 on the table for emphasis.

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 Earl Beaudry half turned in his chair to look at

 the others. “You see, we—George and R. D. and

 me—were talking to Phil Sundeen last night. He

 come back last night, you know—”

 Tindal interrupted, his face ?ushed, “Wasn’t I

 telling it all right?”

 Beaudry turned to him. “Sure, R. D. Go ahead.”

 “If you want to take over, Earl—”

 Beaudry waved his palm toward Tindal. “You

 tell it, R. D.”

 “As Earl said, we talked to Phil Sundeen last

 night here in town . . . in fact we were over to the

 Metropolitan when they brought in that drunk

 Apache. That right, Haig?” This was to show that

 they had met Phil Sundeen in a public place and

 there was nothing undercover about it.

 Haig Hanasian nodded. He was dark with a

 heavy drooping mustache and his eyes appeared

 half closed because the lids were heavy.

 “Haig saw us,” Tindal said. “So did his wife.

 Well, we mentioned to Phil how Kirby Frye

 brought in the two Mexicans; which he hadn’t

 heard about. Then he reminded us of something

 we’d known for a long time. He said his stock’s always been rustled. With the border so close it’s a

 temptation and his spread’s hit harder than the

 ones up the valley. He said he’d complained to

 Mendez—that’s when Harold was deputy—but

 nothing was ever done about it. Phil said he’s al-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 19

 ways had the suspicion Harold Mendez never did

 anything because the outlaws were always up from

 across the border and Harold being about ninetynine percent Mex didn’t give a particular damn so

 long as they were stealing from white men.

 “Well, we got rid of Harold Mendez and got us a

 Randado boy, one we can trust. Harold Mendez

 isn’t going to bother anybody being jailer.” Tindal

 grinned. “With what it pays, Harold’s the only one

 willing to do that kind of work.” This was Tindal’s

 view, not something Sundeen had told him.

 “I told Phil how Kirby was deputy now. He

 didn’t know that because he’d already started his

 drive the time we appointed Kirby. Then Phil made

 a pretty good point. He said, ‘All right, let’s say this

 new sheriff does grab a rustler. He’s carted up to

 Tucson for trial. The man he stole from has to leave

 his work for at least a week, maybe longer, and go

 all the way up to the county seat to testify. Chances

 are, the rustler’s only given a term in Yuma and in a

 year or so he’s back driving stock over the border

 again.’ That’s what Phil said and by God I think it

 makes some sense.”

 Tindal leaned forward in his chair. He remembered well how he was to say this next part. He

 looked over the room slowly and then said, “Now

 what would there be to stop us—I meanus —from

 trying those two Mexicans?” The room was still

 silent and he added, quietly, “Right here and now.”

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 Some of the men, looking at each other now,

 started to talk and one man’s voice, above the others was saying, “Now wait a minute!”

 Earl Beaudry turned in his chair. “Well why

 not?” And a man at another table shrugged and

 said, “That’s right. When you get down to it, why

 not?”

 George Stedman said, “Like R. D. mentioned

 this is a crime committed against a citizen of Randado. Now common sense would tell us that the

 citizens of Randado, as a body, ought to be quali?ed to see that justice is administered.”

 The man in the back who had spoken now said,

 “We’d be nothing more than a lynch mob.”

 Earl Beaudry said, “We’re going to try them

 ?rst.”

 George Stedman brought his ?st down on the

 table. “If we’re a lynch mob then that’s what the

 court up at the county seat is, that’s what any

 court is if you look at it that way. Can’t you see

 we’re talking as the people, and there isn’t any

 court on the face of the earth that’s more than

 that!”

 R. D. Tindal waved his hand in the air. “Gentlemen.” He said louder, “Gentlemen, here’s the

 point. Why should we let outlaws take advantage

 of us, just because the courthouse is eighty-?ve

 miles away? We establish law here, deal with those

 two Mexicans ourselves, and then, by God, others

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 21

 will think twice about stealing out of the San Rafael

 valley!”

 De Spain said, “R. D.,” and when Tindal looked

 at him, “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but

 I’ve got a suspicion you’re asking us to do another

 man’s work.”

 “We all live here!” Tindal said angrily.

 De Spain shrugged. “You can make it sound like

 whatever you like. But . . . on the chance of sounding blunt, I’d say you were kissing Sundeen’s hind

 end.”

 Tindal colored, but he kept control of himself

 because everyone in the room was watching him

 and he said, “You’ve always had a notion you can

 say whatever enters your head. Now that might be

 a pretty funny thing you said, but just what does it

 mean?”

 “I’d have to draw a picture,” De Spain said, “to

 make it plainer.”

 Tindal was still controlled, but with an effort.

 “Maybe I’m just so dumb I have to have it spelled

 out.”

 “Well,” De Spain said. “Whether he looks it or

 not, Sundeen’s the biggest man in the San Rafael.

 He’s got the most land, he hires the most men and,

 what should have been said ?rst, he’s got the most

 money. Now being friends with a man like that can

 make you feel pretty important, and have some advantages besides.”

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 Earl Beaudry grinned, shaking his head. “You

 been drinking your bar whisky.”

 “Earl,” De Spain said, “I understand you lease

 winter graze to the Sundeens and haven’t worked a

 day in your life. What if Phil was to lease it somewhere else?”

 De Spain looked at Tindal now. He wanted to

 accuse him of scheming to marry his daughter off

 to Phil, but that might be going too far, so he just

 said, “To some people feeling important’s the best

 feeling in the world.” He looked at Stedman to include him.

 George Stedman was composed. He said, “Since

 you mention dealing with Sundeen, where would

 you be if he and his men stopped drinking

 whisky?”

 “I happen to have the only saloon in town.”

 “Well, let’s say someone borrowed enough

 money from my bank to open another.”

 “I’ve taken the bar apart before,” De Spain answered, “and thrown it in a wagon.”

 “Gentlemen,” R. D. Tindal said. “Let’s stop talking nonsense.” He looked at De Spain. “We’re discussing a judicial system for our citizens, nothing

 else, regardless of how you want to twist our

 words.”

 De Spain shrugged. “It’s your affair.”

 “Then you don’t want to be on the committee?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 23

 “I never was, really.” De Spain added, “You

 picked a good day with Kirby Frye away.”

 “Kirby’d be with us a hundred percent.”

 “You know damn well that’s not true.”

 Tindal ignored him and looked at the others. “I

 don’t think the loss of one man’s going to hurt us

 any. If anybody else objects, speak up now. If not,

 nominations are open for City Judge. Next, City

 Prosecutor.” That was the way to do it, fast. Then

 there wouldn’t be unnecessary arguing.

 Haig Hanasian stood up. He said, “I won’t be a

 part of this.” De Spain opened the door, stepping

 aside, and Haig went out without saying another

 word.

 Tindal waited. Three other men left hurriedly

 and Tindal put their names down in his memory.

 When the room was quiet again he said, “All right,

 nominations are now open for City Judge.”

 Dandy Jim saw more people as noontime approached. Most of the men seemed to be entering

 and leaving the building directly across the street

 and there were many of them standing in the ramada shade, more there than anywhere up or down

 the street; just standing, talking to each other with

 their hands in their pockets and sometimes spitting

 out into the sun of the street. There were two buildings here, both adobe, but only the different signs

 24

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 indicated that there were two—DE SPAIN’S, and a

 little farther down, METROPOLITAN CAFÉ. Dandy

 Jim could not read the signs, but he put it down in

 his mind that these must be important places.

 He thought again of the one whose name was

 Frye, as he had been doing from time to time. The

 ?rst time he saw him had been at San Carlos when

 they were both much younger. He remembered the

 lean boy, tall and with light-colored hair with his

 hat off, standing watching their games. Then joining their games ?nally, after weeks of watching.

 The foot races, pony races, wrestling, and seeing

 how far one could run with a mouthful of water, or

 seeing how far a boy could travel without water at

 all. And even from the ?rst, this one named Frye

 did well, for a white man; and he did get better.

 He remembered seeing him at Fort Huachuca

 during the past year. Every few months this Kirby

 Frye would come with two Apache boys and a

 string of half-green horses.

 Sometimes he and Frye would talk, because they

 remembered each other from the times they played

 games together and the few times in between when

 they would meet by chance.

 Then, only a month ago, they had been together

 at Galluro after the raid by the renegade Chiricahuas, and Frye had gone off with the one who

 was called Sheriff. Dan-a-her was his name.

 And now Kirby Frye was here, or at least he had

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 25

 been last night. I would like to talk to him again,

 Dandy Jim thought. He is an easy man to talk to.

 The two Mexicans, who were in the cell across

 from Dandy Jim, spoke to each other very little.

 They were here because a man in La Noria—it had

 been in the cantina—told them how easy it was to

 steal cattle from this ranch that was so large its riders could never be watching all of it. Drive the cattle across the border, the man told them, down to

 the Hacienda of the Mother of God. The Mayordomo there will pay good money and ask no questions. Even eat some of the beef yourselves, the man

 told them.

 The younger of the two Mexicans spoke only a

 few words during the morning and only touched the

 fork to his food, because he was trying to picture

 what would happen to them. The other man, who

 wore a mustache and now needed a shave badly,

 had slept well, had eaten all of his morning meal

 and now looked forward to the next. He thought

 most often of the present, sometimes the past, if it

 was a pleasant remembrance, never of the future.

 The younger man asked, “What will they do to

 us?” He was frowning and talking to himself as

 much as he was to his companion.

 The other man said, with ?nality, “Shoot us.”

 He was tired of hearing this question asked.

 The younger man looked up, with fear clearly on

 his face. “But won’t we be given a trial?”

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 “How would I know that?”

 “You’ve lived in this country before.”

 The older man was so tired of this conversation

 now that he did not bother to answer. But as he

 looked about for something to interest him he saw,

 across the hallway in the other cell, Dandy Jim. He

 said to the younger man, “Ask that barbarian

 there. He’s lived here all of his life.”

 “Here comes Sundeen!” Wordie Stedman said, turning his head from the window.

 Harold Mendez drew on his cigar. He was thinking: I’m glad I’m no longer deputy. In about an

 hour I would have to go over to De Spain’s and ask

 Phil to stop ?ring his pistol . . . and probably get

 the barrel across my skull. Kirby hasn’t had to do

 that yet. But the time will come.

 “There’re two men with him,” Wordie said.

 “One of them is Digo,” Harold said, though his

 back was to the window.

 The boy nodded, looking out of the window

 again. “I don’t know who the other one is.”

 “It could be anyone.”

 “He don’t look like a trail hand.”

 Harold Mendez swiveled in his chair. He saw the

 three men dismounting in front of De Spain’s and

 Sundeen and the one they did not know handing

 the reins to Digo who led the horses away, probably taking them to the livery.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 27

 “He’s new,” the boy said. “I never saw him before.”

 Harold Mendez nodded, studying the man stepping up on the porch with Sundeen. No, he wasn’t a

 trail hand, but he wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer either.

 Harold Mendez thought: What is there about a man

 like that which singles him out? I would be willing

 to bet my pay for a year this one is hired for his gun.

 Still, even thinking this, he wasn’t afraid; because he

 knew he would never be a bother to this man.

 The boy said, “Who do you think he is?”

 “Just a friend of Phil Sundeen’s.”

 “He don’t look like a trail hand though, does

 he?”

 “No, he doesn’t.”

 “Know what he looks like to me?”

 “What?”

 “A gambler.”

 “What do they look like?”

 “Always wearin’ a full suit and face pale from

 never being in the sun.”

 “You couldn’t tell from here whether he was pale

 or not.”

 “Well, what else might he be?”

 “He could be lots of things.”

 “Now here comes Digo back. Boy, he’s big!”

 Wordie said. As if looking for an argument he

 added, “You know he’s the best horsebreaker in the

 whole Territory.”

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 Harold Mendez shrugged. “He’s killed as many

 as he’s broken.”

 “Boy, he’s fast! I’ve seen him in that mesquite

 corral. One minute talking to the bronc real sweet,

 close up to the bronc’s ear . . . the next minute

 clobberin’ it across the nose with one of them big

 ?sts of his. Boy—” Wordie Stedman shook his

 head, grinning with admiration.

 After a minute, the boy said, “Can I help you get

 the trays now?”

 “I suppose it’s time.” Harold Mendez came out

 of the chair slowly, with an effort.

 Then the boy said, “Here they come back out already!” Harold Mendez looked toward the window. “And there’s my dad and Mr. Tindal and Mr.

 Beaudry—”

 Mendez saw them stepping down out of the

 shadow of the ramada, crossing the street, coming

 directly for the jail and he said to Wordie Stedman,

 though he wasn’t sure why, “Boy, you better scat

 out of here!”

 Wordie Stedman opened the door. “Dad—”

 “Wordie! What’re you doing here?” George

 Stedman was in the lead with Tindal and Beaudry.

 “Just talking to Harold.”

 “Kirby Frye’s not here?”

 Tindal scowled. “You know he rode out last

 night.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 29

 “I’m making sure,” Stedman said. Then to the

 boy, “Go on home, Wordie.”

 The boy frowned. “I was supposed to help

 Harold get the dinner trays in a minute.”

 Tindal said, “You let Harold do his own

 work . . . what he’s paid for.”

 “Go on home now, Wordie,” George Stedman

 said. The boy started to back away, then was

 walking sideways as Stedman looked over his

 shoulder. Behind him were Phil Sundeen, Digo and

 the new man whom Phil had introduced as Clay

 Jordan.

 “He wants to be a sheriff when he grows up,”

 Stedman said smiling. The three men behind him

 did not smile, but Phil Sundeen’s eyes lifted and he

 said, “There’s Mendez, the son of a bitch.”

 At one time Harold Mendez smiled often. He

 used to say, “Good morning, Mr. Stedman. Good

 morning, Mr. Tindal.” Smiling. “Yes, sir, it certainly is a ?ne day.” Get on the right side of the

 town’s leading citizens and you’re on your way.

 Now, standing in the doorway, he looked at them

 sullenly, his eyes on the men in front, but seeing

 Phil Sundeen and the new man, being conscious of

 the men behind them and the crowd that was gathering, and he said, “What do you want?”

 “We want your two prisoners,” R. D. Tindal announced.

 “Which two?”

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 “The chilipickers,” Earl Beaudry said.

 “Which two are they?”

 “The Mexicans.”

 “What for?”

 Beaudry said, “To lynch ’em, for cry-sake!”

 This wasn’t the way to go about it and Tindal

 said, “By the power vested in my of?ce as city prosecutor, I order you to hand over the two Mexican

 outlaws.”

 “City prosecutor?”

 Tindal nodded his head once. “City prosecutor.

 George Stedman now presides over our municipal

 bench.”

 Harold Mendez frowned.

 “Harold, we’ll explain this just once. Not a half

 hour ago the Citizens Committee elected everything

 we need to try persons accused of crimes in Randado or against Randado citizens. George Stedman

 is judge. I’m prosecuting attorney. We called a jury

 to hear the case of those two Mexicans. Well, they

 heard it, Mr. Sundeen’s testimony and all . . . and

 they rendered a prompt, just decision.”

 Harold Mendez shook his head. “I don’t work

 for you. I take orders from Kirby Frye. He takes orders from Danaher, and Danaher said keep the prisoners here until he sends for them. Kirby will be

 back some time today. If you want to take this up

 with him, all right. It’s none of my business.”

 George Stedman felt the crowd behind him and

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 31

 seeing just the one man in the doorway he felt foolish. “Harold, stop wasting time and bring those

 prisoners down. Representatives of this town, the

 most quali?ed people in the world to pass sentence

 on those two men, did just that. Now it’s time to

 administer justice.”

 Harold Mendez shook his head. “I want it down

 on the record that I’m opposing this.”

 Someone in the crowd said, “It’ll be down on

 your tombstone.”

 There was scattered laughter.

 Phil Sundeen pushed Tindal and the storekeeper

 lurched forward almost off balance. “Step up to

 him.”

 Digo grinned and pushed Beaudry and Stedman,

 a big hand behind each man.

 “Go on,” Sundeen said. “Use your authority.”

 “Look, Harold,” Tindal said. “We’ve explained

 it to you. We didn’t have to, but we did so you’d

 understand what we’re doing is legal. This is the

 same as a court order, Harold. Now if you had a

 court order given to you you’d hand those prisoners over fast.”

 Harold Mendez said, as if they were words he

 had memorized. “I take orders from Kirby Frye,

 who takes orders from John Danaher, who takes

 orders from the Pima County authorities. If you

 want to talk to Kirby, all right. It’s none of my

 business.”

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 Phil Sundeen looked over his shoulder and said,

 “What time is it?”

 The man called Clay Jordan, who was now

 standing a few steps to the side with his thumbs

 hooked in the gun belt beneath his open coat,

 moved his left hand and drew his watch from a vest

 pocket.

 “Ten minutes shy of twelve.”

 “It’s getting on dinnertime,” Sundeen said

 thoughtfully. He was squinting in the morning sunlight; a bright sun, but with little warmth now at

 the end of November. Looking at Harold Mendez

 again, he said, “Digo, you think you can get

 Harold out of that doorway by yourself?”

 Digo did not bother to answer. He pushed between Beaudry and Stedman, going for the doorway, and as he neared it Harold Mendez, who had

 been standing with his feet apart watching him,

 stepped back into the of?ce. Digo turned his head

 to glance at Sundeen, then followed Harold

 Mendez inside. The jailer stood in front of the desk

 stif?y.

 “Sit down,” Digo said.

 “It’s all right.”

 Digo shifted his body suddenly and swung his

 left ?st hard into the jailer’s face. Mendez went back

 against the desk and holding himself there groped

 for the arm of the chair. Blood was coming from his

 nose as he turned the chair and eased himself into it.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 33

 Digo went to the door and called out, “He says

 come in.”

 Sundeen came ?rst, but he stepped back inside

 the door to let Tindal, Stedman and Beaudry pass

 him. Clay Jordan was next, but he did not come in.

 He said, “You don’t need me.” Only that. Sundeen

 watched him walk away, going wide around the

 people in the street, then up into the shade in front

 of De Spain’s, then inside.

 I shouldn’t have let him do that, Sundeen

 thought. But now he was looking at the people and

 he saw in the crowd, and over across the street in

 front of De Spain’s, many of his riders. He called

 out, “You Sun-D men, get over here!”

 In the crowd a few of them started to come forward, but stopped when someone called out,

 “When do we get paid?”

 “You don’t do what I tell you, you never will!”

 Sundeen answered.

 They came forward out of the crowd, almost a

 dozen men, and stood restlessly in front of Sundeen.

 “Where are the others?”

 One of the men shrugged. “I don’t know.”

 Sundeen’s gaze went to the people in the street

 again and his eyes singled out one man standing

 near the front, a lean man with his hatbrim low

 over his eyes and a matchstick in the corner of his

 mouth. Merl White, one of his riders.

 “Merl, what’s the matter with you?”

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 “Nothin’.”

 “Get over here.”

 “I don’t work for you no more,” Merl White

 said. He stood his ground and did not move.

 “Since when?”

 “Since you stopped paying wages.”

 Sundeen smiled. “You don’t have enough patience.”

 “I lost it,” Merl said. “I can name three or four

 more lost theirs.”

 “Who are they, Merl?”

 “You’ll ?nd out.”

 Sundeen’s mouth still bore part of the smile.

 “Tell you what, Merl. You and those other three or

 four meet me over to De Spain’s when I’m through

 here and I’ll pay you off.”

 Merl kept his eyes on Sundeen and he said,

 “We’ll be there.”

 Tindal was next to Sundeen in the doorway. He

 called out, “Where’re the rest of you committeemen?” A few men came toward him, then behind them more were pushing through the crowd.

 “Get in here!”

 “That’s the ticket,” Sundeen said. He slapped

 Tindal on the shoulder and moved back into the of?ce. “What happened to him?” He nodded toward

 Harold Mendez.

 “He got a nosebleed,” Digo answered.

 “Where’re the keys?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 35

 “Right here.” Digo held them up.

 Sundeen looked at Tindal. “You think you can

 do the rest?”

 Tindal hesitated, but he said, “Of course we

 can.”

 “Like hell.” Sundeen shoved past him and

 started up the stairs, Digo behind him and the rest

 of them following.

 The Sun-D riders and the committeemen who

 had come inside moved up the stairs now, hurrying

 in the noise of dozens of boots on the narrow stairway and suddenly there was an excitement that

 could be felt; it came with the noise and the hurrying and there was an anxiousness inside of each

 man now, the last ones not wanting to be last, going

 up the stairs two at a time to be a part of the excitement, not wanting to miss anything now that it was

 underway and everybody was in on it. Suddenly a

 man felt himself very much a man and the ones

 who had reached the upper ?oor ?rst stood with

 their hands on their hips waiting for all the stragglers to come up, looking at the two Mexicans who

 were both standing, but well back from the bars,

 and then looking at the Apache in the other cell

 who stood by the window, but with his back to it.

 A man who had never seen either of the Mexicans before spat on the ?oor and yelled, “Pull them

 bean-eaters the hell out!”

 They crowded in front of the cell, looking

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 through the bars at the two Mexicans who stood

 close together staring at the crowd with their

 mouths foolishly, wonderingly open; then the

 younger one wetting his lips, his eyes going over the

 crowd of men, wetting his lips again and now his

 hands were clenching and unclenching with nothing to hold on to. He could feel the hot tingling in

 his body and his heart beating against his chest, his

 legs quivering—he was aware of his toes moving

 against the straps of his sandals—but there was

 nowhere to run.

 The older Mexican stood dumbfoundedly, not

 moving his body, and as his body began to tense he

 tried very hard to remain calm, talking to himself

 very slowly, telling himself not to become excited

 and act like a child, but this took a great effort and

 it was almost unbearable.

 He heard his companion’s voice—“Mother of

 God . . . Virgin Mother of God

 .

 .

 .”—and for

 some reason he did not want these men to hear this

 and he rasped at the younger man, “Shut up! Hold

 on to yourself!” A man was opening the door now,

 a big man who looked Mexican but who wore the

 hat of a gringo—like the one who had brought the

 food with the boy, but it was not that one.

 “Pull it open, Digo!”

 The sound of metal striking metal, clear, even

 with the voices, then Digo saying, “This goddamn

 key’s no good.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 37

 Someone said, “That one was praying . . . you

 hear him?”

 “He better.”

 “That’s the way they are . . . pull their own sisters in the stable on Saturday night, then go to

 church on Sunday!”

 “Give me it,” Sundeen said. He took the key

 from Digo, turned it in the lock effortlessly and

 pushed the door open hard making it swing clanging against the bars. “Get ’em out!”

 Digo went in, pushed in with men close behind

 him. He jabbed his elbows making room, then took

 hold of the younger Mexican who had backed

 away, but was now against the bunk and could go

 no farther, grabbing the Mexican’s arm and bending it behind his back.

 The younger Mexican screamed out, raising

 himself on his toes.

 “Let him walk like a man!” the other Mexican

 said.

 Digo pushed the man he held toward the cell

 door and as he did came around with his clenched

 ?st swinging wide. The mustached Mexican started

 to duck, but not quickly enough and the blow

 caught him squarely on the side of the head

 sprawling him over the bunk and against the adobe

 wall. He sat up shaking his head as Earl Beaudry

 and another man each took an arm and dragged

 him out.

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 Digo was grinning. “He walks strange for a

 man.”

 “Come on,” Sundeen said. “Get the other one.”

 As Digo took hold of him again the younger

 Mexican said, “We are to be tried now?”

 “You’ve been tried.”

 “But when?”

 “What do you care when?”

 Close to Sundeen, Tindal said, “Tried and found

 guilty by legal court action. Now, by God, take

 your medicine like a man!”

 “But it was only a few of those cows—”

 “Listen, you took a chance and lost. Now face

 up to it!”

 “They were returned . . . every one we took!”

 “ ’Cause you got caught.”

 “Come on!” Sundeen said suddenly, with anger.

 “Get him out of here.” He stepped aside as Digo

 twisted the man’s arm and pushed him, raising him

 to his toes, through the cell door, then down the

 crowded hallway, pushing the Mexican hard

 against the men who couldn’t get out of the way

 quickly enough.

 “Don’t touch me with that greaser!”

 “Then get out of the way!”

 Sundeen said to Tindal, “Digo’s a wheel of jus tice.”

 Tindal, looking at Sundeen’s beard-stubbled,

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 39

 sun-darkened expressionless face, hesitated, not

 knowing whether to laugh or not, then just nodded.

 Someone said, “What about this one?”

 “That’s an Indin.”

 “I got eyes.”

 “What’d he do?” a third man said.

 “That’s the one the soldiers brought in.”

 Another man said, “Fool around with army

 property and you get a bayonet in the ass.”

 “We’d be doing them a favor.”

 “Look at the eyes on the son of a bitch.”

 “Imagine meetin’ him alone out on the ?ats. Just

 you and him, no horses, not another livin’ soul

 around—”

 “For cry-sake come on . . . they’re taking them

 down already!”

 Dandy Jim had not moved from the window.

 Without expression he watched them take the

 Mexicans. He heard the men talking about him,

 understanding only a few of their words, and a moment later the hallway was deserted, the last

 sounds going down the stairs.

 Then suddenly voices again, a cheering from the

 people in the street as the men, dragging the two

 Mexicans, seemed to burst from the front door of

 the jail into the sunlight.

 And now the excitement, the not wanting to miss

 anything, the not wanting to be left out, was in the

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 street. It was there suddenly with the noise and the

 stark violence of what was taking place. People

 joining the crowd, running neck-straining behind

 the ones closer to the Mexicans, some running

 ahead to the livery knowing or sensing that it

 would take place there; and others, standing in the

 long line of ramada shade and in windows; a man

 with his family standing up in the ?at bed of a

 wagon and their heads turning as the crowd pushed

 by them; those in doorways watching fascinated,

 wanting to see it and not wanting to see it. Some

 went inside. A woman shooing three children into

 the doorway and the little boy yelling something as

 she herded them.

 De Spain was alone behind the bar. He had one

 customer, a man who drank beer slowly, sipping it,

 smoking and sipping beer, leaning on the bar. It

 was the man who had come in with Sundeen earlier. Clay Jordan. He paid no attention to what was

 going on outside; he did not even glance toward

 the windows at the noise. But when the noise was

 farther down the street he ?nished the beer and

 went out.

 Haig Hanasian, watching from the door of his

 café, saw them come out of the jail. He turned

 away and went back to the kitchen where there was

 no cook now. No cook, no waitresses. And looking

 toward the front again, down the whitewashed

 adobe length of his café and through the open

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 41

 doorway he could see his wife, Edith. She was

 standing with one arm about a support post raising

 herself on tiptoes, straining to see over the crowd;

 and as he watched her, she moved out of view.

 Now they were passing a sign that read R. D.

 TINDAL SUPPLY Co. Milmary Tindal was standing

 beneath the sign.

 “Dad!”

 “You go inside, Milmary.”

 “Dad—”

 “I said go inside!”

 Now they were beyond, almost to the livery stable that was set back from the corner with the

 fenced yard in front and in the middle of the fence,

 the main entrance gate—two upright timbers and a

 cross timber over the open gate.

 “We don’t have ropes,” Sundeen said. “Digo, get

 ropes!”

 “Mine?” Digo said. “That’s bad luck.”

 “I don’t care whose.”

 “We’ll have them.”

 Earl Beaudry looked up at the cross timber, then

 back to Sundeen. “Here, Phil?”

 “Why not?’

 R. D. Tindal waved his arms. “All right, you men

 back! Move back and give us some elbow room.”

 Now the two Mexicans were lifted to their feet

 to stand under the cross timber. The younger one

 put his head back to look at the beam, then looked

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 at the crowd again, at all of the faces close in front

 of him, and he began to cry. His companion told

 him, for the sake of God, to shut up and to hold on

 to himself.

 “This is as good a place as any,” Tindal said.

 “How are you going to do it?” Sundeen said.

 “What?”

 “How do you go about hanging a man?”

 “All you need is rope.”

 “Just tie it around their necks and yank ’em up in

 the air?”

 “I don’t know . . . I guess I never thought about

 it.”

 Digo came across the livery yard with a coiled

 rawhide riata in each hand. He handed one to Earl

 Beaudry and they began to uncoil the lines and

 bend a loop into one end of each.

 The older Mexican said, “Your justice is not

 slow.”

 Close by, George Stedman said, “Nobody’s talking to you.”

 “Listen,” the older Mexican said. “You have us

 now . . . and you are going to kill us. But grant one

 last request.”

 “Go to hell.”

 “It isn’t much. Just get a priest.”

 “There’s no priest here.”

 “At La Noria,” the Mexican said. “What differ ence does it make if you put this off a few hours?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 43

 “If you think somebody’s going to ride all the

 way down to La Noria to get a priest, you’re

 crazy.”

 Earl Beaudry looked up. “On Saturday.”

 “Look,” the older Mexican said. “We are going

 to die. Is that much to ask?”

 “You should’ve thought of that before.”

 Beaudry added, “Before you stole that beef.” He

 had tied the knot and now pulled on it, testing it.

 “Whether we should have or not is past. But it

 remains we need a priest.”

 “That’s tough luck,” Stedman said.

 The older Mexican said no more, but after a moment he leaned closer to his companion and said,

 “Pray. But pray to yourself.”

 “Who’s going up?” Sundeen said, looking at the

 beam.

 Digo grinned. “I’d break it.”

 “Need somebody light.” Sundeen’s eyes went to

 Tindal.

 Tindal forced a smile. “My climbing days are

 over.”

 Beaudry said, “Hell, give me a boost.”

 Digo stooped and they helped Beaudry up onto

 his shoulders, steadying him, holding his legs as

 Digo rose slowly. He threw the lines over the beam,

 looping them three times, then gave each a half

 hitch so that with weight on the hanging end the

 line would be pulling against itself; and when he

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 came down the loops were hanging just longer than

 head high to a mounted man.

 Now Digo went into the livery stable. He was

 gone for a few minutes and when he reappeared he

 was mounted and leading two horses with bridles,

 but without saddles.

 “Mount ’em up,” Sundeen said.

 “Wait a minute.”

 Sundeen turned at the words behind him. Clay

 Jordan was coming toward him through the crowd.

 “You going to help out now?” Sundeen said.

 “Nobody rides that horse.” Jordan nodded to

 one of the mounts Digo had brought.

 “It won’t be but for a minute,” Sundeen grinned.

 “Nobody rides him.”

 “You superstitious?”

 “Either you tell Digo to take him back, or I do.”

 Sundeen shrugged. “You tell him.”

 Digo looked at them, not understanding.

 “What’s the difference?” But he saw the way Jordan was watching him and he said, “All right,” and

 led Jordan’s horse back to the stable. When he returned with another, Jordan was no longer in the

 circle beneath the cross beam.

 “Let’s get this over with,” Stedman said.

 Tindal said, “We got to tie their hands.”

 “What for?” Beaudry asked.

 “You always do.”

 “It’s better if you don’t . . . they ?ght longer try -

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 45

 ing to hold their weight off the rope, then their

 arms give out.”

 Tindal frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”

 “This isn’t a church meeting, R. D.”

 “You talk like a crazy man.” Tindal turned from

 Beaudry and saw that Stedman was already tying

 their hands. He had cut enough length from the free

 ends of the riatas hanging from the beam.

 Now the older Mexican said, “What about a cigarette ?rst?”

 Tying the man’s hands behind his back, Stedman

 said, “Go to hell.”

 “Don’t you have any customary last things?”

 Digo rolled a brown paper cigarette, lit it, then

 placed it between the man’s lips. “Here. Don’t say I

 never gave you anything.”

 The Mexican inhaled and with the cigarette in

 the corner of his mouth blew out smoke in a slow

 stream. “You’ve given me enough already.”

 Digo said in Spanish, “You feel you are much

 man, don’t you?”

 “Not for long,” the man answered, also in

 Spanish.

 “It’s too bad this has to happen to you.”

 The Mexican shrugged.

 “Does your companion wish a cigarette?”

 “Ask him.”

 Digo smiled. “He looks already in another

 world.”

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 Barely above a whisper the younger one was

 reciting, “. . .Santi?cado sea el tu nombre, venga a

 nos el tu reino. . .”

 Digo grinned at him and said, “Remember to

 have perfect contrition.”

 The older Mexican said suddenly, “Do this

 quickly and stop talking!”

 Now Digo shrugged. “As you say.”

 They lifted the Mexicans to the bare backs of the

 horses and now no one in the crowd spoke. In the

 silence, Digo mounted. He kneed his horse in a

 tight circle between the two Mexicans, reached up

 and adjusted the loop over the older Mexican’s

 head and tightened the honda at the nape of his

 neck. The younger one tried to move his head

 away, but Digo’s hand clamped over his jaw and

 held the head still until he dropped the noose over it

 and tightened the knot.

 Now he moved out behind them and dismounted. Still there was silence and he took his

 time, with everyone watching him, walking up

 close behind the two horses. In front, an opening

 had been cleared to let the horses run.

 Digo waited for a signal, but none came. So it

 was up to him. All right. He raised both hands in

 the air, said, “Go in peace—” and brought his

 hands down slapping the rumps of the horses.

 They swung out, then back toward him on the

 ropes and turning, jumping aside, Digo could hear

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 47

 the horses breaking away down the street. The

 bodies jerked on the tight lines, but only for part of

 a minute. He heard Tindal say, “My God, look at

 their pants—”

 Someone else said, “I don’t feel very good.”

 And it was over—

 3

 Kirby Frye rode in shortly before nine o’clock.

 He tied his dun gelding in front of the jail and

 started for the front steps, but at the walk he

 thought: A few more minutes won’t matter to

 Harold. He turned and crossed the street, walking

 slowly with the stiffness of all day in the saddle. He

 was hungry, he felt the taste for a glass of beer and

 he was anxious to see Milmary Tindal; all three

 were before him and he didn’t know which to do

 ?rst.

 It felt good to walk and he was thinking how

 good the beer would taste. Sit down and stretch

 your legs, even before washing up, take the ?rst

 glass and drink it better than half right down,

 though it burns your throat. Then sip what’s left.

 Smoke a cigarette and drink the beer slow. Then

 have another one and sip that.

 De Spain’s windows, above the painted lower

 half, showed every lamp up to full brightness. Frye

 opened the door. But he closed it again and went

 on. Smoke and noise and he didn’t feel that much

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 49

 like having to make conversation in a Saturday

 night crowd. The Metropolitan was still open, and

 a few doors down he saw light coming from Tindal’s store. Well, he could always see Mil at home if

 she closed the store; but if the café closed—

 He opened the door of the Metropolitan and almost bumped into the cook who was coming out.

 “Too late, Ed?”

 “Hello, Kirby. Too late for me.”

 “Can I get something?”

 “Sure, Edith’s still there.”

 “I’m starvin’.”

 “You get them drunk Indins?”

 “All of a sudden they disappeared.”

 “Ain’t that the way. Well . . . Edith’ll ?x you

 something. I got catchin’ up to do.”

 “Thanks, Ed.”

 The café was empty. The counter was clean and

 most of the tables had been cleared, all but two that

 were near the front and still cluttered with supper

 dishes. With the emptiness was silence. Frye

 walked back toward the kitchen, hearing his steps

 and the metallic ching of his spurs which seemed

 louder because they were the only sounds in the

 room.

 Nearing the open doorway to the kitchen a voice

 said softly, “Phil?”

 Frye hesitated, then went into the kitchen, looking to the left. Edith Hanasian, Haig’s wife, was sit-50

 ELMORE LEONARD

 ting at the table against the wall with a cup of coffee in front of her.

 “It’s me.”

 “Oh.” She looked at Frye with surprise.

 “I wondered if I could get a bite.”

 “Of what, Kirby?”

 “Whatever might be on the stove.”

 “You look tired.”

 “Been working all day.”

 “Would you like a drink?”

 “That’d be ?ne.”

 “Sit down then.”

 Frye moved to the table. “Where’s Mr. Hanasian?”

 The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

 “You want me to sit out front or here?”

 Edith smiled. “If he didn’t trust the deputy, who

 would he trust?”

 “I just didn’t know where you wanted me to sit.”

 “Here. Then I won’t have so many steps.”

 Frye pulled out the chair opposite to Edith and

 sat down. “The coffee smells good.”

 “Would you rather have that?”

 “I just said it smelled good.”

 The woman rose. She went to a cupboard and returned with an almost-full whisky bottle, picking

 up a glass from the serving table as she did. She

 placed the glass in front of him and poured whisky

 into it.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 51

 “Whoa—”

 “You’re a big boy now.”

 “I’m not that big.” He drank some of the whisky

 and putting the glass down felt Edith move around

 next to him. She took his hat off and sailed it over

 to the serving table.

 “I’ve had that on so long I forgot it was there.”

 “You look younger without it.”

 “Do I?”

 She moved her ?ngers over his sand-colored hair.

 “Sometimes you look like a little boy,” she said

 quietly.

 “Do I look like a hungry one?”

 She moved away, as if reluctantly. “What do you

 want?”

 “I don’t care.”

 “Enchiladas are still warm.”

 “Fine.”

 She went over to the stove, then looked back at

 him. “Or lamb stew?”

 “All right. Stew.”

 “You’re easy to please.”

 She placed a heaping plate of the stew in front

 of him, brought salt and bread, then sat down

 again.

 “Tastes good.”

 “Does it?” She was leaning forward now with

 her elbows on the table, watching him eat. He

 glanced at her and the way she was leaning he

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 could see the beginning of the hollow between her

 breasts. She was an attractive woman, not more

 than a year past thirty, but she smiled little. It

 showed in the way her mouth was set and in the

 eyes that seemed indifferent to whatever they

 looked at. Probably in another few years she would

 be fat. Now, there was only the hint of it, a pleasing

 softness that would become too soft.

 “Where’d you say your husband was?”

 “I said I didn’t know.”

 “That’s right.” He ate the stew, pushing it onto

 the fork with a piece of bread, dabbing the bread in

 the gravy and eating that. When he was ?nished he

 wiped the plate clean this way.

 “More?” Edith asked.

 Frye looked at her still leaning close to the table.

 Then he began rolling a cigarette. “I wouldn’t mind

 a cup of coffee . . . though I hate to ask you to

 move.”

 Edith smiled, still not moving. “Sometimes the

 little boy in you begins to disappear.”

 “Do you want me to get it?”

 She rose then. “You’re paying for it.”

 He watched her go to the stove and come back

 with the coffeepot.

 “I thought eating in the kitchen like this I was a

 guest.”

 She poured them each a cup and sat down, but

 now she sat sideways in the chair, leaning against

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 53

 the wall, looking from the ceiling to the stove and at

 nothing in particular, not bothering to answer him.

 “Business slow?”

 Edith shrugged indifferently. “It’s all right.”

 “You generally do better than this on Saturday,

 don’t you?”

 “Everybody’s next door, celebrating.”

 “Celebrating what?”

 “Their manhood.”

 “What?”

 Edith looked at him. “Didn’t you hear what

 happened?”

 “I just got back.”

 “Go next door; you’ll ?nd out.”

 Frye shrugged. He wasn’t going to beg her. He

 ?nished his coffee, stubbed out the cigarette on the

 plate and stood up. He was tall, but with a bigboned leanness, and he looked younger than

 twenty-four. “Maybe I will,” he said. Then, “If I see

 Phil, you want me to tell him you’re here?”

 Edith hesitated, studying Frye’s face. “Why

 would I want that?”

 “You thought I was him when I came in.”

 “Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

 “Wouldn’t think of it. How much do I owe?”

 “Thirty cents.”

 He felt inside his pants pockets. “I’ll pay you tomorrow, all right?” He grinned. “I guess I didn’t

 bring any money.”

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 Edith shook her head. “Then the little boy comes

 back again.”

 Frye was smiling. “That’s no way to talk to the

 deputy sheriff.”

 He went out the front door and stopped on the

 plank sidewalk to make another cigarette. The

 noise inside De Spain’s would go on until late, dying out slowly, then the street would be quiet again.

 It had been quiet last night when he left. Friday

 night was usually quiet. He lighted the cigarette,

 looking across the street to the jail. Quiet as a

 church. He heard laughter from De Spain’s.

 Edith said they were celebrating—

 She thought I was Phil Sundeen when I came in.

 That’s it. Sundeen’s back from his drive and his

 men are celebrating. Probably been at it since early

 this morning. Sitting in there all day drinking.

 He shook his head faintly remembering this

 morning, miles away chasing like hell after nothing. His eyes went to the jail again. Harold would

 be asleep now, sitting up with his feet on the desk.

 But Edith said something happened. Not just

 that they were celebrating, but that something

 happened—

 Let it wait.

 He ?icked the cigarette into the street and moved

 away from the cafe.

 Milmary Tindal was locking the front door of

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 55

 the store when he came up behind her. She heard

 the footsteps, then heard the footsteps stop and she

 turned coming around hesitantly, keeping her face

 composed, then her features relaxed suddenly and

 she smiled with relief.

 “Kirby! You scared—”

 Holding her shoulders he kissed her unexpectedly, his lips making a smacking sound against

 hers.

 “Kirby!”

 “Too loud?”

 “Right out on the street—”

 “You look good, Mil.”

 She brushed a wisp of hair back from her fore head. “I’m a mess.”

 “You going home?”

 The girl nodded, looking up at him. “When did

 you get back?”

 “Just a few minutes ago.”

 “Did you catch them?”

 “This afternoon they made it over the border.”

 “Daddy was sure you’d get them.” They started

 walking along the adobe fronts, hearing behind

 them faint sounds from De Spain’s. Ahead were the

 shadowy forms of men sitting in front of the buildings, now and then a cigarette glow in the darkness,

 and passing them—“Good evening—”

 “You get ’em, Kirby?”

 “No, sir. They got away.”

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 “That’s too bad.”

 Nearer the end of the street the adobe fronts

 were deserted and now there was only the sound of

 their steps hollow on the plank sidewalk, and out

 behind the adobes and in the yard of the livery stable they could hear crickets.

 “It’s a nice night,” he said.

 The girl was walking with her head down watching her steps and did not answer. Standing straight

 she would come just past Frye’s shoulder. Now she

 seemed smaller. Her ?gure was slight, almost boyish, but her face was delicately feminine: dark, almost black hair combed back from her face and

 small features softly pale in the darkness. They

 turned the corner and started up the low sweeping

 hill, seeing the lights farther up. They ?ickered in

 an uneven row through the trees indicating at least

 ?ve or six houses.

 “What’s the matter?”

 “Nothing,” the girl said.

 “You’re not talking.”

 “Well, I’m tired. That’s all.”

 “How’s your father?”

 She looked up at him suddenly. “He’s ?ne.”

 “What’re you so jumpy about?”

 “Well, why’re you asking me so many questions?”

 “All day long I’ve been talking to a horse.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 57

 “Has he said any more about you marrying Sundeen?”

 “Of course not. I thought that was settled.”

 He said quietly, “I hope so.”

 Their footsteps were muf?ed and Frye’s spurs

 chinged softly. Abruptly Milmary said, “I suppose

 you heard all about what happened today.” In the

 darkness her voice seemed natural.

 “You sound like Edith.”

 “You were with her?”

 “All we talked about was supper.”

 “She didn’t tell you?”

 “Uh-uh.”

 “Well, there was a trial today.”

 “A trial?”

 “Our town’s ?rst legal court action.”

 He was frowning. “The county judge was down

 here?”

 Almost defensively she said, “We have our own

 judge and prosecuting attorney,” and went on

 quickly now as if to tell it and get it over with. “The

 Citizens Committee met this morning and elected a

 city judge and a city prosecuting attorney.”

 “They don’t have the—”

 “Let me ?nish. Mr. Stedman was elected judge

 and my father, prosecutor. It was done legally, by

 vote of the Citizens Committee, and they represent

 all of the people here.”

 “You sound like your father.”

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 “Will you please have the courtesy to let me ?nish?”

 “Go on.”

 Her face was ?ushed now looking at Frye, who

 for a moment had smiled, but was now frowning

 again. “After the elections they decided to hold the

 ?rst court session and they tried the two cattle

 thieves you’ve been holding. Phil Sundeen was

 made to testify even though everybody knew those

 two men were the ones. You said yourself you

 caught them driving off the cattle. So they were

 found guilty.”

 “Then what?”

 Milmary hesitated. “Then they were taken out

 and legally hanged.”

 Frye was silent.

 “The men felt, why should they wait for a court

 way up at Tucson to get good and ready before

 something’s done. Our citizens are just as

 quali?ed . . . more so even, since it was one of our

 people whose stock was stolen.”

 “Your father explained all this?”

 “Of course he explained it to me, I’m not a

 lawyer.”

 “Neither is he.”

 “He’s got common sense!”

 “Mil, you can’t just set up a court any place you

 want. We’re part of the county, protected by the

 county. Maybe we should have a judge and a pros-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 59

 ecutor here, but to get them would take some doing

 up at Tucson, not just a self-made committee deciding in one morning.”

 “Kirby, those two men were guilty. You caught

 them yourself,” she said pleadingly.

 “But you can’t set up the lawafter the wrong’s

 done. You got to have the authority before. I even

 know that much.”

 “I suppose my father and Mr. Stedman aren’t as

 intelligent as those people up at Tucson?”

 “Now you’re talking like a woman.”

 “What do you want me to talk like?”

 Frye said quietly, “The point is, the law is already established to handle things like this. Everybody’s agreed to it, so you can’t just come along

 and set up your own law.”

 “Even if it’s something we should have had a

 long time ago?”

 She’s using her father’s words, Frye thought. And

 she wants to believe them. He said, “Where did

 they hang them?”

 Milmary hesitated. “At the livery.”

 “Did you see it?”

 “Part of it.”

 “A big crowd?”

 “Of course.”

 “Was Harold Mendez there?”

 “I didn’t see him.”

 Frye said, “They were taken from the jail,

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 marched down to the livery and hanged. Just like

 that?”

 “I didn’t see all of it.”

 “Did the part you see look fair?”

 “I don’t suppose a hanging would ever lookfair .

 You’re using the wrong word.”

 “What’s a better word?”

 “Kirby, use some sense! They were tried by competent men and found guilty. Now it’s over.”

 They started to walk again, slowly, and did not

 speak for a few minutes. Nearing the house, Frye

 said, “Is your father home?”

 “He said he wouldn’t be home till late. Kirby,

 what can you do about it now?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “It’s over now.”

 “Part of it is.”

 Milmary said, wearily, “If you don’t understand,

 there’s no use talking about it.”

 “Maybe your dad can explain it to me.”

 Milmary did not answer. She went up the porch

 steps and into the house.

 Harold Mendez could feel that his nose was still

 swollen. Now he was touching it gently, as he had

 been doing all afternoon and evening, still not sure

 whether or not it was broken, when Frye opened

 the door.

 “I saw you tie up a while ago,” Harold said,

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 61

 “but by the time I got to the door you were across

 the street.”

 “I was hungry.”

 “Did you get them?”

 “No.”

 “Well—”

 “Everybody’s more concerned with whether we

 got those tulapai drinkers than with what happened right here.”

 “You heard then.”

 “Milmary told me. Where’re the bodies?”

 “We took them down. There were two men here

 from La Noria who helped me. No one else I asked

 would.”

 “Did you try to stop them?”

 Harold shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t see

 any point to it. Even if I’d tried, they still would

 have hung them.” His ?ngers touched his nose.

 “It looks like you told somebody no,” Frye said.

 “Digo was showing his authority. Do you think

 it’s broken?”

 Frye looked at Harold’s nose closely, feeling the

 bridge of it with his ?nger. “I don’t think so.”

 “They came in like a ?ood once it started. At ?rst

 only a few were doing anything. Tindal, Beaudry,

 Stedman . . . and Sundeen. But once it started you

 would have thought everybody in town was in

 here.”

 “The place looks all right.”

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 “They didn’t break anything. I don’t know why,

 but they didn’t break anything.”

 Frye said suddenly, “What about Dandy Jim?”

 “He’s still upstairs. How long are you going to

 hold him?”

 “I don’t know. It was out of their way to come

 back here, so they went straight to Huachuca.

 They’ll send for him when they get ready.” He was

 referring to the Fort Huachuca Cavalry Patrol.

 “Like Danaher sending for the two cattle

 thieves.”

 Frye moved to the window thoughtfully. “Do

 you know if Tindal’s across the street?”

 “I think so. What are you going to do?”

 “Talk to him, or one of the others.”

 “Wait a while.”

 “I’ve got to sooner or later.”

 “Not tonight.” Harold Mendez shook his head

 as he spoke. “They’ve been over there drinking and

 playing poker. They even had their dinner brought

 in so they wouldn’t have to leave.”

 “They’re really celebrating—”

 “Listen, why don’t you go to bed? Then tomorrow you can talk to them one at a time.”

 But you don’t come home, ?nd out something

 like this has happened and just go to bed, Frye was

 thinking. They must have been drunk to do it.

 No . . . Sundeen. This was probably Sundeen’s idea

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 63

 and those men would go out on a long limb to look

 good in his eyes. “Harold, who was the leader?”

 “They say Tindal at the meeting. But he’d make

 speeches in an outhouse if someone would go in

 with him to listen.”

 “Sundeen then.”

 Harold nodded. “Tindal might think he organized it, Stedman might think his weight in?uenced

 the others . . . but it was Sundeen behind it. Sundeen drinks too much and he talks loud, but I think

 he watches, and he understands these men.”

 “When did he get back?”

 “Yesterday. He came to town last night just before you left. He was in the Metropolitan with the

 committee heads for a long time.” Harold studied

 Frye for a moment standing by the window. “Listen, I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, this Tindal

 might be your father-in-law someday . . . but you

 know how he talks: ‘Sure, General So-and-so, I remember a humorous account he told at dinner one

 time . . . ’ Or the way he looks off in the distance

 sucking his teeth like he’s calculating a weighty

 problem, and all the time he doesn’t know a goddamn thing. I don’t like to say that, but that’s the

 way he is. You haven’t been here long as a

 grownup, but you should know it yourself by

 now.”

 “You can’t pick your father-in-law,” Frye said.

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 “Like he’s trying to pick his son-in-law,” Harold

 said. “He’d give his right one to have her marry

 Sundeen.”

 “Well, that’s something else. Was De Spain

 there?”

 “I don’t think so.”

 “Or Hanasian?”

 “I don’t think he was either.”

 “And they’ve been in there ever since—”

 “They came out just the once.”

 “When?” Frye looked at him.

 “I thought you’d heard.”

 “No.”

 “Did you hear about Merl White being there

 earlier?”

 Frye shook his head.

 “Merl and some others wouldn’t join Phil. Merl

 said they’d quit because Phil hadn’t paid their trail

 wages.”

 “Why not?”

 “Why does Phil need a reason? Like riding his

 horse into De Spain’s. He does what he feels like

 doing. Right out in front of everybody Phil told

 Merl to come over to De Spain’s after and he’d settle up. Well, Merl went over. He and two others

 walked into De Spain’s and a few minutes later they

 were carried out. The story is, Sundeen threw

 whisky in Merl’s face, then Digo hit him. The other

 two stood there until Digo started at them. They

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 65

 each took one swing before they were on the ?oor.

 Then Digo pulled their boots off and carried them

 one at a time to the porch and threw them out in

 the street. I saw what happened after that. Sundeen

 came out and this new man with him—”

 “Who’s that?”

 “Jordan. Clay Jordan.”

 Kirby shook his head, not knowing the name.

 “They stood on the porch until Digo came with

 horses, then Sundeen and Digo made them run,

 shooting at their feet. Sundeen went back inside,

 but Digo and some other Sun-D riders went out after them and made them keep running until they

 were out of sight . . . without any shoes on.”

 “No one sided with Merl then?”

 “Of course not.”

 “And nobody’s gone out to ?nd them?”

 “About two hours after it happened I took a

 wagon and started out. I wasn’t even beyond the

 last house when Digo rode next to me and said

 ‘Where are you going?’ ”

 Frye’s eyes were on Harold, but he said nothing.

 “I told him nowhere and turned the wagon

 around.” Harold sat down and his ?ngers touched

 his nose, stroking it gently.

 Frye was leaning against the window frame,

 watching him. After a moment he said, “It’s all

 right, Harold.”

 “I’m not apologizing,” the jailer said.

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 “You don’t have to.”

 “What if I had tried to stop them? I mean before.

 I would be dead now. I couldn’t see where it would

 be worth it.”

 “It’s all right.”

 “You’re goddamn right it is,” Harold said.

 “Why don’t you go home now?” Frye said.

 Harold looked up at him. “I’ll go over with you

 if you want me to.”

 “No, you go on home.”

 “What are you going to do?”

 “Just talk.”

 “Don’t try to arrest them They’ll laugh at you.”

 Frye was silent. Then he straightened and

 walked away from the window. “It’s a hell of a

 thing, isn’t it?”

 Harold nodded. He watched Frye open the door,

 then he rose slowly and followed him.

 4

 Clay Jordan saw them ?rst, because he was facing

 the open doorway. Sundeen was on Jordan’s left,

 then around the table, Stedman, Tindal and

 Beaudry; Sundeen dealing cards over the stacks of

 poker chips in front of him, the other three watching. They were in De Spain’s cardroom.

 Past Tindal’s right shoulder, through the doorway, down the length of ?oor in front of the bar to

 the double doors, Jordan was looking straight

 ahead and he saw one of the doors push in. He recognized Harold Mendez, and from that knew who

 the younger one, the one who came ?rst, must be.

 He said nothing to Sundeen, but watched them

 come down the length of bar, passing Digo standing midway at the bar, Digo realizing they were

 there and turning to look after them. As Frye

 neared the doorway, Jordan’s gaze went unhurriedly from the stiff-brimmed hat and the shadowed eyes to the Colt on the right hip and the

 hands hanging loose, then back to the eyes as Frye

 stopped inside the doorway.

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 “Mr. Tindal—”

 Tindal looked over his shoulder, then smiled

 turning in the chair. “Kirby! Come on in, boy!”

 Frye moved closer to the table. “Mr.

 Stedman . . . Mr. Beaudry—” He only nodded to

 Phil Sundeen because it had been a long time since

 he had seen Phil and he wasn’t sure what to call

 him. He glanced at Jordan, then looked at Tindal

 again.

 “Could I speak to you a minute?”

 Tindal frowned. “What about?”

 “This afternoon—”

 “Oooh, that.” Tindal’s narrow face grinned.

 “You heard about it, uh?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Well . . . I’ll explain it to you tomorrow, Kirby.

 We’re right in the middle of a hand. Sit down there

 and order what you want. Put it on my bill.”

 “I thought this might be important enough to

 talk about now,” Frye said. He heard Stedman say,

 “I call,” and saw him push two chips toward the

 pot.

 “Sure it’s important,” Tindal said, “but it’ll keep

 till tomorrow.”

 Stedman said, “What do you do, R. D.?”

 Tindal glanced at his cards. “How much to

 stay?”

 “Two dollars.”

 “I’m in.” Tindal had less than ten chips in front

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 69

 of him. He took two off the top of the stack and

 dropped them on the pile of chips in the middle of

 the table.

 “Mr. Tindal, I want to ?nd out your side—”

 Beaudry threw his cards down. “I fold.”

 Frye glanced at Beaudry, then to Tindal again

 whose back was toward him now. He moved to the

 side so he could see Tindal’s face. “I’d like to know

 how you could do a thing like that.”

 Clay Jordan pushed two chips away from him.

 “Some people don’t know enough to go home,” he

 said mildly. He glanced at Sundeen. “You’re

 called.”

 Tindal turned his head, but did not look up at

 Frye. “Kirby, I said tomorrow!”

 “Mr. Tindal, I can’t ?nd out something like this

 has happened and just go to bed and forget about

 it.”

 Jordan looked at Frye momentarily. “Maybe you

 better try.”

 Sundeen’s hand slammed down on the table

 spilling the chips in front of him. “Goddamn it,

 we’re playing poker!”

 “All right, Phil,” Stedman said quickly. He

 glanced at Frye. “Just a minute, Kirby.” Then to

 Sundeen, again, “What’ve you got, Phil?”

 Sundeen showed his hand. “A pair of ladies

 over,” he said sourly.

 “That beats me,” Stedman said. He threw in his

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 hand watching the others and saw that they were

 beaten too. “All right,” he said then, “let’s just take

 a minute and explain to Kirby what we did. Now I

 think being deputy sheriff he’s entitled to some explanation.” No one spoke.

 Stedman took his time now. He said, “Kirby,

 brie?y . . . the committee met this morning. We

 used our own God-given authority to set up a judicial system for our city. R. D. was elected public

 prosecutor and I, I was honored to accept as municipal judge. Then, under the power vested in us,

 we tried the two outlaws you brought in. Twelve

 men found them guilty, Kirby. Twelve men, after

 R. D. presented the evidence against them. I then

 felt it my duty to prescribe the death sentence. For

 the main reason, to let it be known how we deal

 with outlawry and that way discourage any future

 crimes against Randado. Kirby, this was done with

 clear conscience and, as I said before, through a

 God-given authority.”

 “Mr. Stedman,” Frye said, “you know better

 than that.”

 Stedman looked at him surprised, then his eyes

 half closed to a squint. “We’re not going to argue

 with you, Kirby.”

 Suddenly it was clear and he should have known

 it before, but this brought it out into the open without any words wasted. They considered him of lit-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 71

 tle importance. Ofno importance! Standing by the

 table he had felt self-conscious with no one paying

 any attention to him, but now he was suddenly angry realizing why. These were older men who didn’t

 have to listen to a boy who’d only been deputy a

 month and before that never in his life had an

 ounce worth of authority. He felt his face ?ush and

 he said, “I’m not going to argue either. Tucson gets

 the report ?rst thing in the morning. You can argue

 with them.” He turned to leave.

 “Kirby!” Tindal was around in his chair. He

 waited, sucking his teeth, making sure Frye would

 stay. He saw Harold Mendez just inside the room

 and Digo lounging in the doorway. “Kirby . . .

 you’re a good boy. You work hard and you keep

 yourself presentable . . . but”—Tindal looked him

 up and down carefully—“maybe you’re not as

 smart as I thought you were.”

 Frye waited, with his respect for this man fading

 to nothing.

 “We’ve been on this earth a little longer than you

 have,” Tindal said, and nodded, indicating the men

 at the table. “And I think maybe we’ve collected a

 little more common sense and judgment. That’s

 nothingagainst you, Kirby, it’s just you’re young

 and got a little bit to learn yet.”

 Frye said, “Yes-sir.”

 “Now, Kirby, I want to remind you of some-72

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 thing. We passed on your appointment as deputy.

 We could have gotten someone else, but we talked

 it over and decided you had the makings of a good

 one. Technically, you work for Danaher up in Tucson, but not if we hadn’t passed on you. We used

 our judgment, Kirby . . . and our authority. Remember this, boy, as long as you’re deputy you

 work for the people.”

 Frye said, “And all the people hung those two

 men?”

 “A majority is all that’s necessary,” Stedman

 said.

 “After you hung them,” Frye asked quietly, “did

 you bury them?”

 “Mendez took care of that,” Beaudry said.

 Frye looked at him. “Didn’t your authority cover

 that?”

 Tindal chuckled softly. “Kirby, now you’re talking foolish.”

 Frye turned on him suddenly. “Doesn’t killing

 two men mean anything to you?” He felt the anger

 hot on his face again.

 Sundeen, sitting low in his chair, was ?ngering

 the chips in front of him. He said to no one in particular, “You picked yourself a beauty.” He looked

 sideways at Jordan. “Why does he pack that gun if

 he’s so against killin’?”

 Jordan said, “Maybe it makes him feel important.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 73

 “Now if it was me,” Sundeen said, “I wouldn’t

 pick a deputy that whined like a woman.”

 Jordan was looking at Frye. “Maybe that’s what

 this deputy is . . . only dressed up like a man.”

 Sundeen grinned. “Maybe we ought to take his

 pants off and ?nd out.”

 Tindal chuckled. “Come on, Phil . . . don’t be

 rough on him.”

 Frye held his eyes on Sundeen. Keep looking at

 him, just him, and don’t let him think you’re afraid.

 He’s not an animal, he can’t smell it, he has to use his

 eyes. Just Sundeen—he felt his anger mounting—

 and don’t look at the other one, don’t even think

 about him. He looks like he would ?ght with a gun,

 not with his ?sts, and you don’t know anything

 about him. One thing at a time.

 “Sundeen, if you want to try, stop by the jail tomorrow.”

 “Clay,” Sundeen grinned, “did you hear what he

 said?”

 Jordan was still looking at Frye. “Why would

 you wait till tomorrow?”

 “That’s what I was thinking,” Sundeen said. He

 looked past Frye to Digo who still lounged in the

 doorway. “You hear what he said, Digo?”

 Digo straightened. “I heard him.”

 “You think we should wait till tomorrow?”

 “What for?”

 Sundeen was grinning. “Can you do it alone?”

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 “Sure.”

 “All right. Get his pants off in two minutes and

 I’ll buy you a drink.”

 “All the way off?”

 “Just down.”

 Frye heard Digo behind him. Suddenly no more

 could be said because it was handed to Digo and

 Digo wasn’t a talker, and with it there was hardly

 time to think about being afraid, only that you had

 to do something fast, without waiting.

 He took a half step back turning, cocking his

 right ?st, starting to swing at Digo who was almost

 on him, and Digo was seeing it, rolled head and

 shoulders out of the way. There it was. Frye shifted

 and jabbed his left ?st hard into Digo’s face. The

 face came up exposed for part of a second and Frye

 was ready. He swung hard with his right and Digo

 went back against the wall, his head striking the

 adobe next to the door frame. He started to go

 down, but he held himself against the wall and

 shook his head, clearing it and now wiping the

 blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

 Frye was on him again. He feinted, jabbed and

 swung, his ?st landing solid against Digo’s cheek,

 then the left, the right again, now to the stomach

 and a cross over to the face as Digo’s guard

 dropped. Digo was covering, hunching his shoulders, but suddenly he swung.

 His big ?st came up from below grazing Frye’s

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 75

 chin, making him go back, and there was Digo’s

 moment. Frye was open and Digo bore in, missing

 with his left but catching Frye’s jaw with his right.

 Frye counterpunched with the ringing in his head,

 hitting Digo’s face, but now Digo did not go back.

 An animal grunt came from him and he waded into

 Frye taking the stinging jabs, then swinging hard

 and now ?nding Frye’s face with most of his blows.

 His guard went up and Digo’s ?st slammed into his

 stomach. Then the wall was behind him hard

 against his head, jolting his back, Digo swinging

 and the soft smacking sound of his ?st against

 Frye’s mouth. He tried to cover himself and Digo

 hammered through his guard, a grunting jab to the

 stomach. Frye’s forearm went up for the blow to

 the head that would follow but it didn’t come and

 again his body slammed against the wall as Digo

 went after his stomach.

 He swung right and left backing Digo off, but

 only for a moment. Digo came again, taking jabs to

 the face and body as he closed in. He swung once,

 grazing Frye’s head but his follow through was

 hard against Frye’s cheekbone sending him back off

 balance. He kept after him until Frye was against

 the wall again and then he swung with every pound

 of his body behind it. Frye started to go down, but

 Digo held him by the front of his shirt and hit him

 again and again and again and each time he did

 Frye’s head slammed against the adobe wall.

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 “That’s enough, Digo!” Tindal screamed.

 Digo let him fall. He backed away breathing

 hard, wiping his mouth. “He needs only twenty

 more pounds,” Digo grunted, “and it could have

 been the other way.”

 Sundeen said, “You didn’t do it.”

 Digo looked at him. “More than two minutes?”

 Sundeen nodded. “But take his pants off anyway.”

 It was well after midnight when the wagon rolled

 into the street and stopped in front of the Metropolitan Café. Light framed the painted windows of

 De Spain’s, but now there were no sounds from inside and across the street the windows of the jail of?ce were dark. The street was silent, though the

 crickets could be heard if you listened for them.

 Haig Hanasian climbed off the wagon seat and

 for a moment disappeared into the deeper shadow

 at the door of his café. He unlocked the door and

 returned unhurriedly to the wagon and close to the

 sideboard he said, “All right, come this way.”

 A man rose to his hands and knees in the wagon

 bed. He hesitated, then dropped silently over the

 sideboard of the wagon and as he did, two ?gures

 rose slowly, cautiously and followed him over the

 side. Haig Hanasian held open the door and they

 passed by him into the darkness of the café.

 They stopped as he closed the door. “Be very

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 77

 quiet,” he said. “The tables are just to your left all

 the way to the back. The counter stools are along

 the right. Walk straight and you will not bump anything.” He moved past them and they followed his

 steps to the kitchen. They heard him close the door.

 A match ?ared in the darkness and Haig lighted the

 lamp that was above the serving table.

 The three men, who were in range clothes and

 watched Haig with full-open shifting eyes in dirtstreaked faces, were the men Sundeen had forced

 out of town. Merl White and the two Sun-D riders

 who had sided with him.

 Haig said, “Sit down,” glancing at them and

 then at the smaller table against the wall, then at

 their swollen bare feet, the shreds of wool socks

 and the traces of blood on the ?oor as they moved

 to the table. Haig pulled the chairs out for them. He

 began clearing the few soiled dishes from the table,

 but hesitated as he picked up the plate with the

 brown paper cigarette mashed in it. He put these

 dishes on the serving table, then went to the stove.

 Merl White said, “What about your horses out

 front?”

 “They are patient,” Haig answered. He was a

 short heavy-set man and he spoke quietly, as if he

 were tired, and the heavy mustache over his mouth

 covered the movement of his lips.

 “If you want to tend them,” Merl White said,

 “I’ll see to the ?re.”

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 “It’s all right,” Haig said, looking at Merl. But

 then his eyes went to the serving table, to the cigarette mashed out on the plate. He lighted the ?re

 and moved the iron pot that was on the stove over

 the well. “It will be ready soon.” He walked to the

 rear door that opened to the backyard. “I’ll be gone

 only a few minutes,” he said.

 The three men were watching him. Merl said

 quickly, “Where’re you going?”

 Haig turned. “Don’t you trust me?”

 Merl swallowed. “I’m sorry . . . I guess we’re

 edgy. We wondered what you planned.”

 “When I come back we will talk about it,” Haig

 said.

 “A man can’t go far without boots.”

 Haig nodded. “We will talk about that, too.”

 He went outside, then up the back stairs to the

 second ?oor porch and through a door which

 opened to a hallway and just inside the door he

 lighted a table lamp. At the end of the hallway the

 living room was dark. Haig opened the door on the

 left, the door to his wife’s bedroom, but he did not

 go in.

 The room was dark, but the light from the hall

 fell across the bed and he could see her form under

 the comforter. She was lying on her side with her

 back toward him as he stood in the doorway and

 she did not move.

 “Are you awake?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 79

 “I am now,” Edith said drowsily. Still she did not

 turn.

 “I have to tell you something.” She did not answer and he repeated, “Edith, I have to tell you

 something very important.” He moved into the

 room and stood by the bed.

 “What is it?”

 “Those three men that were chased out of

 town—they’re downstairs.”

 He expected his wife to look at him now, but she

 did not. “Did you wake me up to tell me that?”

 “It concerns you,” Haig said, “because they will

 be here until Monday night.”

 “Then what?”

 “Then I’ll take them to La Noria.”

 “The good Samaritan.”

 “I only ask that you stop entertaining Mr. Sundeen as long as they are here.” Haig said this quietly, without emotion, as he had said all the things

 before.

 She turned now, but only her shoulders and head

 on the pillow, her body twisted beneath the comforter and now the faint light showed her eyes and

 the outline of her features.

 “I’ll try,” she said, beginning to smile.

 “He was here this evening,” Haig said.

 “How would you know that?”

 “He ate supper in the kitchen and you had coffee

 with him while he ate.”

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 Now she recalled Kirby Frye, picturing him sitting across the table from her, but she said, “I didn’t

 know watching someone eat was a sin.”

 “With you,” Haig said, “it could be a very near

 occasion to it.”

 “You’re absolutely sure Phil was here?”

 “Who else?”

 Edith rolled over lazily and with her back to him

 again said, “Imagine whatever you like.”

 5

 Danaher came Sunday morning. He had been to La

 Noria on county business and had planned to stay

 there over Sunday before returning to Tucson, but

 two men rode in late Saturday afternoon with the

 story of the hanging at Randado and that changed

 Danaher’s plans.

 He left for Randado before sunup and all the

 way there he thought of Kirby Frye and wondered

 if he had returned. The two men told that the regular deputy had not been there, only the jailer.

 And if Frye had returned, what?

 Danaher had con?dence in his deputy, though he

 kept reminding himself of it, because picturing Frye

 he saw a young man who looked too easygoing,

 who maybe smiled too readily and who called almost anyone older than himself mister. No, those

 things didn’t matter, Danaher reminded himself.

 His con?dence was based on a feeling and he relied

 on it more than he did the external evidences. A

 man could look like a lot of things, but Danaher let

 his intuition tell him what was beneath the surface.

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 A good deal of the time, Danaher felt alone in his

 job, this being sheriff of Pima County, and he liked

 to think that sometimes God gave him extra help—

 an above-natural power that allowed him to rely

 on his intuition in appraising people—a compensation for the loneliness of his job, and to make up for

 the minimum of help he could usually expect from

 others.

 His intuition told him many things about Frye.

 That he was sensitive without being emotional,

 that he was respectful without being servile, and

 that he was a man who would follow what his conscience told him ninety-nine per cent of the time.

 That was the quality which sold Danaher, because

 he was sure he could make many of his own principles a part of that conscience, and in time he would

 have a real deputy. He showed Frye that he himself

 was a man to whom principle was everything and

 this way, whether Frye was aware of it or not, he

 won Frye’s respect.

 At the same time, Danaher was honest enough to

 admit to himself that maintaining Frye’s respect

 would even make John Danaher a better man and

 he thought: That’s how God tricks you into being

 good.

 It hadn’t taken long for him to like Frye, and that

 happened with few people he ever met. He respected him as a man, and with Danaher respect

 was something to be given out sparingly and only

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 83

 after substantial proof that it was deserved. Once

 he caught himself pretending that Kirby Frye was

 his son and he called himself a damn fool; but when

 he did it again he thought: Well, what’s so unnatural about that? But the next time he saw Frye he

 spoke little and he bawled hell out of him for letting

 cigarette butts collect on the jail ?oor.

 The ?rst time he ever laid eyes on Frye was at

 Galluro Station the day after the Chiricahuas hit—

 Danaher received the wire on a Saturday afternoon, from Fort Huachuca, relayed through the

 Benson operator. BRING POSSE GALLURO STATION

 HATCH AND HODGES LINE URGENT CHIRICAHUAS.

 They reached Galluro Monday before noon,

 Danaher and eight men, only eight because raising

 a posse on Saturday wasn’t the easiest thing in the

 world. They moved along at a steady but slower

 pace keeping their eyes open on the chance they

 might be riding into the running Chiricahuas and

 that was why it took them until Monday to get

 there.

 The station had been partially burned, the stable

 and outbuildings, everything that wasn’t adobe,

 and the teams had been run off. The dead were

 buried: the station agent and his wife and the Mexican hostler. But two people were missing: the

 hostler’s wife and the little girl, and it was naturally

 assumed the Apaches had taken them. The agent’s

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 wife had been in her forties, that was why she had

 not been taken.

 A Lieutenant J. R. Davis told them this.

 He was there from Fort Huachuca with half of a

 company, about eighteen men counting his Coyotero scout, plus two civilians who stood with their

 thumbs in their belts waiting for something to happen. The other half of the company had gone out

 the day before while the sign was still fresh, Lieutenant Davis told them; but he had waited in order

 to tell Danaher their plan, which was no plan at all,

 but the only alternative Davis could think of.

 So, the ?rst half of the company was to stay on

 the sign as long as possible, following wherever it

 led. Davis would take the remainder of the company and angle east by southeast for the Dragoons,

 which was the logical place the Apaches would try

 to reach no matter what direction they took from

 Galluro. By Wednesday, Davis said, he hoped to

 have made contact with the rest of the company by

 heliograph. And if luck was with them, the

 Apaches would be somewhere in between their

 sun-?ash messages.

 Danaher was told to take his men west, back toward the Santa Catalinas, the way they had come,

 and keep a sharp eye, because perhaps these

 Apaches weren’t heading for the Dragoons at all,

 but trying to get away in a westerly direction.

 Danaher was angry, because he could see the lieu-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 85

 tenant didn’t believe this, but only said it because

 he had come all that way from Tucson with eight

 men and it was a shame not to have him doing

 something.

 “How many were there?” Danaher asked.

 “Not more than a dozen,” Lieutenant Davis told

 him, and glanced at his scout. “That’s what Dandy

 Jim reads.”

 “And you’re pretty sure,” Danaher said, “you

 can handle these twelve Chiricahuas by yourself.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Well, you’re sending us off for home now you

 don’t need us.”

 The lieutenant’s face reddened, but it was anger

 and not embarrassment. “What do you mean don’t

 need you? Couldn’t they just as easily have gone toward the Catalinas?”

 “You’re not even considering it.”

 “My God, I can’t go all four directions with

 eighteen men!”

 Danaher felt sorry for him momentarily. The

 lieutenant had problems of his own to live with and

 to him they were bigger than anyone else’s. There

 was no sense in aggravating him further. It wasn’t

 the lieutenant’s fault Danaher had been brought

 here; still, the Pima sheriff couldn’t help one more

 small jab and he said, “Well, Lieutenant, how do

 you suppose I’m going to watch your western frontier with only eight men?”

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 The lieutenant’s face was still ?ushed and he said

 angrily, “How many men would you like, Mr.

 Danaher?”

 “Many as I can get.”

 “Will two be enough?”

 “If that’s all you can spare.”

 Davis motioned to the two civilians who were

 standing with Dandy Jim. “You men go with the

 sheriff here.”

 One of the men said, “You’re orderin’ the wrong

 boy. When I start ridin’ it’s back toward

 Huachuca.”

 Davis looked at the other man, scowling. “What

 about you?”

 He was standing hip-shot with his thumbs in his

 belt and he nodded. “All right with me.”

 The ?rst man said, “Kirby, what you want to go

 way over there for?”

 “Well, Frank, our deal’s closed, I thought I’d go

 on up to Prescott and visit with my folks.”

 Davis said, “Mr. Danaher, you get one man.”

 “That’ll have to do then,” Danaher said.

 He glanced at the man who was coming with

 him, but did not take a second look because there

 wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about him—

 though maybe he was lankier and lazier looking

 than the next man—and Danaher didn’t bother to

 shake hands with him, but turned to his eight men

 and told them they would eat before starting back.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 87

 Then, drinking his coffee, Danaher looked over at

 Davis’ half-of-a-company preparing to leave and he

 saw his new man and Davis’ Coyotero scout squatting, talking together, and Danaher’s interest advanced one step.

 But it was not until later that he spoke to him.

 They had been riding for more than an hour and it

 came when the two of them happened to be riding

 side by side.

 “What did that Coyotero tell you?” Danaher’s

 ?rst words.

 “To stay awake.”

 Danaher looked at him because the boy’s voice

 was calm and he had not been startled by the sheriff’s abrupt question. “What do they call you?”

 Danaher said now.

 “Frye.”

 “Frye what?”

 “Kirby Frye.”

 “Where’re you from?”

 “Randado originally.”

 “Is that so? What else did that Coyotero say?”

 “That maybe part of them went this way.”

 “What do you think?”

 “I think he could be right.”

 Danaher half smiled. “Don’t go out on a limb.”

 Frye glanced at him, saying nothing.

 Danaher asked, “Did he tell the soldier that?”

 “No.”

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 “Why not?”

 “It wouldn’t make any difference with the few

 men he’s got.”

 “Davis thought they’d run for the Dragoons,”

 Danaher said.

 “Well, he’s probably right.”

 “So they could have gone either way and both

 Davis and the Coyotero are probably right.”

 “I’m saying,” Frye said, “they could have gone

 bothways. Any Chiricahua could dodge soldier patrols and get back to the Dragoons, but he’d stop

 and give it some thought if he was driving those

 stage horses.”

 “So maybe the ones with the horses went this

 way,” Danaher concluded.

 “That’s right.”

 “But if they were to drive them west, then make

 a long swing back to the Dragoons, that would

 take time.”

 “They’ve got more of it than anybody else,” Frye

 said.

 They camped without a ?re on ?at ground, but

 with foothills looming in the near distance. It was

 the boy, Kirby Frye, who suggested no ?re. The

 men grumbled because as far as they were concerned they were going home, not stalking hostiles;

 but Danaher agreed with Frye and said bluntly,

 ?atly, no ?re, and that’s all there was to it. They ate

 jerked beef and biscuits, then lay on their stomachs

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 89

 to smoke, holding the glow cupped close to the

 ground. One man, with a cigarette in his mouth,

 stood up and walked off a few feet to relieve himself. He turned, surprised, seeing Danaher next to

 him, but had no time to dodge as Danaher’s ?st

 swung against his jaw. Without a word Danaher

 stepped on the cigarette and returned to the circle

 of his possemen.

 In the morning as soon as they reached high

 ground, they saw the dust. Far off beyond the

 sweep of the grade below them, hanging clear and

 almost motionless in the distance, seeming only a

 few hundred yards off in the dry air but at least

 four hours ahead of them, beyond arroyos and cutbanks that were only shadow lines in their vision.

 Horses raised dust like that and every man there

 knew it. And when they moved on, down the

 sweep of the grade, there was an excitement inside

 of them that wasn’t there before. Danaher could

 feel it and he knew the others did, but they rode

 loose and kept it inside and tried to look as if this

 was something they did every other day of the

 week.

 Well, Danaher thought, watching his men when

 they weren’t watching him, that was a good sign.

 They’re good men and maybe I shouldn’t have hit

 that one last night. Now they know they’re not just

 riding home and they’ll act like grown men.

 But later on Danaher’s men let their excitement

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 show. Since noon they had been deep among the

 hills, winding through the shadows of brush and

 rock formations, moving single ?le with two men a

 mile or so ahead, moving slowly but gaining

 steadily on the column of dust which they would

 see only occasionally now.

 About two o’clock they heard ri?e ?re up ahead

 and soon after one of Danaher’s advance riders was

 coming back. They could read good news all over

 his face.

 Danaher side-stepped his big chestnut gelding to

 block the trail and the rider came up short, almost

 swinging out of the saddle. He had been yelling

 something as he rode in and now Danaher told him

 to shut up and take a breath and they’d ?nd out

 what happened a lot quicker.

 “Now what’s it all about?”

 “John, wegot one!”

 The man’s name was Walt Booth and he was the

 same one who had showed his cigarette glow the

 night before and Danaher had hit. He was quick

 tempered and easily roused to ?ght, but Danaher

 could handle him and that’s why he always let

 Booth join the posses.

 Now Booth told them what had happened. How

 they had topped a rise and there right below them,

 but beyond a brush thicket, were eight or ten

 horses in a clearing like they’d been held up to rest.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 91

 It hit them right away, Booth told. Stage teams

 from Galluro! And that meant only one thing—

 “We started to rein around and I heard it. A

 snappin’ sound in the brush. Now I had my piece

 across my lap and my ?nger on the trigger—had it

 there all morning—and I’m broadside to the thicket

 when I hear the noise and the next second this sonof-a-bitchin’ ’Pache’s standin’ there gawkin’ at me.

 He starts to run, but he’s a split-haired second late

 and I let him catch it right between the wings.”

 Booth was grinning. “Didn’t even have to lift the

 piece, just squeezed one off and he ?ops over like a

 sack of fresh cow chips.”

 Danaher asked him how many Apaches, but

 Booth didn’t know. When he ?red the horses

 started to move, just like that, like a signal, and

 they didn’t see even one, though they ?red at the

 horses because you know how the bastards cling to

 the off side of a mount and make you think

 there’re no riders while all the time they’re ridin’

 the hell out.

 He told that the other advance man was watching the place and they’d better shake their tails up

 there if they were going to have ’Pache for dinner.

 Danaher let Booth go ?rst, then told the others

 to follow and he swore if a man made a sound he’d

 break him in two. But their excitement was up

 again and they did make sounds in the loose shale

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 and brushing through mesquite and all Danaher

 could do was swear to himself.

 The other advance rider was not in sight, but

 they found the dead Apache right away. Booth said

 damned if he oughtn’t to lift the greasy scalp . . .

 show his wife he was really out here . . . but Danaher told him to keep away. Frye came up to him

 then. He watched Frye kneel over the dead Apache

 and heard him say something about the Apache being only a boy. Not over fourteen.

 Well, that was too bad. Danaher had live

 Apaches to think about. He directed his men to the

 clearing where the horses had been and when they

 got there the other advance man who had been with

 Booth was coming out of the brush on the other

 side. He was running and pointing behind him.

 “John, they’re runnin’ like blue hell down a

 draw!”

 “How many?”

 “Not a mile ahead! John, we got ’em runnin’ for

 the open!”

 “How many!”

 The man reached them and he stopped, breathing heavily. “I didn’t see ’em . . . I heard ’em! This

 draw’s full of scrub pine—must slant down two

 miles before she opens up. Way off over the trees

 you can see open country where the draw comes

 out. And all the time I could hear the red sons

 beatin’ down through the trees!”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 93

 “But you didn’t see them come out,” Danaher

 said.

 “Settin’ there was time wasted. I came back to

 get you.”

 Danaher swung up over his saddle and went

 through the brush at a gallop. The others followed.

 They topped the knoll that formed the beginning of

 the draw, listening and hearing nothing, but seeing

 off in the distance, below and off beyond the slanting brown-green smooth-appearing tops of the

 scrub pines, the dust trail. Dust that was rising

 thinly to nothing and pinpoint dots inching into the

 wide open ?at glare of the distance. Booth said,

 “We’re going to have us a late supper, but damn’ if

 it won’t be worth it.”

 Danaher was ready and he turned in the saddle

 to make sure that his men were. This is what they

 had come for and by God they’d run the Apaches

 till they caught them. His men were ready, sitting

 their mounts eagerly. All of them except the boy,

 Kirby Frye.

 He was standing in front of his horse, holding

 the reins close to the bit rings and gazing up at the

 wild brush and rocks that followed a looming jog

 back off to the left of them.

 Danaher asked, “You coming?”

 Frye’s gaze swung to Danaher. “I don’t know

 about chasing after that dust.”

 “What do you mean?”

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 “It doesn’t seem right they’d be running for open

 country.”

 One of the men said, “John, we got to move!”

 Danaher scowled. “Hold on!” And to Frye,

 “Make some sense.”

 “I never heard of an Apache getting himself

 caught out on ?at land. They mostly camp high,

 even if it’s a dry camp, andalways if somebody’s on

 their sign.”

 Danaher said, “But if we surprised them they

 didn’t have a choice but to streak for the best

 opening.”

 Frye shook his head. “I never heard of a Chiricahua raiding party being even approached without their knowing about it.”

 “That ’Pache over yonder,” Booth sneered,

 “sure’n hell opened a surprise package when he

 stuck his head out the bushes.” Booth’s eyes held

 on Frye. “Who says you know so goddamn much

 about ’Paches? That stuff last night about no

 ?re—”

 “The one you got was a boy,” Frye interrupted.

 “He hadn’t yet learned the ?ner points.”

 Booth glanced at the rider next to him. “He’s a

 goddamn Indin lover. Chief No-Fire.” He looked

 back to Frye. “Chief No-Fire-In-His-Pants. Let me

 ask you a question, Chief. Are you tellin’ us this

 ’cause you’re an Indin lover or ’cause you’re too

 goddamn scared to go down that draw?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 95

 Danaher almost interrupted, but he glanced at

 Frye and suddenly checked himself. The boy hadn’t

 moved, hadn’t ?ickered his eyes from Booth’s face.

 Booth was almost broadside to him, the Remington

 rolling, block across his lap, and pointed just off

 from Frye, and the boy still held his reins short, but

 his right hand was at his side now, thumb almost

 touching the hickory butt of his Colt.

 Frye said, “Mister, were you asking a question,

 or telling me a fact?” Booth had been leaning over

 the saddle horn, but now he straightened slowly

 and the barrel of the Remington edged a wavering

 inch toward Frye.

 “Take it any way you want,” Booth said.

 “If it wasn’t a question,” Frye said, “then you

 better start doin’ something with that Remington.”

 “Hold on!” Danaher broke in. He had been intrigued by the boy’s calmness, by the way Frye

 stared back at a ri?e barrel almost on him and

 dumped the play back into the other man’s lap; but

 it had to end. And Danaher was the man to end it.

 “Time’s wasting.” He glared at Frye. “Get it out,

 quick. Why don’t you think it’s them? Even though

 you can see their dust.”

 “We make dust just like they do,” Frye said. “I’ll

 judge they sent a man back to look us over sometime yesterday afternoon.”

 “Go on.”

 “They decided we were getting too close, so the

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 thing to do was throw us off. It was either keeping

 their skins or the horses. Their skins got the vote

 and the horses were elected to side-track us. That’s

 what you see down there, the Hatch and the

 Hodges Stage horses they took from Galluro.”

 Danaher said, “And you think the braves are up

 here in the rocks somewhere.”

 Frye nodded.

 “That boy getting shot,” Danaher said. “Was

 that part of the side-tracking?”

 A few of his men laughed, Booth one of them.

 “That’s the way they learn,” Frye said. “They either graduate or get dropped out of school suddenly.”

 “What else?” Danaher said.

 “The rest is guess.”

 “Go ahead.”

 “There were three boys and one warrior, the instructor you might say. Probably this run on Galluro was the ?rst raid they’ve taken part in. They

 were to just take care of the horses and get them

 back home somehow. Now there weren’t enough

 for an ambush and we were too close to be outrun,

 so they had only one thing left to do. Throw us off

 and get the hell home.”

 “You admit that’s a guess,” Danaher said.

 “Most of it. I wasn’t there when they talked it

 over.”

 Danaher shook his head. “That dust over there is

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 97

 something we can see. Maybe they’re only horses

 as you say, but it’s something there and you don’t

 have to guess to know it.”

 Frye nodded. “Yes sir. You coming back this

 way?”

 Danaher looked at him. “You mean you’re going

 to stay here?”

 “They come back for their dead when they can.”

 “That’s presupposing quite a bit.”

 Frye shrugged. “When you come back I’ll ride on

 to Tucson with you.”

 Danaher hesitated. There were words he could

 use to cut a fresh know-it-all kid down to manageable size. Words almost in his mouth. But he hesitated. The way the boy said it wasn’t cheeky or

 show-off; it was perhaps just the words themselves,

 if you took them alone. So he hesitated because he

 was unsure and later on he was glad that he did.

 He took his men down the draw, down through

 the scrub pine to the plain and pointed them into

 the distance, ran them until mounts and men were

 salt-and sweat-caked, halted them for the sake of

 the horses not the men, moved them again, gaining

 on the dust cloud, now making out pinpoint dots

 again, drawing closer, closer, until ?nally—there it

 was.

 He drew up his posse and sat heavily, silently

 watching the riderless Hatch and Hodges Line

 stage horses streak into the distance again.

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 And all the way back to the draw, in the approaching dusk, he was silent. He was not angry

 because he had made a mistake. He did not expect

 to be right all the time. This was even a justi?able

 miscalculation for that matter. A bird in the hand

 always and any way you looked at it being worth

 more than the two in the bush. Well, maybe not always. He was thinking of Kirby Frye and the matter-of-fact way he had read the situation. No, the

 one in the hand isn’t always the best. Not if somebody tells you the bush is right under your nose and

 all you have to do is stick your hand in.

 Reaching the top of the draw Danaher was

 thinking: But he better not say, “I told you so.”

 Moving into the clearing he expected to see Frye

 get up and watch them ride in. Wasn’t that him lying over there? It was in his mind and at the same

 moment Booth, swinging down next to him, answered the question.

 “That’s the ’Pache I shot!”

 The Apache boy had been left in the brush, but

 now, strangely, he was near the edge of the clearing.

 And still Frye was not in sight.

 “John, there’s a note on him.”

 “What?”

 “Right on his chest, a rock weightin’ it down!”

 Booth looked at it, even though he couldn’t read,

 before handing it to Danaher.

 It was a yellow sheet of paper that had been

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 99

 folded twice but was now open and the side he

 looked at was a receipt form with the information

 that thirty-three cavalry remounts had been delivered and—

 Danaher turned the paper between his ?ngers.

 Frye’s message was on the other side, written in

 pencil.

 Don’t move the dead one. 35 paces off his right

 shoulder in the brush is a wounded Cherry-cow.

 Gutshot. Don’t give him water. Will see you by

 dark.

 And the last line:Horses run like hell without

 saddles, don’t they?

 One thought struck Danaher at that moment. It

 had been building in him since meeting Frye, evolving slowly as Frye, step by step, advanced in Danaher’s estimation; ?rst, seeing him talking to the

 Coyotero tracker; then last night, he was the one

 who had suggested no ?re; then the way he stood

 up to Booth’s nervous Remington with ice water in

 his eyes and a voice like he was asking the time of

 day; and the fact that he had read this Apache

 scheme like words on a printed page.

 He’d make one hell of a ?ne deputy, was Danaher’s thought. And he realized now that perhaps he

 had been thinking it, or half wishing it, all the

 time.

 The note clinched it in Danaher’s mind. He carries a pencil! Maybe he can’t spell Chiricahua, but

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 by God “Cherry-cow” was close enough and all the

 rest of the words were right.

 He was still thinking about this when Kirby Frye

 returned. He came out of the brush and was next to

 Danaher before the sheriff realized he was there.

 “Where’ve you been?”

 “After the other two.”

 So he was right, Danaher thought. Four alto gether. “You get them?”

 “One. The other disappeared.”

 In the almost dark Danaher studied him. “Probably the older brave.”

 “I never got close enough to tell.”

 “Why’d they come back?”

 “To pick up the dead one. They thought we’d all

 gone.”

 “Well, three dead out of four isn’t bad.”

 Frye looked at Danaher anxiously. “The one I hit

 in the belly’s dead?”

 “Booth ?nished him.” Danaher asked then,

 “Why didn’t you?”

 “I didn’t create him,” Frye answered. “I don’t

 see where I had a right to uncreate him.”

 “What about the other one? You killed him.”

 “Not when he was lying on the ground gutshot.”

 “What’s the difference?”

 Frye hesitated. “Mr. Danaher, don’t you see a

 difference?”

 He did, but he wasn’t going to stand in a mesquite

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 101

 thicket all night discussing Apache-country ethics,

 so he said, “Maybe we’ll talk about it over a beer

 sometime.”

 And he was thinking: No question of it now.

 He’s my man.

 After they reached Tucson he asked Frye if he’d

 mind stopping by the jail. Danaher relaxed a little

 and smiled to himself when Frye said yes sir, he’d be

 happy to. Might even buy the boy a drink, he decided, after they had something to eat.

 And later, after tacos and a glass of beer, now sitting in the jail of?ce, Danaher with his back to the

 roll-top, Frye appearing comfortable slouched in a

 Douglas chair, both smoking cigarettes—

 “I’d like to ask you a few things,” Danaher began.

 “Go ahead.”

 “There’s a reason.”

 Frye shrugged. “I ?gured there was.”

 “Well . . . you said you were from Randado.”

 “Originally.”

 “How long ago?”

 Frye looked at the beamed ceiling, then at Danaher. “I was born there. My dad was a mining man

 then and felt he ought to work the Huachucas. So

 we lived in Randado while he prospected.”

 “And how long did you stay?”

 “I left the ?rst time when I was fourteen.”

 “For where?”

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 “With a trail herd.”

 “Old man Sundeen’s?”

 Frye nodded. “Yes sir. That was before Willcox

 became a pickup point for the railroad. We drove

 them all the way to Ellsworth.”

 “I imagine you learned a few things on Douglas

 Street,” Danaher said seriously.

 Frye grinned. “A few things.”

 “And then what?”

 “The next year we drove part of the herd to McDowell and the rest over to San Carlos and Old Val

 sold them all as government beef for the reservation.”

 “Go on.”

 “Well, I didn’t go back with them that trip, but

 stayed on at San Carlos and worked for the agent a

 while.”

 “And that’s where you learned about Apaches.”

 “I learned some.”

 “I guess you did.”

 “That same year my folks moved up to Prescott

 and my dad started a freight line with what he’d

 scratched out of the Huachucas.”

 “He sounds like the one prospector in a thousand,” Danaher observed, “with some sense.”

 “All he wanted was enough to start a business

 with,” Frye explained.

 “That’s what they all say.”

 “Well, my dad was always good for his word.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 103

 “You favor him?”

 “I don’t know . . . they always said I favored my

 mother. She was from right here in Tucson. One of

 the Kirby girls . . . her dad was a lawyer, W. F.

 Kirby?”

 “I’ve only been here for a few years,” Danaher

 said. “What did you do, work for your dad?”

 “Yes sir. I drove one of his freight wagons.”

 “Did you help him keep books?”

 “Some.”

 “Your mother saw that coming when she taught

 you to read and write.”

 Frye looked at him surprised. “How’d you know

 that?”

 “You don’t talk like you came out of the hills,

 but you haven’t had time to go to school. Which

 did you get tired of ?rst,” he said then, “the freight

 wagon or the ledger?”

 “You sure know a lot about me.”

 “You left, didn’t you?”

 “Yes sir. I went to work for a man supplying remounts to the cavalry.”

 “How long did you do that?”

 “For him, a couple of years.”

 “Then you went in business for yourself.”

 He frowned, the frown changing to a grin as

 Frye shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m doing

 any talking.”

 “Did you work alone?”

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 “I had two Coyotero boys.”

 “And they taught you a little more.”

 “A lot more.”

 “Where’d you sell?”

 “Huachuca mostly. I’d just sold a string of bang tails there when Davis said he was going to Galluro

 and asked did we want to come along.”

 “Was that tracker of his one of your boys?”

 “Dandy Jim? No, he works just for the Fifth

 Cavalry. My boys quit on the trip before that one,

 so I took on a partner.”

 “The one who was with you at Galluro.”

 “Yes sir. But he didn’t like to work much. I was

 glad when he said no about going with you; that

 gave me a chance to break our partnership. It was

 just on a trial.”

 Danaher was silent. Finally he said, “Then you

 haven’t been back to Randado in about ten years.”

 “That’s right.”

 “You remember Old Val Sundeen.”

 “Yes sir.”

 “And his boy?”

 “I remember him. He was about six years older

 than me then.”

 “Phil.”

 “That’s right, Phil.”

 “Did you get along with him?”

 “Well—”

 “Not too good, uh?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 105

 “Not too.”

 “Phil’s running the spread now. Old Val’s got

 something eating at his insides and he hardly gets

 out of bed.”

 Frye said, “That’s too bad,” frowning.

 “You remember R. D. Tindal?”

 “I remember Mr. Tindal. He had a girl, Mil-mary.”

 “He still does. You remember Beaudry?”

 “The name’s familiar.”

 “What about Harold Mendez?”

 Frye shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

 “Harold’s deputy at Randado, but he’s quitting.”

 “Oh.”

 “Do you want his job?”

 “What does it pay?”

 Danaher had expected him to hesitate. He stared

 at Frye slouched comfortably in the chair returning

 his gaze calmly. “Seventy-?ve a month,” Danaher

 answered, “plus a dollar for each drunk and disorderly arrest. You get something else if you have to

 collect taxes. I suppose it’s less than you might

 make trading horses, but it’s steadier. Do you want

 the job?”

 Frye straightened in the chair and said, “I think

 it’d be ?ne.” Just like that.

 You can’t be sure, Danaher told himself now, dismounting in front of the Randado jail. Even with

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 Godgiven intuition you can’t always judge a man

 quickly. He told himself that because Frye was only

 twenty-four and because, more than anything else,

 he didn’t want to be wrong about him.

 6

 “I’m sorry you have to be kept in this cell,” Frye

 said to Dandy Jim, who stood close to him but

 seemed to be farther away because of the heavy

 iron bars that separated them. He hesitated. “Listen,” he went on, speaking to the Coyotero in

 Spanish, “I could leave this door open if it would

 make a difference to you.”

 The Coyotero seemed to consider this. “Why

 would it make a difference,” he said then, “knowing I must remain here?”

 “I promised the soldier in charge that I would

 hold you until he returned,” Frye explained.

 Dandy Jim said nothing. He could not understand this and that was the reason he did not speak;

 and he was not sure if it would be proper to ask

 why the soldiers had the right to hold him or request of another that he be held. And at the same

 time, looking at Frye, he tried not to notice his

 swollen mouth, the bruises on both cheek bones

 and the left eye which was purple-blue and almost

 closed. He knew it would not be proper to ask

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 about his dis?gurement. Perhaps, though, he could

 ask about the other since he had known this man

 many years—

 “Tell me,” he said, suddenly having decided to

 ask it, “why is what I did to that woman a concern

 of the soldiers?”

 “I don’t understand,” Frye answered.

 “It was my woman, I found her with another, this

 Susto if you know him, and did what I had to do.”

 “When was that?”

 “Just before the soldiers came.”

 Frye was silent. Then, “After you dis?gured her

 you drank the tulapai?”

 Dandy Jim nodded.

 “With others, and perhaps you made noise?”

 “Perhaps.”

 “To be overheard by someone who might tell the

 soldiers if it meant a reward?”

 “That might be.”

 “Well, that’s why they chased you . . . the tulapai, not because of what you did to your wife.”

 Watching Dandy Jim, Frye could see that this explanation did not seem reasonable to him, so he

 said, “I’ll tell you, without wasting words, that

 when the Apache drinks tulapai, the soldiers are

 afraid. That’s their reason for taking it away from

 you.”

 Dandy Jim said, “When the soldiers drink aguardiente, who takes that from them?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 109

 “No one.”

 “Is no one afraid of them?”

 “Some are, but in a way that is different.”

 Dandy Jim could not reasonably carry this further, so he said, “Then that about my woman has

 nothing to do with why I am here.”

 “I’m almost certain it does not.” Frye asked

 then, “Do you need tobacco?” And when the Coyotero shook his head, he said, “I’ll come back again

 to talk to you.”

 And when he was gone Dandy Jim thought and

 continued to think that even this white man whom

 he had known so many years, even him he did not

 understand. Something made the white men different from Apache and he did not know what it was.

 Yes, even this one who could do many things which

 were Apache, even he was different when you

 closed your eyes and thought about him, remembering the small things he said which were not really small but kept small because they were things

 that could not be explained. Like this tulapai thing.

 He said that soldiers were afraid of the Apache who

 drank tulapai. That was keeping it simple and

 small.

 And probably he does not approve of what I did

 to the woman, even though he says I am not being

 held for that. But it was not his wife, and he did not

 see her through the willows lying with another

 man. Susto.

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 He thought about the woman again, though he

 had ceased calling her his wife.

 It was the tulapai he had been drinking on the

 way home that brought the rage. He would not

 have done it sober. Beat her, yes; but not mutilate

 her. But even as he thought of it he was angry again.

 It was not his fault that he was gone most of the

 time as a tracker for the soldiers. Did she expect

 him to grow corn? He was a warrior and would

 ?ght either for the soldiers or against them and at

 this time it was not only more pro?table, but wiser

 to ?ght for them. He was not asked to go against

 Coyoteros. Only Chiricahuas and sometimes Mimbrenos, people he did not usually approve of under

 any circumstances. But he did it as much for her as

 for himself and that was what angered him. That

 while he was away, working to be able to buy cloth

 and beads as well as ammunition, she would lie

 with another man. Susto. Susto of all men. She had

 been a Lipan woman, taken on a raid, and perhaps

 he should never have trusted her.

 No, he was sure Frye did not approve of his

 treatment of the woman, though this did not show

 on his face. There was their difference again.

 When Frye ?rst became known to him he seldom

 thought of this difference. That time at San Carlos.

 And the ?rst day they spoke—

 They were just beginning the foot race and the

 white boy came up to them and asked if he could

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 111

 take part. For weeks he had watched their games

 while they pretended that he was not watching, but

 this day he asked if he might join. And while laughing to themselves they told him, seriously, yes he

 could join them, but would he not like to make a

 wager? Say his horse? All of this was half in Spanish and half Apache and English and it took time.

 Then, after he had put up his horse they told him

 that of course he knew this was not an ordinary

 foot race. Dandy Jim himself, Tloh-ka then,

 pointed, explaining that they would run following

 the bending course of that arroyo to the clump of

 mesquite part of the way up the hill (“You will

 know it by the way it claws at your face”), then

 back again, a distance of two and a half miles. And,

 of course, the contestants would be blindfolded,

 their hands tied behind them and would carry a

 knife, by the blade, between their teeth. Whoever

 did not return with a knife still in his mouth would

 forfeit his horse to the winner of the race. There

 was an old Coyotero man there to see that each boy

 abided by the rules which forbade attempting a

 short cut or trying to trip an opponent.

 Twice that afternoon they ran the race and when

 it was over Kirby Frye still had his horse. He had

 not won any of the races, but he still had his horse.

 Later, years later, Dandy Jim learned Frye had been

 practicing this alone for weeks.

 There were other games in those days at San

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 Carlos: Apache games, and in all of them Frye did

 well and in competing in the games there was never

 the thought that this boy was different from them,

 not after that ?rst foot race. In time he even spoke

 some words of their language.

 Thinking of those days now, it occurred to

 Dandy Jim, that, yes, they were different even then,

 because whatever it was that made them different

 was inside and must have been present from the

 moment of conception. It was just that they did not

 have the time then to notice it.

 But he is a good man, Dandy Jim thought, and I

 think it would be a rare thing to track with him or

 go to war as his companion . . . to do something

 which would leave no time for thinking about this

 difference.

 Danaher had been talking to Harold Mendez for

 almost a quarter of an hour when Frye came down

 the stairs. Time enough to learn how the hanging

 had taken place and to learn again that Frye had

 not been present; though he refrained from asking

 what Frye had done about it.

 And now, seeing Frye’s swollen face, it wasn’t

 necessary to ask. He felt relief sag inside of him and

 he exhaled slowly, inaudibly, all of the tension that

 he had carried with him from La Noria. Frye had

 done something, there was no question about that.

 “Kirby, you look a bit worse for wear,” Danaher

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 113

 said, sitting down and pointing with his eyes for

 Frye to sit down also. “How do you feel?”

 “I don’t know. I think all my front teeth are

 loose.”

 “Don’t eat anything chewy for a while and

 they’ll settle again. Who did it?”

 “Sundeen’s jinete.”

 “Digo the horsebreaker,” Danaher said as if re?ecting, picturing him. Then, “What are you going

 to do about it?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “What about Tindal and the others; what’re you

 going to do about them?”

 Frye seemed suddenly worn out and he only

 shrugged his shoulders.

 Danaher was silent for a moment watching Frye.

 He told himself to take it easy or he’d lose a deputy.

 But no, the hell with that, if he wants to quit then

 let him get out now, out of the way. Baby him and

 you’ll be holding his hand from now on, Danaher

 thought.

 So he said, “How long are you going to sit

 here?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “You don’t know very much, do you?”

 Frye looked up. “What would you do?”

 “I’d slap ’em with warrants.”

 “I don’t know if I could do it.”

 Danaher said, “You’ve got a gun.”

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 “I walk up to Tindal, and tell him he’s under arrest, and if he objects I draw on him.”

 “You’ve got it fairly straight,” Danaher said,

 “but I’ll write it out if you want.”

 “John—” Frye hesitated; it was the ?rst time he

 had called Danaher by his ?rst name. It just popped

 out and momentarily he looked at Danaher as if expecting him to object, but there was no reaction

 from him, nothing on Danaher’s face to indicate an

 objection. And Frye thought brie?y, ?ashingly: You

 make a big thing out of everything. You make a

 problem out of whether you should use a ?rst name

 or a mister . . . which was half the reason it didn’t

 go right at De Spain’s last night. You were being too

 respectful, so they shoved it down your throat.

 “John,” he repeated the name purposely.

 “Maybe I’m sitting here because I’m afraid. I’ll get

 that out in the open ?rst. But there’s something else.

 Last night Tindal told me that I worked for Randado, that is, the people of Randado. And if the

 people of Randado elect to have a law their way,

 one that bene?ts them as a whole, then I have to go

 along with the people I serve.”

 Danaher nodded. “That sounds like Tindal. But

 there’s one thing wrong with the statement. You

 work for me.”

 “I know I do, but these are the people right here

 I actually serve.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 115

 Danaher leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell

 you something, if you don’t already know it,” he

 said quietly. “I’m paid pretty well to keep order in a

 stretch of land as big as any one man’s been asked

 to watch. I’ve got people above me, but they give

 me a free hand; those were my terms. I’m the law

 here, Kirby. I’ve got a conscience and God to account to, but I’m the law and when I say something’s wrong, it’s wrong

 .

 .

 .

 until a higher

 authority proves otherwise.” Danaher continued to

 look at Frye, holding him with his eyes.

 “You said you might be scared. Well, I was

 boogered once, shaking in my boots making my

 ?rst arrest of a wanted man. After that I took men

 with me because it was quicker and I no longer had

 to prove to myself, or to anybody else, I could do it.

 You proved yourself by standing up to them. Now

 get some men behind you and slap warrants on

 Tindal, Beaudry, Stedman, Sundeen and Digo—”

 “What about Clay Jordan?” Frye said, because

 he thought of him suddenly as Danaher named the

 others and he wanted to see Danaher’s reaction.

 “Was he here?” Danaher’s face showed nothing.

 “They say he wasn’t in on the hanging.”

 Danaher paused. “Then don’t touch him.”

 “Do you know him?”

 “I know him.” Danaher rose saying this.

 “He looks like a gun-tipper.”

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 “Don’t try to ?nd out,” Danaher said.

 “I might have trouble getting men to back me,”

 Frye said, “when I pass out the warrants.”

 “That’s your problem. You get paid for ?guring

 out things like that.”

 Frye’s swollen lips formed a smile. “I’ll try. But I

 can’t promise anything.”

 That was all Danaher wanted to hear. He said,

 “Wire Tucson when you’ve served them. If I don’t

 hear from you by Wednesday I’ll come back.”

 Frye nodded, but said, “How do you know I

 won’t quit?”

 “Kirby,” Danaher answered, “I just have to look

 at your busted face.”

 7

 “There must be a better way to do this,” Harold

 Mendez said. He was watching Frye, who was sitting at the desk ?lling in the names on the warrants.

 The warrants already bore Judge Ira M. Finnerty’s

 illegible scrawl in the lower right corner, which to

 Frye always seemed proof enough of Danaher’s

 in?uence—anyone who could get Judge Finnerty to

 sign blank warrants that would be used sometime

 in the future—

 “Maybe Danaher’s right,” Frye answered the

 jailer. “He’d throw them in jail and not make any

 bones about it.”

 “But you’re not Danaher,” Mendez said.

 “I just don’t think they have to be thrown in

 jail.” The warrants would be served, but instead of

 jailing them they would be ordered not to leave the

 vicinity between now and the next court date

 scheduled for December 18, three weeks away. And

 since their families and businesses were here Frye

 decided it wouldn’t be necessary for them to post

 bond. But it will be hard living with them, he

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 thought. Then Judge Finnerty will decide to hold

 the hearing at Tucson and that will make it all the

 worse, making them ride eighty-?ve miles for their

 comeuppance.

 Sunday, the day before, he did not see any of

 them. He came to the jail in the morning to relieve

 Harold and to talk to Dandy Jim; but after Danaher

 left he went back to his room—a boardinghouse

 down the street—and stayed there through most of

 the afternoon and evening, not even visiting De

 Spain’s after supper. Let them cool off. Sunday

 might have a soothing effect on them and it would

 be easier Monday when he served the warrants.

 “Harold, maybe you could ?nd out if Beaudry’s

 about while I visit Tindal and Stedman.”

 “All right,” Harold nodded. “What about Sundeen?”

 “I’ll go out there about suppertime.”

 “When his whole crew’s in,” Harold added.

 “I have to serve Digo, too,” Frye answered. He

 left the jail, slipping the warrants into his inside

 coat pocket, and walked along the shade of

 wooden awnings to the Randado branch of the

 Cattlemen’s Bank. He glanced across the street to

 Tindal’s store before going inside and he thought of

 Milmary as he approached the railed-off section of

 the bank’s of?ce.

 “Louise, could I see Mr. Stedman?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 119

 The blond girl at the front desk looked up. “He

 isn’t in,” she said stif?y.

 “Where would he be?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “No idea?”

 “Maybe he’s at dinner.”

 “It’s a little early for that.”

 “Mr. Stedman doesn’t tell me everything he

 does.”

 “All right.” Frye started to go. “You might tell

 him I was here.”

 “Don’t worry,” the girl said after him.

 He crossed the street to Tindal’s. Opening the

 door and closing it with the jingling of the bell, he

 saw Milmary behind the counter. She was facing

 the shelves, a writing board in her arm, and Frye

 knew that she had seen him. She would have turned

 hearing a customer.

 “Mil—”

 “Just leave your warrant on the counter and get

 out of here.”

 He hesitated. “How do you know I have a warrant?”

 “Everybody in town saw Danaher yesterday.

 Why else would you be here?”

 Now it was out in the open and that made it

 simpler, if nothing else. “I’m looking for your

 dad.”

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 “I don’t know where he is.”

 “Maybe he’s having dinner with Mr. Stedman.”

 “Why don’t you”—she turned suddenly, hesitat ing as she saw his bruised face, and though her tone

 was softer she ?nished—“look for him. Isn’t that

 what they pay you for, looking for criminals?”

 “I thought you might save me some steps,” Frye

 said. “Maybe he’s at home.”

 “Maybe he is,” Milmary said.

 “Or at De Spain’s?”

 “Or in Mexico! Why don’t you just leave?”

 “All right, Mil.”

 “Kirby—”

 He was turning to go and now he looked back at

 her. “What?”

 “Who did that to you?” She nodded gently, almost frowning.

 “Digo,” Frye answered. He hesitated, still looking at her, but slowly her eyes dropped from his. He

 turned then and left.

 Harold Mendez was at the window when Frye

 opened the door. He nodded to a line of Sun-D

 horses hitched in front of De Spain’s and said,

 “They came while you were at Tindal’s. It looked

 funny because as you were coming out they were

 going into De Spain’s.”

 “Is Phil there?”

 “Phil and Digo and Jordan and three or four

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 121

 more.” Harold’s eyes went to the line of horses and

 he said, “That’s right, seven of them.”

 “I didn’t even hear them,” Frye said.

 “You were thinking of something else,” Harold

 said. He saw Frye look at the ri?e rack and then at

 the desk, then walk over to the desk, not sitting

 down but only touching it with his ?ngers, then

 come over to the window and Harold was thinking: I’m glad I’m not in his shoes; and said, “Did

 you serve the warrants?”

 “Neither one of them were there.”

 “Something funny’s going on,” Harold said.

 “Wordie Stedman was passing and I asked him if

 he’d seen Mr. Beaudry, but he went right on without stopping.”

 “He might have had something to do.”

 “Didn’t even look back.”

 “Well, I don’t know—”

 “Kirby, the word’s out on this warrant business

 and nobody likes it. That’s what it is.”

 Frye nodded slowly, looking across the street. “It

 didn’t take long for them to ?nd out, did it?”

 “They saw Danaher and they know Danaher

 wouldn’t fool around,” Harold said. “You know

 they can make it hard for you to serve those warrants.”

 “I don’t understand that, Harold. Everybody

 wasn’t in on the hanging. Why should they stick up

 for the few that were?”

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 Harold shrugged. “Maybe it’s just that nobody

 likes Danaher. Or at least they feel closer to Tindal

 and Stedman . . . and Beaudry, and it’s a matter of

 principle with them. Like helping out a kin who’s in

 trouble. Not necessarily because you like him, but

 because he’s a him.”

 Frye said, “Do they feel that way about Sundeen?”

 “They don’t have to worry about Sundeen. Listen,” Harold went on, “probably everybody isn’t

 against you.” He hesitated. “But that isn’t much

 consolation because it seems like everybody,

 doesn’t it?”

 Frye nodded.

 “I know how you feel,” Harold said. “I’m glad I

 don’t have to feel that way any more. It’s something

 that comes with the job but isn’t important until

 something like this happens. You know I used to go

 out of my way to be nice to people . . . always with

 a good word; then one day I just got sick to my

 stomach of smiling, and I quit.” Harold’s eyes went

 to the window and he said abruptly, “There’s Digo

 on the porch.”

 “I saw him,” Frye said. He nodded. “He’s going

 in again.”

 “What does that tell you?” Harold said.

 Frye was silent, watching the front of De Spain’s,

 and he was thinking: How long will it take? The

 tails of the horses switched lazily in the sunlight of

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 123

 the street, but the shade of the porch was deserted

 and nothing moved there.

 “What did you say, Harold?” But now he wasn’t

 listening and he knew Harold would not answer.

 He saw both doors of De Spain’s swing open and

 hold open as they came out: Phil Sundeen ?rst,

 Digo moving next to him as he started across the

 street; the one called Jordan was directly behind

 Sundeen and spreading out behind him were the

 four other Sun-D riders.

 “Harold, unlock the ri?es.”

 “You can’t stop all of them.”

 “Before you do, go up and open Dandy Jim’s

 cell.”

 “I’ll give you a ri?e ?rst.”

 “No . . . get up there quick!”

 Frye moved to the door and opened it. In the sunlight, halfway across the street, Sundeen hesitated.

 As Frye stepped into the doorway Sundeen came on

 again until less than twenty feet separated them.

 Digo came even with Sundeen, but Jordan stayed

 back. He was almost directly behind Sundeen.

 Frye watched them, holding himself calm, knowing what would come, but not being sure what to

 do. They’ve rehearsed this, he thought, so let them

 play it.

 “I hear,” Sundeen called, “you got warrants to

 serve.”

 Frye hesitated. “That’s right.”

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 “You got one for me?”

 Frye nodded.

 “One for Digo?”

 “That’s right.”

 “What about the Committee?”

 “For three of them.”

 “But they’re not about.”

 Frye nodded again.

 “What about Jordan?”

 “None for that name.”

 Sundeen grinned. “None for Mr. Jordan. Why

 don’t you have one for him?”

 “He wasn’t part of the hanging.”

 Sundeen stood relaxed. “I don’t think that’s the

 reason.”

 “I don’t care what you think,” Frye told him.

 Sundeen glanced at Digo. “Listen to the boy

 sheriff.”

 Digo grinned, looking up from the cigarette he

 was shaping. “He’s something.”

 “I think you’re afraid to put his name on a warrant,” Sundeen said. “That’s the reason.”

 “You think whatever you like,” Frye answered.

 Behind him he could hear Harold Mendez coming

 down the stairs.

 Sundeen took a full step to the side, half turning,

 saying, “I don’t believe you met Mr. Jordan.”

 “Not formally,” Frye said.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 125

 “Mr. Jordan takes care of my legal affairs.” Sundeen nodded to Jordan who was standing directly

 in line with Frye now, his coat open and his thumbs

 hooked close to the buckle of his gunbelt.

 Frye said, “Then he can advise you about the

 warrant you’re getting.”

 “He says I’m not going to get one. Digo either.”

 Now it’s coming, Frye thought, holding himself

 still in the doorway, making himself relax. He

 didn’t know what to say, so he kept his jaw

 clenched and his eyes steady on Sundeen.

 “Jordan says I won’t get one ’cause you’re not

 man enough to serve it. He says when a sheriff’s got

 a yellow streak then he’s got no authority to serve

 warrants.”

 “Do you want it right now?” Frye asked.

 “You can try,” Sundeen grinned.

 “But you’d rather see me try for my gun.”

 “You might just as well. If your hand went inside

 your coat how’s Jordan to know whether it’s for a

 warrant or a gun. He’d have to protect himself.”

 “What’s he got to do with this?”

 “I told you, he’s my lawyer. Digo’s too.” Saying

 this he glanced at the Mexican. “That’s right?”

 “Nothing but the best,” Digo said, taking the

 cigarette from his mouth.

 “So if you got something to take out of your

 pocket,” Sundeen added, “it’s for Mr. Jordan.”

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 Frye’s gaze shifted to Jordan, then returned to

 Sundeen. He hesitated before saying, “You won’t

 try to stop me because that would be resisting arrest, but there’s no warrant for him and if I put a

 hand in my pocket he’ll draw and you’ll all swear

 he shot in self-defense . . .”

 “This boy’s a thinker,” Sundeen said to Digo.

 “That’s if he shoots ?rst,” Frye added, and immediately, in the silence that followed, he was sorry

 he had said it.

 Sundeen was grinning again as he turned to Jordan. “You hear what he said?”

 Jordan’s gaze remained on Frye. “I heard him.”

 This was the ?rst time he had spoken; his voice was

 calm and his eyes watched Frye almost indifferently

 though they did not leave him for a moment.

 “He thinks he’s faster than you are,” Sundeen

 said.

 “Maybe he is.”

 “Only one way to ?nd out.”

 Jordan nodded, still looking at Frye. “Let’s see

 those warrants.”

 “They’re not for you.”

 “I didn’t ask who they were for.”

 “I’ll serve them when I’m ready.”

 Jordan nodded slowly. “How’s your mother?”

 “What?”

 “Did she ever get married?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 127

 Frye held back, not answering.

 “I hear she works in a can house.”

 You know what he’s doing, Frye thought, and he

 said quietly, “You’re wasting your time.”

 Sundeen glanced at Digo, his gaze taking in the

 people standing off beyond Digo, and as his head

 turned slowly he saw the men gathered on De

 Spain’s porch and in front of the Metropolitan, and

 on this side of the street the people standing watching as far down as the bank, then his gaze returned

 to Digo.

 “If a man said that to me I’d be inclined to stomp

 him.”

 “Unless it was true,” Digo said.

 “Even then,” Sundeen said. “Just on principle.”

 Frye stepped down from the doorway. He was

 looking at Sundeen and moved toward him quickly.

 Then he was standing in front of him, and looking

 straight ahead, over Sundeen’s shoulder, he saw

 that Jordan had not moved.

 “What if I said it to you, Phil?”

 “Find out.”

 “I’ll say something else—” Frye’s hand brushed

 into his open coat. “You’re under arrest!”

 Close to him Sundeen was moving, shifting his

 weight, and as Frye drew his Colt he swung his left

 hand against Sundeen’s jaw, Sundeen fell away and

 he was looking straight at Jordan, seeing the gun

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 suddenly in his hand, half seeing the people scattering on De Spain’s porch as he brought up his own

 gun, and he was conscious of himself thinking: Go

 down! as the ri?e report ?lled the street. He saw the

 dust ?ick at Jordan’s feet and Jordan suddenly going to the side, ?ring at the jail, at the doorway and

 then at both windows.

 Get him! It was in Frye’s mind as he swung the

 Colt after Jordan, but Digo moved. He was out of

 Frye’s vision but less than three steps away and in

 the moment Digo’s pistol was out and had chopped

 down savagely across Frye’s wrist.

 Stepping to the side Digo looked at Jordan eagerly. Jordan was standing still now watching the

 jail. “Where is he?”

 “He’s quit,” Jordan answered.

 Digo seemed disappointed, saying then, “Let’s

 make sure.” He raised his pistol and ?red at the

 front windows, shattering the fragments of glass

 that remained, and when the gun was empty he

 called out in Spanish, “Mendez, you son of a

 whore, show your abusive face!”

 Harold appeared in the doorway hesitantly. Seeing him Frye breathed with relief. He heard Jordan

 say, “Leave him alone.”

 “We should teach him a lesson,” Digo said.

 Sundeen picked up Frye’s pistol. “We’re going to

 teach both of them a lesson . . . like we did Merl

 White and his hardhead friends.” He grinned

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 129

 watching Frye holding his wrist, bending it gently

 and opening and closing the hand.

 “Digo, help the man off with his boots.”

 Frye turned to face Digo, who moved toward

 him with his pistol still in his hand. “Don’t try it,”

 he warned the Mexican.

 “I’ve got something to convince you,” Digo said.

 “Not without bullets—” Frye lunged toward

 him, but Digo was ready, side-stepping, swinging

 the long-barreled .44 at Frye’s head, but missing as

 Frye feinted with his body and dodged the blow. He

 was crouching to go after Digo again when Sundeen’s forearm closed over his throat and jerked

 him off balance. Digo stepped in quickly and

 swung his free hand into Frey’s face, then waited as

 Sundeen threw him to the ground and straddled

 him, sitting on his chest.

 Digo holstered his pistol. “He’s something,” he

 said, shaking his head; then pulled off both of

 Frye’s boots and threw them toward the jail.

 Harold Mendez sat down in the street and removed his boots without a word.

 From the window directly above the Metropolitan

 Café sign, Merl White watched them get up as Digo

 and Phil Sundeen, mounted now, came into view

 reining their horses behind the two men.

 “They better walk faster’n that,” Merl said. The

 two men who had stayed with him were at the win-130

 ELMORE LEONARD

 dow. Haig Hanasian was in the room, but he was

 seated, not wanting to witness this again. Neither

 of the men at the window answered Merl. They

 watched solemnly: Digo yelling now, taking his

 quirt from the saddle horn and lashing it at Frye’s

 back, forcing him to go into a run, then lashing at

 Harold Mendez and Harold, starting to run,

 hunching his shoulders ludicrously and looking

 back and up toward Digo as if to escape the quirt.

 Merl White said, “Which one would you rather

 have?”

 One of the men, Ford Goss, said, “I’d take Digo,

 with a Henry ri?e.”

 The other man at the window did not answer. He

 was older than Ford by ten years and was almost

 completely bald. His name was Joe Tobin.

 “I’d take Phil,” Merl White said. “I think with

 an empty whisky bottle.”

 Ford nodded thoughtfully. “That’d be all right.”

 “I wouldn’t cut him none, not on purpose, but

 I’d sure as hell bust it over his head.”

 Joe Tobin said now, “You notice the others

 aren’t in it.”

 He was referring to the four Sun-D riders who

 had backed Phil Sundeen a few minutes before, but

 who were not in sight now.

 “They’re having a drink,” Merl said.

 “You can stand just so much,” Tobin said. “I

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 131

 don’t know how I ever worked a day for a man like

 Phil Sundeen.”

 “It was different with Old Val,” Merl told him.

 “Old Val worked you, but he paid pronto at the

 end of a drive. Sometimes even a bonus.”

 “Phil won’t have any men left now,” Tobin said.

 “He’s gone too far.”

 “I think he’s drunk,” Merl said, squinting after

 the two horses nearing the end of the street now.

 “He was drunk Saturday,” Ford said. “He can

 be drunk and not show it.”

 “Everybody was drunk Saturday,” Merl said,

 “but they didn’t all go crazy.”

 “Many of them did,” Haig said now, quietly.

 Merl White nodded slowly. “I almost forgot

 about that.”

 “Jordan’s gone too,” Joe Tobin told them. “Try

 and ?gure him out.”

 Ford nodded. “It’s got to be something against

 him personally, or something he’s paid to do else he

 won’t have a part of it.”

 “Just to have around,” Tobin said, “a man like

 that would come high.”

 “He can afford it,” Merl said. “Phil could pay us

 and still afford a dozen men like that.”

 “But why does he want him?”

 “For days like today.”

 “I’ll bet he pays him a hunnert a month.”

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 Merl shrugged. “I guess a gunman comes

 high . . . just for the good feeling he gives you being

 around.”

 Ford was watching the street, pressing his cheek

 to the glass pane. “They’re about out of sight.”

 “Will you go out and get them tonight?” Merl

 asked Haig.

 “I was going to take you to La Noria.”

 “We can wait. Fact is,” Merl went on, “I

 wouldn’t mind waiting just to have a talk with this

 Kirby Frye. I think we got something in common.”

 Milmary Tindal moved out to the edge of the walk

 as they started down the street. She would catch

 glimpses of Kirby, then Phil or Digo’s mount would

 side-step and she would not see him. When Digo’s

 quirt went up she ?inched imagining the rawhide

 sting and now she could not stand still. She moved

 along the edge of the sidewalk stretching and leaning to the side to see Kirby. Less than an hour before she had told him to get out of the store. She

 continued to think of that and even the quirting

 would not jolt it from her mind. And she was thinking that if she had been kind to him this would not

 be happening now. There was not time to reason it

 carefully; it was in her mind in a turmoil watching

 them move down the street. There was nothing she

 could do. She could make promises about the future, but right now, even though her nails dug into

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 133

 the palms of her hands and her knuckles showed

 white, there was nothing she could do.

 “Do you think he’ll come back?” Edith repeated.

 She was in front of the Metropolitan now. Edith

 Hanasian stood a few feet away on the sidewalk.

 Milmary looked at her. “What?”

 “Do you think he’ll come back,” Edith repeated.

 Milmary was looking down the street again, but

 now her glance went suddenly to Edith. She had

 not asked herself that question and uncertainly,

 fearfully, she heard herself answering, “I don’t

 know.”

 Edith said, “If you don’t know then you haven’t

 been treating him right.”

 Milmary said nothing. Edith moved to the edge

 of the walk and stood close to her and looking

 down the street they saw the horses at the far end

 now.

 “He’ll come back,” she heard Edith say, and she

 could feel Edith looking at her closely. “Maybe it

 won’t be for you, but he’ll come back.”

 8

 Kneeling, Frye looked through the pine branches

 down the slope to the dim outline of the road, then

 glanced at Harold Mendez hearing him moving toward him.

 “What is it?”

 “A wagon,” Frye said. They could hear the

 creaking and the labored sound of a pair of horses

 in harness and Frye was thinking: It couldn’t be

 them, because they wouldn’t come out in a wagon.

 And they wouldn’t come out after dark when there

 are other things to do.

 Now they could see the shape of the wagon below them, but there was not enough moon to make

 out the man on the seat. He moved the team slowly,

 letting him have their heads going up the grade that

 rose gradually between the pine slopes.

 Frye felt the ground in front of him until his

 hand found a small enough stone. He waited until

 the wagon was even with them, then threw the

 stone. It struck the wagon bed, a sharp sound in the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 135

 darkness, bouncing out and almost immediately

 the creaking and the harness rattle stopped.

 There was silence. Then from the wagon, “This

 is Haig Hanasian—” the words carrying clearly in

 the stillness.

 Harold murmured, “That’s his voice.”

 “Up here!” Frye called. He rose and stood at the

 edge of the jackpines waiting for Haig to reach them.

 “I didn’t hope to ?nd you so quickly.”

 Frye took his hand as he reached them. “You

 came out just to ?nd us?”

 Haig nodded.

 “We’re obliged to you.”

 “How are your feet?”

 “About worn through.”

 “I brought your boots.”

 “You found them?”

 “They were still in front of the jail.”

 Frye was smiling. “We’re really obliged.”

 “Perhaps,” Haig said, “the boots will not ?t

 now.” He pulled two pairs of socks from his

 pocket. “These will help some. But put them on

 quickly, it isn’t good to delay long on this road. It

 leads to Sun-D.”

 “Haig,” Frye said. “We appreciate this—”

 “Quickly now—”

 “You go on back, Haig.”

 “What?”

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 “Danaher,” Frye explained, “is due to ride by

 Wednesday sometime. We ?gured to go back in

 with him.”

 “Well,” Haig said, “I can’t blame you for that,

 but it’s a long time to have to sit here.”

 “We’d have to hide out anyway, even in town,

 till we got our bearings.”

 Haig’s dark face was serious, even saying something in a light vein. “That is done every day. This

 man, White, and his companions have been there

 since Saturday night.”

 “Where?”

 “In my rooms.”

 Frye shook his head. “Right across the street.”

 “I was going to take them to La Noria tonight—”

 “We appreciate this, Haig.” Frye had spoken to

 Haig only a few times before this, but suddenly he

 felt very close to him. But he felt sorry for him at

 the same time and he wasn’t sure why.

 “Merl White is anxious to meet you.”

 “I guess we have something in common.”

 “He said the same thing.” Haig lifted a .25-caliber revolver from his coat pocket and handed it to

 Frye. “Take this. I’d better get the wagon moving.”

 He started to go, but stopped. “You don’t have any

 food.”

 Frye shook his head. “We ?gured we’d grub

 around and make out. There’s a spring back a

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 137

 ways.” He nodded toward the deep pines.

 “Tomorrow you’ll have food,” Haig said. “And

 I’ll bring something for your feet.” He hesitated

 again. “You don’t have blankets.”

 “Or clean sheets,” Harold Mendez said.

 “Wait a moment,” Haig told them. He hurried

 down the slope and returned with a rolled tarpaulin over his shoulder. “This will help some.”

 “Haig,” Frye said, “we owe you a lot.”

 “You don’t owe me anything. God forgive me,

 but I would like to see something bad happen to

 this Sundeen.” He started to go. “You say Danaher

 comes Wednesday?”

 Frye nodded. “That’s what he said.”

 “To make sure, I could go to Huachuca tonight

 and wire him.”

 “He’ll come,” Frye said.

 “I want to be there when he does,” Haig said,

 and after that he left.

 As they strung up the canvas shelter they could

 hear his wagon far down the grade, the faint creaking fading to silence as they gathered wood for a

 ?re. And when the ?re was burning they sat close to

 it, listening to the silence, then becoming aware of

 the night sounds, the crickets and the soft hissing of

 the wind through the pines.

 “I’m going to quit,” Harold murmured, staring

 into the ?re. “I don’t have to take this.”

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 Frye watched the ?re and said nothing.

 After a moment Harold asked, “What are you

 going to do?”

 “I’m not sure,” Frye answered. “Right now,

 sleep.”

 But he did not sleep, not for some time, thinking

 of Danaher coming and what would happen when

 they rode into Randado. He knew what he would

 do. He was sure, even though he told Harold he

 wasn’t sure. There was no sense in arguing with

 Harold. If Harold wanted to quit that was his

 business.

 You don’t have to do it though. You don’thave

 to do anything. But you will, huh? You’ll go

 through with it and have it out with Phil Sundeen

 and Digo . . . and Jordan, if that’s the way it has to

 be. And Tindal and the others. Don’t leave them

 out. “You’re under arrest . . . Mr. Tindal.” What

 do you call a man when you arrest him?

 You should have stuck to mustanging.

 Danaher will back you, but probably he’ll give

 you another chance to do it by yourself if you want.

 He’ll say, “Kirby, this is your jurisdiction. If you see

 ?t, handle it your own way, with your own

 deputies. I’ll only make suggestions.” The Danaher

 let’s-see-what-kind-of-a-man-you-are test. And if

 you’re smart you’ll say, “John, you can take this

 job and—” But something won’t let you say that

 and you’ll see it through now. Are you mad enough

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 139

 to see it through? Danaher said he just had to look

 at your beat-up face. And after what they did this

 morning—You’re damn right I’ll see it through.

 Something will happen soon now to end it . . .

 one way or another. And that’s good because it

 should never have started. A silly damn thing that’s

 grown . . . no, it wasn’t silly, not hanging two men,

 but it was stupid . . . and now there’s a chance

 more will be dead before it’s over. Sundeen will

 ?ght. Maybe he doesn’t want to; maybe he knows

 he’s gone too far, but he’s not the kind who’d admit

 it. Like Harold said, a man who rides his horse into

 a saloon doesn’t have to have a reason. And he

 didn’t hire a gunman out of humility. It’s too bad

 there isn’t a way he can back down and still hold on

 to his self-respect. No, you have to beat him, beat

 him once and for all.

 Tindal and the others, that’s something else.

 They might give themselves up. If they did, Judge

 Finnerty would probably go light. Maybe just a

 ?ne, because he’s known them all his life. They

 know they did wrong, else they wouldn’t have run

 this morning. So maybe there isn’t any problem . . .

 except living with them after. “Mr. Tindal . . .

 sir . . . you’re under arrest.” “Mr. Tindal, I wonder

 if I might marry your daughter . . . while you’re in

 jail.”

 Wouldn’t that be just ?ne.

 You better ask Mil ?rst.

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 But most of the time, until he fell asleep, he

 thought of Phil Sundeen, his horsebreaker and his

 hired gunman.

 Sundeen came to Randado again late Wednesday

 morning. He brought with him Digo and Jordan

 and they went directly to De Spain’s. Many of his

 riders had left during the past two days, including

 the four who had been present when he ran off Frye

 and Mendez, and he believed that if they were still

 around he would ?nd out at De Spain’s.

 Sundeen stood at the bar, but Jordan and Digo

 took a bottle and glasses to a table.

 “He drinks too much,” Jordan said.

 Sitting down at the table, Digo shrugged. “He

 holds it . . . and it’s his money.”

 “And the more he drinks, the less you have to

 work.”

 “Watching him is work in itself.”

 “It’s starting to wear thin.”

 “You get used to it,” Digo told him.

 “How long have you been at it?”

 “Almost since the day he was born.” Digo

 smiled. “I taught him to ride . . . how to break a

 horse . . . how to drink. I taught him many things.”

 Jordan’s gaze left Sundeen standing at the bar

 and returned to Digo. “And now there’s nothing

 left to teach.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 141

 Digo nodded. “Now I watch. I told this one’s father I would watch him, so that’s what I do.”

 Jordan’s eyes went to Sundeen again, who stood

 with his elbows on the bar and his back to them

 talking to De Spain behind the bar. “Was his father

 like that?”

 “At times. But he worked harder than this one,”

 Digo said. “I’ve been with him twenty years and I

 know. He saw that the work was done and then he

 drank. This one does what he feels like. He always

 has. Even when the father was strong and would

 try to break him with his ?sts, this one continued

 his own way . . . and now it’s that father who’s broken. When there was no strength left to use on him,

 the old man said, ‘Digo, watch him—’ He gave me

 my name, Digo. Once it was Diego, but the old

 man said it Digo and now everyone does. He said,

 ‘Digo, watch him as I would.’ ” The horsebreaker

 closed his eyes as if to remember the words. “He

 said, ‘Watch him and keep him alive as long as he’s

 bad, for if he dies the way he is, his next meal will

 be in hell.’ ” Digo grinned. “That was something

 for the old man to say, uh?”

 “What about his mother?”

 “She never counted. And now she’s dead anyway.”

 Phil Sundeen came over to the table. He pulled

 out a chair and put his foot on it and stood leaning

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 on his leg, looking at no one in particular. “De

 Spain says they haven’t been in since Monday

 morning. And this is—”

 “Wednesday,” Digo said. “That’s four more men

 you don’t have.”

 “They might turn up. If they don’t, so what? I

 can sign four waddies any day of the week.”

 “Eleven more,” Jordan reminded him. “Counting the three you chased off Saturday.”

 “All right, eleven. I’d let go almost that many

 over the winter anyway. I don’t need riders to scatter hay and drop salt licks. That’s farmer work.”

 “If you don’t care,” Jordan said, raising his eyes

 to look at Sundeen, “why did we ride all the way in

 to look for them?”

 Sundeen looked down at Digo. “He’s the serious

 type.”

 “I think so,” Digo answered. This was when he

 liked Phil the best, when he kidded with a straight

 face.

 “The serious ones are always worried about little things,” Sundeen said. “Like where to pick

 hands.”

 “I’ve noticed that in life,” Digo said. “Some even

 pray before they know they’re going to die.”

 Phil nodded. “That’s the serious type.”

 Jordan leaned back in his chair placing his hands

 gently on the edge of the table. He said to Phil, “Re-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 143

 member what that boy said when I tried to prod

 him into a ?ght? I insulted his mother and he told

 me I was wasting my time.”

 “He was scared to ?ght,” Sundeen said.

 “Maybe so, under those conditions. But he

 didn’t rile up and get shot. He held on until he saw

 an opening . . . one that you made.”

 Sundeen said, “What’s the point?”

 “The point is you tend to underestimate people.

 You chased that boy out of town and you don’t

 think you’ll ever see him again. Just like you think

 you and Digo can go on joshin’ back and forth and

 I’ll sit here and listen as long as you keep it up.”

 Sundeen said, “Digo . . . that’s what I mean by

 the serious type.”

 Jordan rose. “I’m going to eat.”

 Sundeen just nodded, then followed him with his

 eyes as he left De Spain’s.

 “Don’t think what you’re thinking,” Digo said.

 Sundeen grinned. “And what’s that?”

 “You’d try anything once.”

 “How do we know he’s fast? Just because somebody else said so.”

 “Just look at him.”

 “You can’t go by that.”

 “You didn’t see him draw when Harold Mendez

 opened up.”

 “Fast?”

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 “Fast! Listen,” Digo said earnestly, “there isn’t

 anybody in this country can touch him. I’d bet my

 life on it.”

 Sundeen shrugged. “You know how things enter

 our head.”

 “Keep that one out,” Digo said, and exhaled

 silently as Phil straightened up, pushing the chair

 under the table.

 “I’m going to get something to eat.”

 “It sounds good,” Digo said.

 “You get back home. Somebody’s got to work.”

 Digo shrugged. “All right. But don’t run off any

 sheriffs without me.”

 Now it was almost noon and half of the tables in

 the Metropolitan were occupied. Sundeen glanced

 at the men sitting along the counter and then his

 eyes went down the row of tables. There he was.

 Jordan. Sundeen walked toward him, but beyond

 he saw Tindal and Stedman sitting together and he

 walked past Jordan who looked up at him but said

 nothing.

 Stedman half rose, holding his napkin to his

 stomach. “Phil . . . how are you?”

 Tindal made himself smile, offering, “Sit down,

 Phil.”

 Sundeen pulled out one of the chairs and stepped

 over it sitting down.

 “That’s just what I meant to do.” He was grin-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 145

 ning, looking from Tindal to Stedman and said,

 “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

 “We were away,” Tindal explained evasively,

 “on business.”

 “That’s what I’m told.”

 Stedman pushed his plate forward putting his elbow on the table. “Earl Beaudry’s thinking about

 buying some property in La Noria. Wanted us to

 take a look at it.”

 “You missed a show the other morning,” Sundeen said.

 Tindal nodded and now his face was serious.

 “You shouldn’t have done that, Phil.”

 “You heard about it?”

 “It’s all over everywhere.”

 “Yeah, I suppose it got to La Noria else you

 wouldn’t be back.”

 Stedman held his eyes on Sundeen. “Do you

 think we left for any other reason than because Earl

 asked us to come with him?”

 Sundeen shook his head, grinning. “George, you

 old bastard, you should have been on that stage.”

 “Phil, I swear, when we left we didn’t know

 Danaher was in town.”

 “Everybody else did.”

 “We can’t help that.”

 “Why didn’t Earl come back?”

 “He’s still looking at the property.”

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 “Look,” Tindal said, lowering his voice then,

 “we got no reason to lie.”

 Edith Hanasian came to their table and handed

 Sundeen a menu. His had touched her arm as he

 took it and she drew back.

 “What’s the matter, Edith?”

 She returned his stare, but not his smile. “What

 do you want?”

 Phil winked at her. “The special.”

 “What else?”

 “Edith”—his grin widened—“you’re somethin’.”

 “I mean to drink.”

 “Coffee.” He was still grinning, watching her

 walk back to the kitchen.

 “Phil, what about Kirby?” Tindal was leaning

 close to the table. “Is he coming back?”

 “He’s got no reason to.”

 “He won’t just sit down and forget this.”

 “He doesn’t have any choice.”

 “Hell he hasn’t,” Tindal said anxiously. “He’ll

 go to Danaher.”

 “That’s a long barefooted walk to Tucson.”

 “Phil,” Stedman said as seriously as he knew

 how. “You got to do something.”

 “Like what?”

 “I don’t know. Explain to Danaher you were

 drunk and didn’t mean anything by it. You’re a big

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 147

 enough man, the most he’ll do is ?ne you a little

 bit.”

 Sundeen looked at Stedman for a long moment.

 “What do you meanyou ?”

 “Well, it was you that ran Kirby out.”

 Sundeen’s face relaxed. “Why, I was working by

 request of the Committee. After the trouble he

 caused Saturday night you said we needed a new

 deputy and would I ask this one to leave.”

 Tindal’s mouth opened, but no sound came from

 him. Stedman’s words were a hoarse whisper, saying, “We never told you that!”

 Sundeen shrugged. “Danaher would believe it

 whether it was the truth or not after the stunt you

 pulled Saturday.”

 “We can explain that to him,” Stedman said

 hastily, “but not running off a deputy!”

 “Well, now you’ll have to explain both.” Sundeen leaned back as Edith placed his dinner in front

 of him. He said pleasantly, “Where’s Haig?”

 “He’s around.”

 “That’s too bad, isn’t it?”

 She turned away without answering.

 “Phil!” Tindal’s tone was impatient. “You’ve got

 to think of something!”

 Sundeen watched Edith until she reached the

 kitchen.

 “That’s what I’m doing.”

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 “Be serious for a minute!”

 Sundeen raised his fork and pushed it into the

 fried potatoes. He picked up a slice of ham with his

 ?ngers and curled it, biting off a piece. “Let me tell

 you something,” he said, chewing the ham. “Everything I did, you did. And everything you did, I did.

 That includes Earl Beaudry looking over property

 down in La Noria. Now shut up while I eat.”

 They remained silent, stirring their coffee, letting

 it get cold and ?nally pushing the cups away untouched. When he was ?nished Sundeen stood up,

 taking a toothpick from the table. “Come on. I’ll

 buy you a drink.”

 Stedman said absently, “I’d just as soon not.”

 “George, I’m not askin’ you.”

 They went next door to De Spain’s and stood at

 the bar, Sundeen leaning with his back against it,

 enjoying Tindal and Stedman’s discomfort and

 watching Jordan, who had left the café before they

 did, sitting alone at a table now reading a threeday-old Tucson newspaper.

 “Look at my lawyer,” Sundeen said, amused.

 “He’s not worryin’ . . . and he’s the serious type.”

 Jordan looked up, but said nothing.

 Stedman ?nished his drink, scowling at the taste

 of it. “I’ve got to get back.” He hesitated, as if expecting Sundeen to object.

 “I do too,” Tindal said. Stedman moved away

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 149

 from the bar and Tindal followed him. “We’ll see

 you later.”

 “All right.” Sundeen nodded and watched them

 head for the door. Stedman put his hand on the

 knob, but stepped back clumsily against Tindal as

 the doors swung in abruptly.

 Digo pushed past them. He was breathing heavily moving toward Sundeen and one word came

 from him as a gasp—

 “Danaher!”

 9

 Frye swung down from behind Danaher and went

 to the jail as Danaher’s posse tied up along both

 sides of the street. Twelve men. He recognized a

 few of them: three men who had been with Danaher at Galluro Station. Two others were deputies

 from Sonoita and Canelo. Danaher had picked

 them up on the way down from Tucson. All of

 them were heavily armed; grim-faced men who

 spoke little and watched Danaher for orders.

 There had been ?fteen originally. Three were

 now scouting the Sun-D buildings. To Danaher this

 was merely going through the motions. He knew

 Phil Sundeen, and he was moderately certain where

 to ?nd him.

 From the jail doorway Frye glanced back seeing

 Danaher going toward De Spain’s. He’s not fooling,

 Frye thought. And neither are the rest of them.

 Dandy Jim was sitting on the ?oor with his back

 against the wall and he rose as Frye entered the of?ce, seeing the look of surprise on Frye’s face.

 “I thought you’d be gone.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 151

 “If you thought that,” Dandy Jim said, “why

 did you have that man bring food yesterday and

 today?”

 “Well, I wasn’t sure, so I mentioned it to him.”

 He had told Haig about Dandy Jim when Haig

 came out to them Tuesday morning.

 “He said that he saw you”—the Coyotero spoke

 in Spanish—“and that you would come back soon.”

 Frye asked, “You saw what took place the day

 before this?”

 Dandy Jim nodded. “All of it.”

 “Have you seen those men today?”

 “They left hurriedly before you came.”

 Frye’s eyebrows raised. “Will you wait here?”

 When the Coyotero nodded he added, “Only a

 short time,” and went out, crossing the street to De

 Spain’s.

 As he pushed through the doors, De Spain was

 saying, “Sundeen wanted to ?ght. He’d been drinking all morning and the idea of a posse on the way

 seemed to appeal to his sporting blood. I’d never

 seen a man so eager to ?ght . . . until Digo reminded him he didn’t have enough men. Digo kept

 saying, ‘Man, you lost eleven already—’ ”

 Following De Spain’s glance Frye saw Merl

 White. He was standing next to Danaher and behind him was Haig Hanasian.

 “You see, besides Merl and Ford and Joe Tobin,” De Spain went on, “some more left after the

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 stunt Phil pulled with Kirby. Phil knew they had quit,

 but it looked as if it didn’t really sink in until that

 moment. Still, he wasn’t going to budge and he

 told Digo, ‘Well, go on home and get who’s left!’

 But Digo argued there was no way of telling if any

 of the other men were still about, and if he rode all

 the way to Sun-D, then came back without anybody, it would be too late to dodge Danaher’s

 posse. Phil argued back, but you could see it sinking in that suddenly he was almost alone . . . that

 Phil Sundeen, who owned the biggest spread in San

 Rafael, had only Digo and a hired gunman left.”

 Danaher broke in, “Jordan’s still with him?”

 De Spain nodded. “He was when they left. You

 see Digo kept it up, looking like a crazy man the

 way he was pleading, and ?nally Phil said, ‘All

 right, we’ll ride out.’ He looked at me then and

 said, ‘But you tell ’em I’m coming back!’ ”

 “I don’t think he’ll be that obliging,” Danaher

 murmured. “What kind of a start did they have?”

 “Not two hours,” De Spain told. “But Tindal

 and Stedman should slow them down some.”

 Danaher’s eyes showed surprise. “They’re along?”

 “They were here when Digo came in,” De Spain

 said. “They tried to leave but Phil held them and

 said, by God, if he was running then they were too.

 They argued and pleaded until Phil pulled his gun

 and told them he wasn’t going to hear any more.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 153

 De Spain shook his head. “They were a couple of

 sorry sights riding off with him.”

 Danaher said, “But Earl Beaudry wasn’t there?”

 “I haven’t seen him in four days.”

 “They didn’t say where they were going?”

 “No. They couldn’t go toward Sun-D because

 you were coming from that direction. Though it

 seems to me as they were going out Digo said something about circling around to Sun-D and seeing

 who’s about, then meeting Sundeen later.”

 “I hope he does,” Danaher said. “He’ll ?nd three

 men there I’m sure of. Three of mine.”

 Later on, while they were in the Metropolitan

 eating—Frye, Danaher, and the Sonoita and Canelo

 deputies sitting at a table together—a man came in

 from the street and went straight to Danaher.

 “John”—he was excited and grinning, eager to see

 Danaher’s reaction—“you sure must live right. Those

 three boys you mentioned watching Sun-D . . . they

 just brought in Digo!”

 They walked across the street, pushing through the

 men crowding in front of the jail. Frye went in ?rst,

 seeing Dandy Jim and then Digo, Digo sitting in a

 chair against the wall and a man standing close to

 him on both sides; but Danaher stopped in the

 doorway. He told the men outside to go over to De

 Spain’s and take it easy.

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 Turning, he looked at Digo, then to the two men

 guarding him. “Go have a drink, boys.”

 They moved reluctantly and one of them said,

 “John, maybe you’ll need a hand,” glancing at

 Digo as he said it.

 “I got two of my own,” Danaher told him.

 “Close the door behind you.” He waited until he

 heard it slam and then he removed his coat, not

 taking his eyes from Digo who sat low in the chair

 watching him. Danaher folded the coat deliberately

 and draped it over the chair by the desk.

 Frye half sat on the edge of the desk with one

 foot on the chair. Dandy Jim stood near him. Frye

 moved slightly as Danaher lifted his revolver and

 placed it on the desk, then watched Danaher as he

 moved toward Digo again.

 “Where’d they go, horsebreaker?”

 The Mexican’s chin was close to his chest, but

 his eyes were lifted watching Danaher and he did

 not answer.

 Danaher stepped closer. “Where did they go?”

 Digo did not move, looking up at Danaher sullenly.

 “Once more. Where did they go?”

 “Gimme a cigarette—”

 He was saying it as Danaher hit him; his head

 snapped back and his eyes came full awake and he

 put his hand to his face.

 “When I ask a question, you answer it.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 155

 “I don’t know where they went.”

 “You were to meet them.”

 “No, we split up.”

 “You were to check for riders and then meet

 them.”

 Digo shrugged. “You know so much, why ask

 me?”

 Danaher hit him again, his right ?st landing

 solidly against Digo’s cheek.

 “The next time I’ll knock you out of the chair.”

 Digo’s hand covered the side of his face. “We did

 not have a place to meet.”

 “Maybe you’ve just forgotten it.”

 “Maybe that’s it.”

 “Be careful, Digo.”

 “Listen . . . I don’t know where they went!”

 “You were to meet them tonight.”

 “There was no plan.”

 Danaher glanced at Frye, who had not moved

 from the desk and was smoking a cigarette now, and

 then to Dandy Jim. “We got a boy,” Danaher said to

 Digo, “who could pick up their sign within an hour.”

 Digo shrugged. “All right.”

 “We’re giving you a chance to square yourself.”

 “I didn’t ask for favors.”

 “If you helped of your own accord, Judge

 Finnerty would go light on you.”

 “Go to hell.”

 Digo saw it coming and brought his shoulder

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 around, but Danaher’s right hand tightened in the

 air and the left hand swung viciously against the

 exposed side of Digo’s face. The chair went over

 and Digo sprawled on the ?oor.

 He came to his hands and knees slowly, his eyes

 raised to Danaher. And as he brought his legs under

 him, he lunged. Danaher was waiting. He shifted

 his weight and his right hand swung like a mallet

 against Digo’s head. The Mexican staggered and

 Danaher hit him with the other ?st. Digo gasped as

 Danaher found his stomach. He tried to cover, but

 Danaher’s ?sts broke through his guard. A jab to

 the head straightened Digo and a right cross

 slammed him against the wall.

 Danaher picked up the chair, then helped Digo

 into it.

 “I was saying, it would be easier on you if you

 cooperated.”

 Digo’s mouth was bleeding and he touched his

 jaw, moving it gently.

 “We’re trying to help you.”

 “You know where you can put that,” Digo muttered.

 Danaher’s arms were folded; but suddenly they

 uncoiled and his right ?st lashed back-handed

 across Digo’s face.

 “First we want proper respect. Then the right

 answers.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 157

 Digo held his sleeve to his mouth, wiping it gently. “I can tell you nothing.”

 “Maybe,” Danaher stated, “they went north.”

 “I don’t know.”

 “Over toward Tubac?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “Or South. To La Noria.”

 “He didn’t tell me.”

 “First to La Noria, then over the border.”

 “You’re wasting your time.”

 “I’ve got more of it to waste than you have.”

 Digo’s eyes stayed on the sheriff, but he said

 nothing.

 “You know why?”

 Digo shook his head. “Why?”

 “Because before Christmas you’ll be dead.”

 Digo shrugged.

 “You’ll hang for taking part in that lynching . . .

 even though it wasn’t your idea.”

 “Maybe it was.”

 “Why should you protect Phil Sundeen?”

 “He pays me.”

 “His old man pays you.”

 “One or the other—”

 “What will you do after we hang Phil?”

 “You won’t hang him.”

 “Why not?”

 “He has in?uence.”

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 “All right,” Danaher said, “then we’ll hang you

 and shoot him.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I’ll give orders to shoot him on sight. Sound

 asleep, taking a bath or sittin’ in the outhouse,

 shoot him . . . and then bring him in.”

 Digo was silent. “But,” he said ?nally, “you have

 to ?nd him ?rst.”

 “Which brings us around again,” Danaher said.

 “Maybe you were to meet him somewhere on SunD land.”

 “He didn’t say.”

 “In a line shack.”

 “He didn’t say.”

 “Let’s try the Huachucas.”

 Digo nodded. “All right.”

 Danaher’s face tightened. “Watch yourself.”

 “You don’t scare me.”

 Danaher stood close to him, looking down and

 both ?sts were clenched. “Digo, before the night’s

 over I’ll break you.”

 “I can wait.”

 Danaher moved a half step and his ?st slammed

 into Digo’s chest. He tried to rise, Danaher letting

 him, but it was momentary. Digo was pushing up,

 both hands on the arms of the chair, and Danaher

 hit him again, in the stomach and then in the face,

 standing in close, keeping Digo pinned against the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 159

 chair, now driving both ?sts, grunting as he hit the

 Mexican, not hurrying because Digo could no

 longer defend himself. And when he stepped back

 Digo sunk into the chair, his arms hanging over the

 sides, and did not move.

 “I’ve had them that tough before,” Danaher

 said, moving to the desk. “Not many hold out.”

 Frye said, “He won’t tell you anything if he’s

 dead.”

 “If he won’t alive,” Danaher said, “then what

 difference does it make?”

 “Dandy Jim asked me what you were doing. I

 told him and he said, ‘There are many better ways

 to do it.’ ”

 “I was giving him a chance, not like the Apache

 does it,” Danaher said. “He could ?ght back any

 time he wanted.”

 “If he could get out of the chair.”

 “Don’t you approve, Kirby?”

 “It’s none of my business.”

 Danaher looked at him, trying to read more than

 was on Frye’s face, then he picked up his coat. “I’m

 going across the street.”

 “Maybe I’ll work on him while you’re gone,”

 Frye said.

 Danaher studied him again. “You do that,

 Kirby.” He went to the door, but looked back before opening it. “Let me know if he tells, huh?”

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 When the door closed, Frye went to Digo. He

 pulled him forward in the chair, then stooping, let

 Digo fall across his shoulders. He stood up and this

 way carried the man up the stairs, into the cell that

 the two Mexicans had occupied and lowered him

 to the bunk. He stepped into the hall and poured

 water into a cup from a canvas bag that was hung

 there for the prisoners, then returned to Digo and

 raised his head gently to let the water trickle between the man’s swollen lips.

 Digo’s eyes opened. His hand went to the cup

 and he emptied it drinking thirstily.

 “More?”

 “A little.”

 Frye returned with the cup ?lled and handed it to

 him. He made a cigarette while the man drank and

 lighted it and when Digo handed him the cup he offered the cigarette. Digo took it hesitantly, then inhaled and blew out the smoke slowly.

 “When do you take your turn?” Digo asked.

 “Do you think I should?”

 “You have a good opportunity.” Digo’s eyes

 raised to Frye. “If it was the other way around, if I

 was in your shoes, I’d take a turn.”

 “Danaher’s doing all right.”

 “He’s doing too good.”

 “Just keeps it up, doesn’t he?” Frye said.

 “I think he must be crazy.”

 “That’s the way he is when he makes up his mind

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 161

 to something,” Frye said. “He stays with it. Good

 for his word.”

 “He doesn’t scare me.”

 “Then you’re in for some more.”

 “That’s all right.”

 “John gets mad and he keeps most of it

 inside . . . for a while. Then he has to blow off

 steam, like poking his ?st through a door. The less

 you talk, the madder he gets.” Frye paused. “But

 this time he’s lucky.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “He can blow it off on Phil.”

 “If he ?nds him,” Digo said.

 “There’s nothing to that,” Frye said. “You saw

 that Coyotero boy. He’s the best tracker ever read

 sign. It would just be a matter of time.” Frye grinned.

 “With old Danaher getting madder and madder.”

 “You mean that about shooting him on sight—”

 “You think he was kidding? Listen, that man’s

 word is gospel.”

 “I thought he was just talking.”

 “Danaher doesn’t just talk.”

 Digo shook his head. “If he’s so sure of getting

 him why does he question me?”

 “It could save him a day or two if you told.”

 “Giving Sundeen that much more time.”

 “It wouldn’t matter,” Frye said. “Phil doesn’t

 have a chance. And all the time the steam’s building

 up in Danaher.”

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 Digo was silent. He said angrily then, “This is

 none of his business! Why is he here?”

 “Just to help out.”

 “Why don’t you do your own work?”

 “If he wants to help out it’s all right with me.”

 Digo looked at Frye intently and asked, “Would

 you shoot him on sight?”

 “Well, I’ve got no reason to.”

 “You’d try to arrest him for trial?”

 “Probably.” He knew what Digo was thinking,

 that if Sundeen stood trial he would most likely get

 off with little more than a ?ne. Digo had used the

 word in?uence before and there was truth to that.

 “This is your territory. Would Danaher let you

 handle it yourself?”

 “If I asked him.”

 “Listen.” Digo was breathing heavily and his

 face was alive with what he was about to say. “It

 would be senseless for him to die just because

 Danaher is a madman.”

 “Go on.”

 Digo said it quickly. “If you promise to handle

 this yourself I’ll tell where he is.”

 “How do you know you can trust me?”

 Digo shook his head violently. “Keep Danaher

 off of Phil . . . swear it to God or I won’t tell you!”

 Frye stooped close to Digo. He said quietly in

 Spanish, “Where is he, man?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 163

 “Promise in the name of God—”

 Frye nodded. “I promise.”

 But Digo hesitated. His swollen face was

 strained and he closed his eyes as if in pain. “Give

 me another cigarette,” he said, relaxing. He took it

 from Frye and smoked it down as he convinced

 himself that this was the right thing. Keep Phil

 alive. Perhaps it would break some of him, but it

 would keep him alive. He rolled toward Frye and

 whispered close to his ear, even though they were

 alone in the cell.

 Danaher closed the door behind him as Frye came

 down the stairs.

 “Where is he?”

 “Upstairs.”

 “Did you work on him?”

 Frye nodded, and he could see that Danaher was

 keeping himself from smiling.

 “Did he tell where Phil is?”

 Frye nodded again. “La Noria. You guessed it

 once yourself, John.”

 Danaher stared. There was nothing he could say.

 10

 “They got no business coming here,” Earl Beaudry

 said.

 Behind him, sitting at the table, the woman

 watched him as he stood in the doorway looking

 past the deserted bandstand with its grayed

 wooden awning to the row of two-story adobes

 across the square. One of these was the La Noria

 Cantina and lettered on the weathered expanse of

 wall next to it was the one word, MOCTEZUMA.

 Now, in the evening dusk, with rain clouds approaching, the word was obscure, losing its meaning in the fading light, though its form stood out

 against the pale adobe.

 The woman watched him and said nothing. This

 was her adobe, hers alone since the death of her

 husband three years before; though when Earl

 Beaudry came she assumed a different role: the submissive role she had known so well when her husband was alive. When this mood was on him it was

 better not to speak at all unless he asked a direct

 question.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 165

 “Why did they have to come?” Beaudry muttered.

 Her eyes lifted, looking at the back of his head.

 No, that was not a question expecting an answer.

 He was talking to himself. It was bad when he was

 in this mood. Like Sunday night when he had

 beaten her for no reason at all. But he was good to

 her, too. He brought printed cloth . . . and ?our

 and chocolate and— One learned to accept the

 good with the bad. Sometimes though, she was

 thinking now, it was better to speak out, then take

 the beating and it would be out of his system.

 She was a handsome woman, ?rmly built, and

 the part of her blood that was Tarahumare showed

 strong in the clean dark features of her face.

 “As long as they are not in this house,” the

 woman said, “what difference does it make if they

 are here?”

 Beaudry turned from the door, not answering her

 question, but came to the table and lifted the mescal

 bottle that was there and poured some of it into the

 glass he held. He had been drinking the mescal all

 day and it showed in his eyes and in the way he

 breathed with his mouth open, the corners of his

 mouth ?lmed with the colorless liquor. He returned

 to the doorway and looked across the square as he

 sipped the mescal, and now it began to rain.

 “What difference does it make if they are here?”

 the woman said again.

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 “Just keep still.”

 “It would be less cold with the door closed,” and

 as she said it she wondered if this might not be going too far. But he did not turn and now she knew

 that whatever it was that bothered him was a grave

 matter.

 She was a simple woman and she said, “Are you

 thinking of your wife?”

 This time he looked at her. “God, no!”

 Then it was something else. Often, when he was

 silent and did nothing but drink mescal, she believed he was thinking of his wife, thinking that it

 was too bad she existed. Men did that, she knew.

 Even unattractive men such as this one. They felt

 that their wives were great weights and if they

 could be free of them they would be men again.

 This one came here thinking himself irresistibly

 virile (until he slipped into his black mood), reliving a part of him that had been dead for a dozen

 years. Even being a simple woman she could see the

 kind of man that he was: at home, speaking words

 to his wife only when it was necessary and sentences only when they were arguing; but most of

 the time silent, thinking what a great beast she was,

 a dumb-eyed animal without feeling, a woman who

 no longer knew what it was to be a woman, and no

 longer cared. These were the men who never

 looked at themselves, yet wandered from home.

 Even when he came here picturing himself some-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 167

 thing else, the Mexican woman knew this about

 him; but she did not mind it and she thought of it

 little, having learned to accept the good with the

 bad. She did feel obligated to respect him. A man

 from the village had told her Senor Beaudry

 owned . . . how many? . . . thousands of varas of

 land. And he did no work! Something was said

 how he allowed others to use the land and they

 paid him for it. But, the woman would think, it is

 too bad he isn’t attractive.

 Beaudry turned now and said, speaking to himself more than to the woman, “He’s over there lappin’ it up, not caring a damn what happens.”

 “Who is?” the woman asked.

 “Phil Sundeen.”

 “He was not here Sunday?” She could not remember the names of the two men who had come,

 but she knew neither had been called Sundeen.

 “That was Tindal and Stedman,” he said, answering the question that was in her mind.

 And it occurred to her as he said their names

 what it was that must be bothering him. The hanging of the two La Noria men. Sunday the three of

 them had talked about it over and over again and in

 the end there had been an argument because

 Beaudry would not go back with them.

 Tindal and Stedman. Those were the ones. Both

 of them beyond the middle of life, like Beaudry,

 though they dressed better than he did and they

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 used language that was less coarse. She remembered now they had seemed frightened when they

 left. As Earl was now.

 “I thought there were four of them,” the woman

 said, remembering how they looked entering the

 square earlier that evening, riding almost single ?le.

 Beaudry looked at her intently. “You’ve got a lot

 of questions.”

 The woman shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

 “The other one works for Sundeen. That makes

 four.”

 “They are all your friends, but you don’t want

 them here?”

 “Friends,” Beaudry muttered, “bringin’ the law

 on me.”

 She did not understand this fully, but it seemed

 reasonable to say, “Then why don’t you ask them

 to leave?”

 He poured another drink before turning from

 her and this time didn’t bother to answer.

 Why don’t you ask them to leave? Across the

 square, now, light showed in the two windows of

 the cantina. Why don’t you ask Phil Sundeen to

 quit drinkin’ and join the monastery? That’d make

 about as much sense. A woman’s brain is just big

 enough to take her from the stove to the bed. For

 anything else it’s got to strain. Ask them to

 leave . . . just like that. “Phil, you and your friends

 move along. This is my home . . . my second home,

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 169

 but I got ?rst rights to its use.” “Why sure, Earl,

 we’ll pack up and be out by the thirty-second of

 December.” Beaudry swore under his breath. In the

 doorway he could feel a mist of rain against his face

 as the breeze changed. All right. You can’t talk nice

 to him. “Phil—” Look him square in the eyes and

 stand close and don’t hardly move your mouth.

 “Phil, I’m not buyin’ any more of that. You’re not

 out of here in ten minutes I’ll come for you with a

 gun!”

 His elbow touched the bulk of the Colt beneath

 his coat as he looked across to the two lighted windows. The gun was the answer. But why take a

 chance facing him head on? (He allowed it to be in

 his mind, as if challenging Phil Sundeen was one

 way; although there was not even a remote possibility he would bring himself to do it.) The gun

 brought out the ultimate plan. The gun and the

 lighted windows.

 Now if he were to throw some shots inside, not

 trying to hit anybody—If he pulled it right they’d

 thinkposse . Sure, the ?rst thing they’d think of . . .

 a bigposse! They’d run. By God they’d run to

 China!

 He turned to the woman abruptly. “Didn’t I

 bring a ri?e this trip?”

 You can smell a Mexican pueblo, Frye thought to

 himself. Even with the rain. Not a soul in the

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 square and the adobes without windows look deserted, but you can always smell the good smell of

 the mesquite cook ?res. If it wasn’t raining there’d

 be people sitting by that bandstand. He was thinking then that La Noria was like a lot of pueblos;

 crumbling sun-dried adobe out in the middle of

 nowhere, but with people in it to make the cook?re smells and keep it alive.

 Frye was standing at the edge of an aspen thicket

 looking through the rain drizzle and across the

 open one hundred yards to the wide break between

 the adobes that showed the square. The bandstand,

 a dim outline of it, was on a straight line with his

 eyes and he knew that the cantina was along the

 row of adobes on the right. Merl White was next to

 him and Dandy Jim was one step behind.

 He’ll be in the cantina, Frye thought, thinking of

 Sundeen. Bet all you’ve got and borrow more to

 put on it, that’s where he’ll be. If he’s not, then he’s

 changed his ways—and you’d better change yours.

 Turning his head, keeping his voice low, he said,

 “Merl, would you say he’d be in the cantina?”

 Merl nodded and water rolled off the curled

 brim of his hat. “I wouldn’t think about it twice,”

 he said.

 “Just go in?”

 “We could wait for them to come out.”

 “Which could be a wet all night,” Frye said.

 “Let’s just go in and get it over with.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 171

 “All right. You want to get the others?”

 Merl said he would and moved back through the

 trees. Dandy Jim waited with Frye.

 Now, waiting, listening to the rain, Frye thought:

 You shouldn’t ask a question when you tell somebody what to do. He shrugged within himself. You

 don’t have to kick Merl in the tail. No, it’s not a

 question of the man. If you’re in an order-giving

 position then give the damn order and don’t be so

 damn hesitant. You don’t say, “Do you want to get

 the others?” What if he’d said no? Watch Danaher

 and learn a few things. Learn how to tell men what

 to do.

 He felt very much alone now, even though

 Dandy Jim was a step away from him, and he

 thought: I wonder if Danaher ever feels all by himself? Like the night after Galluro and John hit that

 man for smoking out in the open. I’ll bet he felt all

 alone that night. It probably goes with the job. You

 better watch Danaher and learn how to give orders

 and meet the cold looks that come back half the

 time. But he’ll be watching you tonight.

 Frye had told Danaher his promise to Digo. He

 had promised to bring Sundeen back himself, without shooting. Danaher had agreed. This is what he

 had hired him for. If he didn’t care to use his gun,

 that was all right. As long as he brought him in.

 Danaher mentioned that the shooting Sundeen on

 sight business was half scare anyway. Then Frye

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 asked Danaher if he’d care to come along and

 Danaher said yes without hesitating.

 Frye turned now, hearing the others coming up

 through the trees. He saw Danaher and he thought

 for one last time: Just tell them.

 Merl White and the two other ex-Sun-D riders,

 Ford Goss and Joe Tobin, were following Danaher

 and behind them were a half dozen men Danaher

 had brought along to “?ll out the posse.”

 Frye waited for all of them to come up close.

 “Merl and Dandy and I,” he said then, “are going

 into the square. The rest of you will wait till we

 pass the ?rst adobe, then John”—he nodded to

 Danaher—“you and two of your men will follow

 to back us up. You other four men will stay here

 with the horses, mounted in case anybody slips

 through us.”

 He looked at Ford Goss and Joe Tobin. “The

 cantina is on the right. The . . . fourth adobe

 down, next to a wall. You’ll recognize it. Skirt

 around the back from here and watch the rear

 door.”

 Ford Goss said, “Do we shoot if they come out?”

 Almost as if he were anxious to.

 “If you see them,” Frye said, “you’ll know.

 Watch Clay Jordan.”

 One of Danaher’s men said, “I don’t want any

 part of him.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 173

 Frye looked at Merl, then to Dandy Jim.

 “Ready?”

 They both nodded and moved out into the open

 as he did. Frye and Merl carried Winchesters and

 Dandy Jim held a Spring?eld carbine up diagonally

 in front of him. Merl’s Winchester had a large ringtype lever and he jiggled it silently as they walked

 across the open one hundred yards to the square.

 They were almost to the ?rst houses. Not looking right or left, Merl said, “Did you see something

 cross the square? The other side of the bandstand.”

 “I’m not sure,” Frye murmured. He glanced at

 Dandy Jim.“Vió algo cruzar por la plaza?”

 Dandy Jim nodded and they were sure.

 Beyond the ?rst house they stopped. They were

 now at the edge of the square and from here the

 pueblo showed more life. Not all of the doors were

 closed against the rain and here and there the doorways were outlined by the cook ?res inside.

 Merl White was looking toward the mescal

 shop. “The one over there with the ramada?”

 Frye said, “That’s right,” and pointed out the

 adobe to Dandy Jim. It was diagonally across the

 square on their right; the front of it, doorway and

 windows, in the deep shadow of the tin-roofed ramada.

 And looking at the shadowed front of the cantina Frye saw the muzzle ?ash as the shot was ?red.

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 The sound of it slammed across the square and another shot followed. Three in rapid succession

 then, and going down it was in Frye’s mind that the

 ?rst one had been a ri?e and the ones that followed

 from a .44 Colt. Merl and Dandy Jim were both on

 the ground with him, all of them down instinctively

 at the sound of the gun?re. There was a lull. Then

 two ri?e shots, barely spaced, but there was not the

 lightning-quick on-off ?ash in the darkness this

 time. Coming from the side of the house, Frye

 thought. Suddenly there was ?ring from inside the

 cantina. Another lull followed. And again gun

 ?ashes at the front window. After that there was no

 more.

 Rising to his feet Frye could hear the others approaching from behind, but he was still looking at

 the mescal shop. He saw the ?gure run from the

 darkness of the porch going directly across the

 square.

 One! It ?ashed in his mind. That’s all there was.

 He called out, “Halt!” raising his Winchester,

 thinking of Sundeen, and Jordan. Merl was next to

 him. Merl with his face against the stock and his

 eyes along the ri?e barrel that edged steadily after

 the running ?gure.

 “Halt!”

 The ?gure broke his stride, turning, raising a ri?e, and threw a shot at them. He was moving as he

 ?red, hunched, running sideways, and his shot was

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 175

 high and wide. Merl hadn’t lifted his head. He

 ?red, aiming low, and the man went down, dropping his ri?e, and his hands went to his thigh.

 Frye was running toward him, but he stopped at

 the sound of gun?re coming unexpectedly from off

 beyond the adobes to the right. He turned, seeing

 Danaher running toward the mescal shop.

 Then Danaher stopped and now he was looking

 back the way they had come, shouting something

 toward the openness and the dark expanse of the

 aspen stand beyond. As the sound of his voice

 echoed in the square, his riders broke from the

 trees, angling across the open space and were suddenly out of sight beyond the ?rst adobe.

 Merl White glanced at Frye. “Behind the cantina!”

 “That’s where the ?ring was from,” Frye answered. His Winchester was trained on the

 wounded man who was sitting, holding his thigh

 and rocking back and forth as if to ease the pain;

 but Frye was watching Danaher. The sheriff had

 reached the front of the cantina. Now he disappeared into the shadows and the men who were

 with him followed.

 Still watching, Frye moved to the wounded man.

 He glanced down, kicked the ri?e away from him

 and as the man rolled back looking up, the face

 glistening wet and drawn with pain, he recognized

 Earl Beaudry.

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 “Don’t hold the wound,” Frye said. “Grab the

 inside of your leg and squeeze it tight.” He saw

 Beaudry’s hand groping at his knee and he said,

 “Up higher. It’ll stop the bleeding.”

 Beaudry gasped, “God . . . somebody help me,”

 then began to moan and rock back and forth again.

 “Quit moving. You’ll keep it bleeding.”

 “God, it hurts like ?re!”

 Frye bent closer to him. “Wait about half an

 hour.”

 “Get me a doctor—”

 “You’ll get one.”

 “Right now!” Beaudry would moan and close

 his eyes tightly, but open them when he spoke.

 “You’ll have to hold your own a while,” Frye

 said.

 “I could lose my leg!”

 “Earl, what were you shooting about?”

 Beaudry was silent, breathing heavily. Then he

 said, “I wanted to make them surrender.”

 Frye smiled, but to Beaudry he said, seriously,

 “That was good of you, Earl.”

 “There’s Danaher again,” Merl White said.

 Looking up, Frye saw Danaher coming out from

 between the cantina and the next adobe. He had

 gone through, out the back door, and now had

 come around. Behind him were his two men, and

 following them were Goss and Tobin.

 Approaching, Danaher called out, “Who is it?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 177

 Frye waited until they were closer. “Beaudry.”

 “What was he shooting for?”

 “Earl says he’s on our side now.”

 “I guess he would,” Danaher said. “Let’s get him

 in out of the rain.”

 One of his men said, “He might catch cold.”

 Beaudry screamed as they picked him up. They

 started to carry him to the cantina, but he groaned,

 “Not there!” and pointed to the adobe across the

 square where the woman stood alone in the doorway. All about the square now doors were open

 and people were standing hesitantly watching.

 The woman stepped aside to let them carry

 Beaudry in, then moved to the hearth and placed on

 more wood to build the ?re, ?lling the kettle with

 water after that. Rising, she saw that they had lowered Beaudry onto the straw mattress.

 Merl White asked, “What was going on back

 there?”

 “Sundeen,” Danaher answered.

 “He got away then,” Merl said, and seemed disappointed.

 Ford Goss shook his head. “I don’t want to see

 Jordan that close again.”

 “What happened?” Merl asked him.

 “We were almost back of the place when the

 shooting started. We stopped there by a shed to see

 what was going to happen and a minute later the

 back door ?ies open and there’s Jordan. Sundeen

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 came next and then what must have been Tindal

 and Stedman. They were moving fast for the stable

 shed that connects to the back of the place. Then

 Jordan spots us and he lets go like he’s six men

 shooting at once. His shots come zingin’ through

 the corner of the shed keeping us back. Then they

 stop. I stuck my head out and like to got it blown

 off. Sundeen was in the saddle using his ri?e while

 Jordan swung up. See, they must of had them already saddled. Then when we heard the horses Joe

 and me ran out, but all four of them were around

 the stable shed before we’d ?red twice.”

 Frye said, “John, I saw your boys come out of

 the trees.”

 Danaher shook his head. “They won’t get them.

 It’s too dark out in the brush. Sundeen could hold

 up and let them ride right by.”

 “And with the rain,” Frye added, “by morning

 all the tracks’ll be gone.”

 Danaher took a cigar from his pocket, bit the tip

 off and lit it. “We’ve got time.”

 “They’re probably in Mexico by now,” Merl

 White said.

 “Well,” Danaher said, “that’s all right too. If

 they stay hidden, the world’s a better place to live

 in. If they come back, we take them.” Danaher

 looked at Frye. “What do you want to do?”

 “Take Earl back.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 179

 Merl said, “Maybe some of us could stay hereabouts and look around.”

 Frye nodded. “If you want to that’d be ?ne.”

 “You never know,” Merl said.

 11

 They had stretched a tarp over the borrowed

 wagon that carried Earl Beaudry and most of the

 way back to Randado Frye sat with him in the close

 darkness of it. The rain stopped during the early

 morning and they rolled back the tarp; but it was

 daylight before they reached Randado. There were

 ?gures in doorways and people standing by ramada

 posts watching solemnly as they passed down the

 street; watching curiously as they stopped in front

 of the doctor’s adobe and lifted out Beaudry, straw

 mattress and all.

 They had all returned except Merl White, Goss,

 Tobin and Dandy Jim.

 Danaher’s men moved off across the street to the

 boardinghouse, but the sheriff and Frye waited to

 hear the doctor’s report.

 And after that, out in the street again—

 “He’s got nothing to worry about,” Danaher

 said. “When the bullet doesn’t go all the way

 through, then it’s time to worry.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 181

 Frye’s hand moved over his jaw, feeling the beard

 stubble there. “I better go tell Mrs. Beaudry.”

 “What about the other women?”

 “I’ll have to tell them too.”

 “Why don’t you go over and talk to the Tindals?

 I’ll go up and see Beaudry and Stedman’s women.”

 “I could talk to them, John.”

 “Seeing the Tindals is enough,” Danaher answered.

 “Now?”

 “Might as well. I’ll see you back at the of?ce.”

 Frye watched Danaher cross the street diagonally toward the last adobe building. The small residential hill was just beyond. Then he turned and

 crossed the street himself in the direction of Tindal’s store.

 Milmary opened the door for him. She had been

 standing by it, watching, waiting for him to come,

 going over in her mind the words she would use,

 but now he was here and she said nothing.

 Frye removed his hat feeling it sticking to his

 forehead and nodded solemnly. Milmary passed

 him and his eyes followed her to the counter. Her

 mother stood behind it.

 “Mrs. Tindal. Your husband’s all right.”

 Her mouth formed a smile, but the rest of her

 face did not smile, and her eyes were picturing

 something that was not in the room. He could see

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 that she was trying to be calm, and pleasant. And it

 went through his mind: Why did she ever marry

 him? She was a plain woman, her hair parted in the

 middle and drawn back tightly into a bun, though

 there were thin wisps of hair not in place. He felt

 sorry for her because he could picture her combing

 her hair, trying to make it look attractive; but it was

 not attractive now, and probably it never had been.

 He felt sorry for her because she was plain, because

 no one would attach any importance to her, not

 even in little things, though perhaps Mil would. He

 could picture Tindal scarcely paying any attention

 to her when she spoke. But she would serve him

 and smile when he expected her to smile and praise

 him when he expected to be praised. And Frye felt

 sorry for her because he knew she needed to be

 held; but there was no one, not even Tindal if he

 were here.

 “Mrs. Tindal, I’m awful sorry about this—”

 He hesitated. She was looking at him, but not

 trying to answer. “I wanted to talk to you before,

 but I never got the chance.”

 Milmary asked, “Where is he?” Her voice

 seemed natural.

 He looked at her, conscious of his beard and his

 hair stuck to his head from the hat being on so long

 and his damp clothes shapeless and dirty looking.

 Maybe he smelled. All that riding, then under that

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 183

 hot tarp with Beaudry. He could feel her eyes on

 him when he was not looking at her.

 He told them everything then, beginning with

 their arrival at La Noria. He told it quietly and

 most of the time he looked at Mrs. Tindal.

 “Sundeen forced your husband to go with him,

 Mrs. Tindal. We know that for a fact.”

 Milmary said, “Be sure you’re not blamed for

 anything.”

 “De Spain will testify that Sundeen forced them

 to leave his place at gun point.”

 “That’s noble of Mr. De Spain.”

 “Mil, why don’t you talk like you’ve got some

 sense?”

 She held his gaze silently for a moment. “Are you

 ?nished now?”

 “I guess I am.” He started to put on his hat.

 “Kirby.”

 He looked at Mrs. Tindal. She had not spoken

 before and now the sound of her voice surprised

 him.

 “Did you see him, Kirby?”

 “No ma’am, I didn’t.”

 “What will happen to him?”

 “Nothing, Mrs. Tindal. This is kind of a game

 with Phil Sundeen. Soon he’ll get tired of it and

 come home.”

 “He won’t do anything to them?”

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 “No ma’am, I’m sure he won’t.”

 Milmary said, “But when he comes back—”

 Frye nodded once. “He’ll stand trial.”

 “Will you take him to Yuma, too?”

 He ignored Milmary’s question. “Mrs. Tindal,

 you can ?gure your husband won’t get more than a

 ?ne, if that. Judge Finnerty’s a friend of Mr. Tindal’s.” Frye smiled. “You know he wouldn’t send

 him to Yuma.”

 Milmary asked abruptly, “But what happened to

 Mr. Beaudry?”

 “He was shot in the leg trying to run.”

 “How do you go about dodging that blame?”

 “Mil, he ?red on us ?rst.”

 “Did you shoot him, Kirby?”

 “No.”

 “That was decent of you, since he helped get you

 your job.”

 He looked at Mrs. Tindal instead of answering.

 “Can I do anything for you, ma’am?”

 “Haven’t you done enough?” Milmary asked.

 He thought: You asked for it. But she could have

 thought of something better than that to say. He

 felt his temper rise, hearing her words again in his

 mind. He moved to the door putting on his hat,

 then touched the brim to them and stepped outside.

 Maybe this is a good thing, he thought as he

 walked toward De Spain’s. You get to know a person better when something like this comes up. Af-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 185

 ter you’re married, how’d you like to have that the

 rest of your life, everytime you have a disagreement? She’d give you that silent act. If you said

 something she had to answer, then she’d come back

 with the ice-water tone. I think I’d rather have a

 woman who throws plates. She’d get it out of her

 system and it would be over with. Well, enough’s

 enough. If she wants me, she knows where to come.

 He told these things to himself but he did not

 completely believe them. They made him feel better, that was all.

 He nodded to a group of men standing in front

 of De Spain’s, then started across the street toward

 the jail. His back was to them when he heard one of

 them say, “Some people think they’re pretty goddamn big.”

 Frye stopped and half turned. One of the men

 was holding on to a support post staring at him de?antly. He was drunk and without the post would

 have fallen into the street. Behind him, four men

 stood close as if in conversation. They paid no attention to the drunk, though before, when Frye

 nodded, the ?ve of them had been standing together.

 He continued across the street and entered the

 jail of?ce. Harold Mendez came away from the

 window as he closed the door.

 “Harold.” He nodded to the jailer. “I see you

 ?xed the windows.”

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 “Digo did,” Harold said, “he broke them. I tied

 his feet and held a shotgun behind his back while he

 did it.”

 Frye took off his hat and slumped wearily into

 the chair in front of the desk. He leaned forward to

 unfasten his spurs, then going back, lifted his feet to

 the desk and crossed them.

 “I saw you come in with Beaudry,” Harold said.

 “One of Danaher’s men left his gear here. When he

 came in for it, he told me the whole thing.”

 Frye was silent. Then he said, “How are they

 talking about it at De Spain’s?”

 “I haven’t been over there.”

 “Did you see that just before I came in?”

 Harold nodded. “What did he say?”

 “Some people think they’re pretty goddamn

 big.”

 “He was drunk,” Harold said. “When he’s not

 cleaning the livery he’s drunk. You never know

 what he’ll say.”

 “He didn’t say it. The four behind him did. They

 poured the words in and he used them.”

 “You have to expect a certain amount of that.”

 “What are they saying, Harold?”

 “Well . . . last night a few men came over from

 De Spain’s and one of them asked if the rest of the

 people could consider themselves safe or should

 they run too. It was supposed to be cutting, but he

 sounded as if he was reading it. He said when the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 187

 manager of the bank and the town’s leading merchant have to leave town, then it’s time to look

 more closely at the one who’s chasing them, and reconsider. Something like that.”

 “Did you mention,” Frye said, “Sundeen’s Colt

 making them run?”

 “They’re going back before that,” Harold said.

 “Many of them took part in the hanging even if

 they didn’t tie the knots. They’re not wanted, but

 they probably still feel obliged to share a little of

 the blame with Tindal and Stedman. The way to do

 that is oppose you.”

 “How do they feel about Sundeen?”

 “He’s the biggest man around here. They’re

 awed by him, even if they don’t like him, and they

 don’t see how a young deputy who’s only been

 here a month gets off chasing him out of town.

 People are scared to death of Phil Sundeen, but

 they still look up to him. Because he’s got money if

 for no other reason. A man with money must be

 important.”

 “Which is how the whole thing started,” Frye

 said.

 “That’s right.”

 Frye shook his head. “There must be some sensible people here.”

 “Plenty,” Harold answered. “They’re the ones

 that hardly even talk about it. They probably think

 we’re all children.”

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 Frye was silent, but after a moment he said,

 “Harold, I’m tired.”

 The jailer nodded. “I know what you mean.”

 When Danaher came in Frye was shaving in

 front of a mirror propped on the desk. He was sitting on the edge of the chair and turned to look at

 Danaher as he entered.

 “How was yours?” Danaher asked.

 “Well, I didn’t get the red carpet.”

 “Maybe you should have done that ?rst.” Danaher nodded to the razor.

 “I needed more than a clean face.”

 “Ten years from now you and Mil will think

 back on this and you might even smile.”

 “How did you do?”

 “The ladies were obliged to greet me with cold

 stony eyes and expressions that would’ve cracked

 like china had you touched them.”

 “How’d you expect them to treat you?”

 “Kirby, I neverexpect anything.”

 “Yes sir,” Frye said, not knowing, or caring, how

 Danaher would take it.

 “You need sleep,” Danaher said.

 He wanted to say it again, because he was suddenly near the end of his patience. Yes sir—something a kid would say in a tone all of its own,

 thinking he was smart. He realized this, and held

 on; and moving the razor down his jaw line slowly,

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 189

 he said, “John you want to get something to eat

 ?rst?”

 They went to the Metropolitan and throughout

 the meal they spoke little. Once, Danaher said,

 “You feel all alone now, don’t you?” and this

 stayed on Frye’s mind even after they left the café.

 Maybe Danaher could read his thoughts—like

 when he was hiring him for the job after the Galluro thing. At the boardinghouse they bathed and

 went to bed, but before falling asleep Frye thought:

 He was talking from experience. Danaher feels

 alone too. And that was some consolation. Enough

 to let him fall asleep almost right away.

 In the evening they ate at the Metropolitan

 again. Haig Hanasian served them and at the end

 of the meal he leaned close to Frye and said, “If you

 go out again, I would look upon it as a privilege to

 be along.”

 “We’re not sure we will.”

 “Just if you do.”

 They returned to the jail of?ce to smoke and theorize now. They would wait for Sundeen’s move,

 but they could be thinking while they waited.

 Harold brought a bottle and glasses and in the

 semi-darkness they sipped whisky and talked until

 late.

 Probably Sundeen had taken them across the

 border. That was logical; that made more sense

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 than anything else. Still, Sundeen was not a man

 who lived by his reason. Frye remembered Danaher’s words earlier in the day, “I neverexpect anything.” That was the way to consider Sundeen.

 Don’t say, “He probably did this.” You’ll ?nd out

 he did the opposite.

 So they didn’t take for granted that Sundeen

 crossed the border. And the more they thought

 about it, the stronger the possibility was that he

 had not.

 “He could even swing back this way,” Danaher

 said, “to see what happened to Digo. He could

 even have in mind raising a ?ghting force. He’s

 bullheaded enough.”

 “What about Tindal and Stedman talking him

 into giving up?” Frye suggested.

 “Not a chance.”

 “They could circle up to Tucson and turn themselves over to Judge Finnerty.”

 “I don’t think so.”

 “Digo talked him into running when he was set

 against it.”

 Danaher nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right.”

 “Maybe he’s not the stone wall we give him

 credit for,” Frye said.

 “But you can’t predict the bastard. That’s the

 trouble.”

 They were in the of?ce again the next morning,

 Danaher having decided to return to Tucson since

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 191

 there was nothing to do but wait, and he was getting ready to go when Ford Goss rode in. Ford

 looked drained; as if he’d been riding all night.

 He swung off, seeing them standing in the doorway, and the ?rst thing he said was, “Dandy caught

 their sign!”

 12

 They rode southeast from Randado, Ford Goss

 showing the way, his saddle on a fresh mount and

 Ford in it again after a rest that lasted only as long

 as it took to drink a cup of coffee and eat a plate of

 meat and beans. He was bone tired, but he stayed

 in the saddle and followed his own trail without

 any trouble, without even thinking about it, because this was not something new. He couldn’t

 count the number of watches he’d stood over a

 night herd, then stayed in the saddle the whole next

 day until sundown. It was part of a riding job.

 At their ?rst rest, Ford related the details of ?nding Sundeen’s trail. How they had ridden south

 from La Noria and swung east along the border for

 half a day without seeing a track of any kind. Merl

 said maybe they crossed during the rain; but maybe

 they didn’t go over the border after all, and that

 was worth checking. So they started bearing north

 in a wide circle. West was open country, but northeast from La Noria were the Huachucas and that

 way made more sense. By midafternoon they had

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 193

 picked up four tracks bearing more to the east,

 Dandy Jim spotting the hoof marks no white man

 could have. They followed. At a waterhole farther

 on they found two cigarette stubs and there the

 tracks of four horses were unmistakable. Then luck

 hit them right in the face. “Good luck that only

 comes from living right,” Ford said. An hour from

 the waterhole they came across two Tonto-Mojave

 women dressing down a buck. The women told

 Dandy Jim they had watched from a distance as a

 party of white men shot the buck and took its

 hindquarters. Now they were only taking what had

 been left. Dandy asked them what the men looked

 like. They described each man—and then there was

 no longer any doubt. That evening when they

 camped, they matched to see who was going to ride

 all night to Randado. Ford lost.

 Danaher was along with his six men—Danaher

 riding easily for a big man, unconcernedly, a cigar

 clamped in the corner of his mouth.

 Frye and Haig Hanasian rode side by side most

 of the time. Frye slouched in the saddle, his

 straight hatbrim low over his eyes. He could have

 been asleep, the loose way he followed the dun

 gelding’s motion; but he was not asleep and he

 missed nothing.

 Haig Hanasian rode in silence. He made no comment about the weather, nor about the trail becoming rougher as they climbed into the foothills of the

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 Huachuca range. Haig’s hat was narrow-brimmed

 and he wore a full suit and a cravat. Everything

 about him seemed out of place except the expression on his face. Frye noticed this. Haig’s silence

 and his masked expression told nothing; yet by

 their presence they told everything. At least to Frye.

 He remembered Edith mistaking him for Sundeen

 the night he entered the café late, as if she had been

 expecting Phil. Probably something was going on

 between them, Frye thought. Haig found out. And

 now he wants to do something about it.

 Before noon they reached the camp where Ford

 had left Merl. Riding at night it had taken Ford

 seven hours to reach Randado; returning during

 daylight they did it in almost half that time.

 “Merl and Joe and Dandy stayed the night

 here,” Ford explained.

 “You must have been close to them,” Frye said.

 It was a dry camp and there had been no ?re.

 “So close we had to stop when we did,” Ford

 said, “for fear of riding on them in the dusk. Merl

 said him and the boys would go on at daylight, but

 that we’d be able to follow him easy.”

 They rested the horses, then moved on following

 Merl’s sign, crossing a three-mile length of meadow

 where the wild grass was broken and bent forward

 in a narrow path down the middle. Through scattered pine stands they followed branches Merl had

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 195

 broken and left hanging. Over rocky ground there

 were stones set in a row pointing the way. They

 could have followed the horse tracks, but this saved

 time and time was the important element. They entered a draw that was narrow and overgrown with

 brush and they moved through it single ?le, feeling

 the gradual rise and when it opened they were high

 up on a bench that looked down on a valley and the

 tops of jackpines far below. Dandy Jim was there

 waiting for them.

 He led them along the bench, then down a slope

 through dim, silent timber. At the bottom, watering

 their horses in a stream, Merl White and Joe Tobin

 were waiting.

 Merl was squatting on his heels at the edge of the

 stream. He looked over his shoulder, then rose as

 Dandy Jim brought them in.

 “Where you been?”

 Danaher stepped out of the saddle. “The other

 side of the mountain pickin’ our noses.”

 Frye’s gaze moved over the small clearing. He

 saw traces of the ?re that had been smothered out,

 and close to him, at the edge of the clearing, the

 grass was trampled and broken off where the

 horses had been picketed. He watched Dandy Jim

 cross to the stream removing his red cotton headband. He dipped it in and out of the water quickly,

 then spread it out and rubbed mud into it from the

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 damp bank. He shook it, then spread it out again to

 let the sun dry the mud. They’re close, Frye

 thought.

 He heard Merl White saying, “We got us a problem. They split up here.”

 “What?” Danaher was lighting a cigar but he

 held it and the match went out in his hand.

 Frye swung down and let his horse go to the

 stream. “Maybe they split up leaving here,” Frye

 said, “but met again further on.”

 Merl shook his head. “Three of them went due

 north up the stream, but one crossed over and followed it down the other way.”

 Danaher lit his cigar and blew on it slowly.

 “Now which one would that be?”

 “You wouldn’t think Tindal or Stedman,” Frye

 said.

 “Unless,” Danaher said, “one of them got a

 chance to sneak off during the night.”

 Frye asked Merl, “Where’d he cross?”

 “Right there where your horse’s watering.”

 “They were grazed over on the other side,” Frye

 said. “That means he’d have to have brought his

 horse right through camp to cross the stream

 there.”

 “I didn’t ?nish,” Merl said. “We ?gure whoever

 it was, left a few minutes before the others, and in

 daylight. Dandy crossed over and followed his sign

 a ways, down the stream about a hundred yards,

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 197

 then up into the trees. Dandy says up there in a

 clearing the man had stopped. You can see this

 camp from there. The man waited there a while,

 least long enough to smoke a cigarette, because the

 stub of it was there. And he must have been watching the others.”

 “The careful type,” Danaher said.

 Frye said, “And he smokes cigarettes. You ever

 see Tindal or Stedman with anything but a cigar?”

 “No,” Danaher answered, “I don’t believe I

 have.”

 “Are you thinking,” Frye asked, “what I’m

 thinking?”

 “Probably so,” Danaher said. “Sundeen

 wouldn’t be likely to walk out on his old committee

 friends after going to so much trouble to bring

 them along. And he doesn’t strike you as the kind

 who’d sit over there and smoke a cigarette once

 he’d made up his mind to move. That leaves one

 man. Jordan. If they had an argument and Jordan

 walked out, I think he’d be inclined to watch them

 till they were out of sight.”

 Frye looked at Merl. “How far did Dandy follow

 him?”

 “About an hour.”

 Frye went over to Dandy Jim and the Coyotero,

 squatting down, looked up at him and grinned as if

 to say: I’ve been waiting for you.

 Danaher watched them and it reminded him of

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 Galluro to see the two squatting together drawing

 lines on the smoothed dirt. He drank a cup of cold

 coffee from Merl’s canteen, then saw them stand

 up.

 The Coyotero took the cloth that was spread

 open next to him, folded it into a triangle and tied it

 over his long hair, knotting it in back. He looked

 like a color picture Danaher had once seen of a pirate, only now the headband wasn’t red; it was a

 dull brown color that wouldn’t be seen through the

 trees or stand out against rock. Then Frye came toward him.

 “John, Dandy and I ?gure we can take Jordan

 before he gets anywhere near the border.”

 “Is that so?”

 “Assuming he’ll follow the stream as long as it

 bears generally south, we can make a straight line

 and be waiting for him when he comes out of the

 valley.”

 “Dandy knows the country?”

 “Like his hand.”

 “Just the two of you?”

 “We’d go a lot faster.”

 Danaher shrugged. “You’re in charge.”

 “You’ll keep after the others?”

 “Of course.”

 “We’ll catch up with you later.”

 “Kirby, just keep one thing in mind. He gets paid

 for carrying a gun.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 199

 Dandy Jim leading, they splashed over the shallow stream, then followed Jordan’s tracks along the

 bank and up to the clearing where he had waited.

 From there Jordan had gone down again, following

 the stream south. But now Frye and the Coyotero

 slanted up through the timber, their horses going

 slower, more carefully, as the slope became steeper,

 then making switchbacks through the trees as the

 pines near the rim grew more dense. At the top they

 looked back. They could see the stream and the

 camp they had left far below on the other side, but

 there was no movement and they knew Danaher

 had gone on.

 Daylight was beginning to fade, but here was

 open country dipping and rolling in long gradual

 swells and they gave the horses their heads, letting

 them run hard in the cool breeze of evening. Then,

 in gray dimness, they rode down the long sweep of

 land that stretched curving downward to the

 mouth of the valley.

 Now, looking back into the valley they could see

 gigantic rock formations tumbled through the wild

 brush of the valley ?oor. Following the stream, Jordan would move slowly. And the rocks would slow

 him even more, Frye thought. He was con?dent

 that Jordan had not left the valley before they arrived to seal its exit.

 Frye asked, “Where does the stream end?”

 The Coyotero pointed to the trees, now a solid

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 black mass between the steep sides of the valley.

 “Beyond there the time it would take to ride one

 hour.”

 Then that’s where he will camp, Frye thought. By

 water. Because he doesn’t know when he will see it

 again. And he would camp early; rest the horse

 well; and make the border in one ride.

 “It is too wide here to wait for him,” Frye said.

 Dandy Jim nodded, agreeing. They moved their

 horses into the mouth of the valley that began to

 narrow abruptly after only a few hundred yards

 and now they angled toward the near side and left

 their horses in the dense pines that grew along the

 slope. They moved farther in on foot, then climbed

 up into the rocks to wait.

 “It will be all right to smoke,” Dandy Jim said,

 which was his way of asking for a cigarette. Frye

 made them and they smoked in silence. Afterwards,

 they ate meat which they had brought and drank

 water from their canteens. They smoked another

 cigarette before going to sleep.

 At ?rst light, the Coyotero touched Frye on the

 shoulder. He came awake, sitting up, looking out

 over the rocks to the ?oor of the valley.

 “This is a good place,” the Coyotero said.

 “Even better than it looked in the dark,” Frye

 agreed. Across to the other slope was less than three

 hundred yards; then, to the right, another three

 hundred to the trees and tumbled rocks through

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 201

 which Jordan would come. The trees seemed less

 dense on this side of the valley, which meant Jordan

 would likely be bearing to the near side. That, Frye

 thought, would make it all the better.

 They decided how they would do it, watching

 the trees as they talked.

 After, Frye rolled four cigarettes and gave them

 to Dandy Jim with matches, then watched as the

 Coyotero scrambled down the rocks. First he

 would check the horses, then return to the pines directly below Frye ready to run out and disarm Jordan after Frye commanded him to halt. Dandy Jim

 had said, “Why not shoot him from here?” But

 Frye explained that it would be better to take him

 back as a prisoner.

 And now he waited, leaning on his left side,

 looking through a groove in the rocks in front of

 him. His Winchester rested in this V and from time

 to time he would sight on the break in the trees

 through which he expected Jordan to come.

 The rocks that jutted out from the opposite slope

 were clean and clear in the early morning sunlight,

 but the ?oor of the valley, almost all the way

 across, was still in shadow. He could hear the cries

 of birds back in the trees in the direction he

 watched, and the soft sound of the breeze in the

 pines. The rocks beneath him were cold and he

 thought, feeling the dampness of the rocks but

 meaning the entire cool early morning stillness of

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 the valley: By the time the sun is high enough to

 warm it, this will be over.

 Keep listening to the birds. They’ll give you

 warning when he comes. If they are in the lower

 trees they’ll ?y up as he passes them.

 He looked at the shadow below him and he

 thought: Like rolling up a black rug. You almost

 see it getting shorter. Eight o’clock? Something like

 that. He’s not rushing into anything. He looks

 ahead, and this morning he’s making sure his horse

 will take him to the border. It would’ve been good

 to have seen what happened between him and Sundeen. Maybe it was payday and Sundeen didn’t

 have the money. Maybe it was as simple as that.

 He could not hear Dandy Jim below him and he

 did not expect to. This is his meat. He’s Apache and

 could sit in an ambush for ten years if he thought it

 was worth waiting for.

 He could not hear the horses either. Purposely

 they were both geldings. There would be nothing

 between them that would be worth nickering

 about.

 He saw the birds rise from the trees. They were

 in a ?ock, now swooping and rising as one, and

 they ?ew out of sight up the valley. Frye rubbed out

 his cigarette.

 Jordan stopped at the edge of the trees. He dismounted and adjusted his cinch, pulling it tighter.

 Then he mounted and rode warily out of the trees.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 203

 Frye’s front sight covered Jordan’s left side, the

 sight barely moving, barely lowering as Jordan

 came on. The Winchester was cocked.

 Mr. Jordan, Frye thought looking down the barrel, you’re about to make a decision. And you

 won’t have time to change your mind once you

 make it. The front sight dropped an inch as Jordan

 drew nearer to the slope and Frye’s ?nger was light

 against the tightness of the trigger. Just ?ick it, he

 thought, and you’ve solved everything. No, let’s

 take him home.

 Now Jordan was even with him and Frye knew

 that this was as close as he would come.

 “JORDAN! THROW UP YOUR HANDS!”

 The words echoed in the narrowness and Jordan

 made his decision. Frye saw the horse wheel suddenly toward the slope and rear up, rearing the

 same moment he ?red.

 Jordan was reining again, pulling the horse’s

 head to face the trees, and the horse moved with a

 lunge that took it almost to a dead run the ?rst few

 yards. Frye hurried the next shot and it was low

 and suddenly he had to go down as Jordan returned the ?re, emptying his gun, at ?fty yards,

 straight up through the V where Frye was

 crouched.

 Five shots! Frye was up, seeing Jordan slapping

 the gun barrel across the horse’s rump. He heard

 ?ring below him. Dandy Jim. Jordan was running

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 now, not looking back, his right leg out of the stirrup, holding close to the horse’s off side. Frye ?red,

 aiming at the horse now, but the horse did not go

 down. And in a moment it was too late. Jordan had

 disappeared into the trees.

 13

 How could you miss! Frye thought. He was angry

 because he had hurried the shot. Missing Jordan

 the ?rst time was not his fault: the horse had

 reared. But the second shot: Jordan was running,

 for seconds less than a hundred yards away, and he

 had let himself be hurried. Now, there was not time

 to stand thinking about what he should have done,

 though as he went down the slope, scrambling

 from rock to rock, making sure of his footing, then

 sliding down on the loose gravel, he could still see

 Jordan crouched low in the saddle laying his pistol

 barrel across the horse’s rump.

 And as Frye reached the base of the slope, it went

 through his mind: Maybe you did hit him, but not

 where it would knock him down.

 Dandy Jim approached along the edge of the

 pines. He was on his gelding and leading Frye’s.

 “How could we have missed?”

 The Coyotero shook his head. “But I think we

 took the horse.”

 Frye looked across the open three hundred yards

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 to the denseness of the trees and the rocks beyond.

 “He could be waiting for us to come after him,” he

 said, squinting toward the trees, dark and unmoving beyond the sunlight. “But probably he won’t

 wait, because he doesn’t know how many we are.”

 He looked at Dandy Jim, but the Coyotero’s face

 was without expression and he did not speak. “If

 his horse was hit, it might have dropped just in the

 trees. Then he would have gone on afoot . . . or

 waited, thinking one place to stand was as good as

 another.”

 Now the Coyotero nodded.

 Frye swung up. “We could talk about it a long

 time, but there’s only one way to ?nd out for sure.”

 He was looking at Dandy Jim as he kicked his dun

 forward and he saw a smile touch the corner of the

 Coyotero’s mouth.

 Riding across the meadow Frye could feel his

 shoulders pulled up tensed and he told himself to

 relax, thinking: A shoulder’s no good against a .45

 slug, is it? Still, he could feel the tightness inside of

 him and just telling himself to relax wasn’t enough.

 They covered most of the distance at a trot, then

 slowed to a walk the last few dozen yards and entered the trees this way, their carbines ready. There

 was no sound and slowly Frye could feel the tightness within him easing. If he’s close, he thought, he

 would have ?red when we were in the open or just

 coming in.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 207

 The Coyotero pointed ahead and Frye could see

 clearly the path Jordan’s horse had made breaking

 into the brush. His gaze lowered, coming back

 along the ground, and now he noticed the streaks

 of blood that were almost continuous leading from

 where they stood to the brush clumps.

 “There’s no doubt we got his horse,” he said to

 Dandy Jim.

 The Apache nodded, answering, “It won’t last

 very long.”

 “We’d better go on foot.”

 “I think so,” the Apache said. “Listen,” he

 added then. “I think I should go ?rst, and you

 should follow, leading the horses.”

 “Why should you go ?rst?” Frye said.

 “Because I always do.”

 “There’s nothing that says you have to.” He

 could see that the Coyotero wanted to do this to

 protect him. “I’m the one responsible for bringing

 him back,” Frye said.

 “I think we’re wasting time now,” Dandy Jim

 said. He turned abruptly and started for the brush

 leaving Frye with the horses. But as he passed between the ?rst clumps he looked back and saw that

 Frye was following him, leading the horses, holding

 the reins in his left hand. He had replaced the Winchester in its saddle boot and now he had drawn

 the Colt and was carrying it in his right hand.

 They moved steadily through the brush patch

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 stopping when they came to the end of it. From

 here the signs of blood angled more to the left,

 gradually climbing a bare slope, a slide of loose

 shale that reached openly almost to the rim high

 above them. He could be waiting up there, Frye

 thought. But if he didn’t wait before, why should

 he now?

 Halfway up the slope the blood tracks veered

 abruptly and slanted down again into the trees. His

 horse couldn’t make it, Frye thought. They followed, the shale crunching, sliding beneath their

 feet as they went down, and in the trees again it was

 quiet.

 Now Frye watched Dandy Jim who was almost

 twenty yards ahead of him. He would see the

 branches move as the Coyotero moved steadily

 along, but he would hear no sound. Farther along,

 he began to catch glimpses of the stream through

 the pine branches to the right. Then ahead he could

 see a part of the stream in full view, and as he

 looked at it he saw Dandy Jim stop.

 The Coyotero went down on his stomach, remaining there for what must have been ten minutes

 before rising slowly and coming back, running

 crouched, toward him.

 “His horse,” Dandy Jim said, reading him.

 “Where?”

 “By the stream.”

 “And you didn’t see the man?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 209

 “No. The horse is at the edge of the stream, part

 of it in the water.”

 “Dead?”

 “Not yet.”

 “Quickly then.”

 The Coyotero turned and crept back toward the

 stream. Frye followed, but left the horses where

 they were.

 Jordan’s horse was at the edge of the stream, its

 hind quarters in the water and its head up on the

 bank. As the swell of stomach moved, blood

 poured from a bullet wound in the horse’s right

 ?ank. It colored the water, red as it came from the

 horse, brown fading to nothing as it poured into the

 water and was moved along by the small current.

 The horse had been shot again just behind the

 right shoulder; and as Frye started to cross the

 stream, looking down at the horse as he stepped

 into the water, he saw where another bullet had entered the withers; probably his ?rst shot and he

 wondered brie?y why it had not killed the horse on

 the spot.

 He saw Jordan’s footprints before he stepped out

 of the water. They bore to the left following the

 stream.

 He signaled to Dandy Jim, who ran back

 through the trees for their horses. Then, watching

 him as he brought them back, he saw the Coyotero

 go to one knee next to Jordan’s horse, then saw him

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 bring out his knife and cut the animal’s throat in

 one slash. The Coyotero brought their horses

 across then.

 “Listen,” Frye said, “let’s do it this way now.

 You go up the slope and work along the edge. I’ll

 stay on his sign and from time to time watch for

 you to signal. He won’t climb out of here now, not

 without a horse.”

 “But he could when night comes,” Dandy Jim

 said.

 “We’ve got to pin him down before that.”

 They arranged a signal: every ten minutes the

 Coyotero would imitate the call of a verdin. If he

 located Jordan he would imitate a crow. Then he

 would either return to Frye or lead him on to Jordan by the same signals.

 Frye watched Dandy Jim ride out of sight into

 the pines before he went on, following Jordan’s

 footprints: at ?rst, the marks of high-heeled boots

 that were easily read in the sand; but farther on, as

 the sand gave way to rocky ground, the marks were

 less apparent. And often he went on without a sign

 to follow, choosing one path through the rocks

 rather than another because it seemed more direct,

 less likely to bring him back to a point he had already passed.

 Twice he heard the verdin, perhaps a hundred

 yards ahead of him and up on the slope.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 211

 Then again. This time it seemed to be closer.

 Frye entered the narrowness of a de?le and

 stopped in the deep shadow of it to drink from his

 canteen. He took a bandanna from his pocket and

 wetting it, wiped his horse’s muzzle, cleaning the

 nostrils. Then, as he started out again, he stopped

 and drew back into the shadows instinctively as the

 sound of gun?re came from somewhere off to the

 right up on the slope.

 Two shots from a revolver and a heavier report

 that was still echoing through the rocks.

 Spring?eld, Frye thought. Dandy’s on him and it

 must have been unexpected with no time for the

 signal. He reached past the horse’s shoulder and

 drew his Winchester and turning back, his eyes momentarily caught a movement in the lower pines.

 He raised the Winchester, waiting as the minutes

 passed.

 There!

 The ?gure darted from the trees running

 crouched low. The sound of the Spring?eld came

 from higher up on the slope and the split-second he

 heard it Frye ?red.

 Too late. He was behind rocks now.

 Frye had waited because he had not been able to

 identify the ?gure, and by the time the Spring?eld

 told him who it was, it was too late.

 But now you’re sure, Frye thought, looking at

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 the rocks where Jordan had disappeared. Now you

 know where he is . . . and all you have to do is go in

 and get him. Or wait him out.

 He studied the terrain thoughtfully. He was

 slightly higher than Jordan’s position and beyond

 those rocks there appeared to be an open meadow.

 Probably, Frye thought, that’s why he turned into

 the pines. He didn’t want to cross the open. Not

 now. To the east was the pine-thick slope, and

 Dandy Jim. Frye was to the south. Beyond the

 stream was the steep slope to the west. It could be

 climbed, but much of it was bare rock and it would

 take time . . . if Jordan ever reached it, which was

 improbable. Still, Jordan could move around to

 some degree in a ?fty-yard radius of rock and

 brush.

 All of this went through Frye’s mind and he concluded: He has to be pinned to one spot before dark

 and not be able to leave it.

 He was sure that the Coyotero realized this.

 Now it was a question of working together. But

 ?rst, Frye thought, tell Dandy where you are.

 He aimed quickly at the spot where Jordan had

 disappeared and ?red. Now be ready, he thought.

 The Spring?eld opened up. One . . . two . . . on

 the second shot Frye was moving, running veering

 to the left . . . three . . . diving behind a rock covering as a revolver shot whined over his head and ric-THE LAW AT RANDADO

 213

 ocheted off the crest of the rock. Frye exhaled, close

 to the ground. Now they both know.

 He crawled along behind the cover of the rocks,

 then raised his head slowly until he was looking at

 Jordan’s position from another angle. But he could

 not see the gunman even from here.

 A little more around, Frye thought. And a little

 closer. He brought the Winchester up and ?red

 quickly.

 The Spring?eld answered covering him. Frye

 was up running straight ahead, then to the left

 again. He found cover, went to his knees, but only

 momentarily. The Winchester came up with his

 head—

 Jordan! A glimpse of him disappearing, dropping into a pocket among the rocks.

 Frye ?red, levered and ?red again—four times,

 bracketing the pocket and nicking one off the top

 of the rocks where Jordan had gone down.

 It had worked. Jordan was still behind cover, but

 now he could not move, not three feet without exposing himself; and even darkness would do him

 little good.

 Now we’ll see how good he is, Frye thought.

 We’ll see how good his nerves are—and if he has

 any patience. I should have told Dandy how he is

 with a gun. No, he already knows it. He was inside

 the jail when Jordan let go at Harold Mendez. And

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 he heard how Jordan came out of the La Noria

 mescal shop. So he won’t underestimate him.

 Frye was on his stomach, but with his elbows

 raising him enough to see over the rocks and down

 the barrel of the Winchester in front of him.

 Mesquite bunched thickly all around him and even

 with his eyes above the rocks he knew Jordan

 would not see him. Not unless he ?red. And Frye

 had no intention of ?ring. Jordan was ?anked. He

 was cut off from water and cut off from escape—

 unless pure luck sided with him.

 For the second time this day Frye settled down to

 wait. He knew Dandy Jim would do the same. He

 was Apache and would not rush into something

 that could be solved with patience. Dandy Jim has

 it ?gured out better than you, Frye thought. He’s

 done this more times than you have. Let the quietness work on Jordan. Let him realize he’s alone and

 there’s nothing he can do about it. Let him think

 until he’s tired of thinking. Then he will do something. He might even give himself up. If he does,

 wrap ?fty feet of rope around him and still don’t

 trust him. But it won’t be that way, will it?

 Frye waited and the time passed slowly.

 It was less than two hours later, though it seemed

 longer, when Jordan started to do something.

 “Frye!”

 Frye looked up at the unexpected sound of his

 name. He could not see Jordan, but he knew it was

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 215

 Jordan who had called. He watched, feeling the

 stock of the carbine against his cheek, and did not

 answer.

 “Frye!”

 He waited.

 “Goddamn-it that’s your name, isn’t it!”

 I didn’t think you knew it, Frye said to himself.

 Then—“Frye! Come on out and we’ll talk it

 over!”

 Silence.

 “You hear me!”

 For a few minutes it was quiet.

 “Listen . . . I turned my ankle and can’t get out

 of this goddamn hole!”

 Let’s see you try, Frye said to himself.

 “Come on over and we’ll talk this thing out!”

 You’re doing all right as it is, Frye thought.

 Silence again, but suddenly Jordan called, “Frye,

 you son of a bitch, come on out!”

 Frye smiled, thinking: He’s getting warmer.

 “What kind of a law man are you!”

 Silence.

 “You’re such a brave goddamn law man walk on

 over here!”

 Keep talking, Frye thought.

 “Frye . . . I’ll make you a bet!”

 Silence.

 “I’ll bet all the money I got you’re not man

 enough to stand up the same time I do!”

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 What about your ankle?

 “You hear me!”

 I hear you . . . but I’m not buying in.

 “I’m counting three and then standing up!”

 Frye looked down the Winchester.

 “One!”

 Silence.

 “Two!”

 There was a longer pause.

 “Three!”

 Frye saw the crown of a hat edge hesitantly

 above the rocks. He was ready to ?re. But the hat

 tilted awkwardly and he knew it was being held by

 a stick. His ?nger relaxed on the trigger.

 The hat disappeared.

 “You yellow son of a bitch!”

 Work yourself up—it went through Frye’s

 mind—till you can’t stand any more.

 “I gave you credit before . . . but you’re nothing

 but a goddamn woman!”

 I hope Dandy Jim can understand some of this,

 Frye thought.

 Now there was a long silence that lasted for the

 better part of an hour. Then Jordan called for the

 last time.

 “Frye . . . you win! But you’re not taking me!”

 Silence. Then a single revolver shot.

 Frye smiled, hearing the shot die away. Clay, you

 should have been on the stage.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 217

 Throughout the long afternoon there was no

 sound from the pocket. Frye’s eyes stayed on it. He

 shifted positions as his body became cramped and

 he smoked cigarettes to help pass the time. As dusk

 settled, coming quickly between the steep slopes of

 the valley, he removed his boots, his hat and cartridge belt. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth

 and whistled the call of a verdin.

 He waited until it was darker, then moved on

 hands and knees a dozen yards to the left and imitated the call again.

 Dandy Jim would know that he was moving.

 And if he was moving it meant only one thing.

 Close in and get Jordan.

 He waited a longer time now, until the moon—

 what there was of it—appeared above the eastern

 slope; then Frye began to crawl forward, his Colt in

 his right hand, watching the rocks ahead of him

 pale gray in the moonlight.

 Thirty yards to go.

 All right, let’s feel him out. Frye picked up a

 stone that ?lled his hand and threw it forward but

 to the left of Jordan’s position.

 He heard it strike and instantly the revolver answered.

 Frye smiled in the darkness, even though he

 could feel the tension inside of him. He’s good in a

 saloon ?ght, he thought, but he’s not worth a damn

 at this. All right. Now you know for sure.

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 He inched forward a dozen yards and stopped.

 His hand groped for a stone. Finding one he threw

 it backhanded toward Jordan.

 The stone rattled over the rocks and this time he

 saw the ?ame spurt as the revolver went off.

 He’s not taking any chances.

 Now, off beyond Jordan’s position he heard the

 hoot of an owl that he knew was not from an owl.

 Dandy Jim was closing in. Frye crept forward.

 He heard the owl again much closer and this

 time Jordan’s revolver answered it. Frye moved

 quickly and he reached the rocks that rose in front

 of the pocket as Jordan’s shot echoed to nothing.

 Now Frye could hear him: a boot scraped in the

 loose gravel. He could picture Jordan on the other

 side of the rock moving around the pocket trying to

 pierce the darkness, trying to see where they were

 hiding. Frye pressed close and shifting his Colt to

 his left hand, edged in that direction along the

 smooth side of the rock.

 If he has one gun there are two bullets left in it.

 No, he thought then, hurriedly, you can’t count

 shots. He’s had time to reload.

 Wait for Dandy. The next time is the one. In his

 mind he hesitated and he told himself: Just do it.

 Do it and get it the hell over with.

 God . . . help me—

 It came suddenly, just beyond the pocket, not an

 owl sound as he had expected, but the shriek of a

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 219

 coyote, the howl cut off abruptly at its peak as the

 revolver went off.

 Frye moved around the smooth turn of the rock

 bringing up his Colt.

 “Jordan—”

 In the moonlight he saw Jordan turning, saw his

 eyes wide open for a split second before he felt the

 Colt jump in his hand. Close on the explosion he

 ?red again and ?ve feet away from him Jordan

 went down, his hands clutched to his face.

 Frye called out softly into the darkness, “He’s

 dead,” and a moment later Dandy Jim was standing next to him. Frye took Jordan’s billfold for

 identi?cation and gave the dead man’s gun and holster to Dandy Jim.

 “He died poorly,” the Coyotero said strapping it

 on.

 They buried Jordan in the pocket and at ?rst light

 climbed the slope and ran their horses again the way

 they had come. It was still the early part of the

 morning when they descended the slope to the clearing where they had left Danaher. They would water

 their horses here, then pick up Danaher’s sign. But

 as they crossed the stream they saw Ford Goss

 standing next to his horse waiting for them.

 “You got him?”

 Frye nodded. “Last night.”

 “I’d like to’ve seen that.”

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 “What about you boys?”

 “I came back to ?nd you. We got the others

 holed up.”

 “Where?”

 “Up a ways. Danaher wanted to wait for you.”

 Ford grinned. “They’re hiding up in an old mine

 works and don’t know we know it.”

 14

 From the window of the assay shack, looking down

 the slope, Tindal could see most of the deserted

 mine works: the ore tailings, furrowed gravel piles

 that stretched down the slope in long humps, and

 just behind the ?rst tailing he could see the top part

 of the mainshaft scaffolding. Where the ore tailing

 petered out into the canyon ?oor he could see the

 crushing mill and giant cyanide vats, ?ve of them,

 cradled in a rickety wooden frame.

 He remembered the time he had visited here, a

 guest of—he could not think of the man’s ?rst

 name—something Butler. Butler had lived in Randado and had owned a small interest in the mine.

 They had not climbed the slope to the assay shack,

 but had stayed over there across the canyon where

 the company buildings were: now dilapidated and

 two of the four were roo?ess and you could see the

 framework of studs that the roof planks and tar paper had been nailed to.

 The houses were built at the base of the slope

 and the verandas were supported on stilts. Butler

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 standing on the steps, a cigar in his mouth, explaining the operation—

 “. . . it’s got to be dry-crushed to pass a twenty

 by sixteen mesh . . . loaded into them vats . . . two

 hundred and ?fty tons of ore, mind you, and

 leached in cyanide . . . strength of the solution

 is . . . to the ton of water . . . damn good thing we

 got water . . . right now the average tenor’s thirty

 dollars to the ton and mister, that’s pay dirt!”

 It was the ?rst and last time Tindal had visited

 the mine—“The Big Beverly,” they’d called it—for

 months later the tenor dropped to two dollars and

 ?fty cents a ton and from then on it was not worth

 working.

 The shack he was in right now—

 He remembered looking up the slope, up past the

 cyanide vats and the crushing mill, to the left and

 even higher than the main shaft scaffolding, and

 seeing the shack perched on a ledge that was almost

 halfway up the escarpment. Just sandstone above

 it; long, towering pinnacles of sandstone.

 And Butler saying—“. . . why would anybody

 want to build a shack way up there? Man, that’s

 where the assaying is done. See those two dark

 spots on either side of the shack . . . the original

 mine shafts . . . in the shack they got shelves on the

 walls and bags of concentrates are stored there to

 be tested . . . you don’t want to go up there . . .

 nothing to see . . .”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 223

 And there’s nothing to see looking down from

 there, Tindal thought now. My God, it’s funny

 what you can remember from even a long time ago.

 About ?fteen years . . . but last week is a long time

 ago, too. It’s how you look at it.

 Last week—

 Earl Beaudry coming into the store and saying

 that he’d seen Phil Sundeen and that Phil wanted to

 talk to them. Why in hell had Earl and George been

 so eager to stick their noses in another man’s business! Sundeen’s run-off cows were his own worry.

 My God, a man can change!

 He was thinking of Phil Sundeen then, comparing how he was before with what he was like now.

 The difference was in Tindal’s mind.

 He had looked up to Phil Sundeen as everyone

 did, because Phil was an important man. He had always laughed when Phil started to cut up. When

 Phil did something that was genuinely funny, Tindal’s eyes would water as he laughed and he would

 feel closer to Phil then, laughing without having to

 pretend that he was laughing. Those were the times

 when Tindal would feel justi?ed for all the excuses

 he continually made for Phil, and the defending

 him to Milmary, who said he was a rowdy and

 wouldn’t have anything to do with him. “Mil, a

 man of his stature is entitled to be a little eccentric.” “Eccentric! Riding his horse into people’s living rooms! Thinking he can do anything he pleases

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 just because he owns a few cows!” “A few thousand.” “I don’t care how many!” “He’s young yet,

 that’s all.” “Well, it’s about time he grew up!”

 He had even made an excuse for Milmary: you

 can’t tell a woman anything. But always in the back

 of his mind was the hope that someday Milmary

 would change her attitude and marry Phil. Marrying into the biggest spread in Pima County! For

 some things it was worth being a little extra nice.

 Hell, it didn’t require much more of an effort. But,

 my God, the times when you had to laugh and it

 wasn’t funny—

 Everything in life isn’t a bed of roses. It’s just

 good business to put up with a few minor displeasures in order to make a pro?t in the end. Once in a

 while he would view his association with Phil Sundeen this way. Most often though, he would simply

 justify their association by making excuses for

 Phil’s character. Either way Tindal kept his conscience clean and his pride intact. Doubts did not

 count.

 But now—

 Suddenly inside of only a few days there was

 nothing to gain and everything to lose and he could

 no longer make excuses for Phil Sundeen. He saw

 Phil as he actually was, the way Milmary had described him: a rowdy who thinks he can do anything he pleases. He blamed Beaudry and Stedman

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 225

 for getting him into this, but far less than he

 blamed, and hated, Sundeen now. It would come

 into his mind: Why can’t we just start all over. No,

 not start over, but go back to the way it was and I

 swear to God I won’t have anything to do with

 him. The two Mexicans were caught stealing . . .

 hell, that part’s all right. But everything that happened after, Sundeen did. I got no cause to be hiding out. I haven’t done anything! And the son of a

 bitch just sits there like God smoking a cigarette!

 He glanced from the window to Sundeen, who

 was lounging in the open doorway, his back against

 one side and a booted leg propped up on the other

 knee. George Stedman was sitting cross-legged

 against the opposite wall. Stedman’s head was

 down and he was staring at his hands, looking

 closely at his ?ngernails clenched against the palm,

 then with the thumb of the other hand he would

 work at the dirt wedged beneath the nails.

 “Phil.”

 Sundeen did not look up. He was studying his

 cigarette, watching the smoke curling from the tip

 of it.

 “Phil,” Tindal said again. “Why don’t we just go

 back home and see what happens?” Trying to keep

 his voice mild it sounded shaky and nervous.

 Sundeen’s eyes remained on the cigarette, but he

 said, “I told you to quit that talk.”

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 “We can’t stay forever.”

 “Why not?”

 “Phil, we got rights. We don’t have to stay out

 here like hunted animals.”

 “We do if I say we do.”

 “You’re not being reasonable!”

 “Nothing says I have to.”

 Tindal calmed himself. Getting excited wasn’t

 going to help. “What about your cattle?”

 “What about them?”

 “You’d let your ranch go just because of this?”

 “They know how to graze without my help.”

 “They’ll be scattered all over the territory!”

 “Then I’ll hire me some men to bring them

 back.”

 “When?”

 “When I get ready.”

 “Phil, here’s the thing. If we give ourselves up,

 then Finnerty will let us off for coming in on our

 own accord.”

 “Who says so?”

 “It stands to reason.”

 Sundeen looked up now, faintly grinning. “R. D.,

 you old son of a bitch, you telling me we’re

 wrong?”

 “I’m facing the facts!”

 “Facts don’t mean a thing.”

 “They do when you’re faced with them!”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 227

 Sundeen’s glance went down the slope. “I don’t

 see ’em facing me.” He looked at Stedman then.

 “George, you got any facts facing you?”

 Stedman’s head jerked up. “What?”

 “Phil—”

 Sundeen cut him off. “R. D., you’re a sad-looking old son of a bitch, but if you don’t shut up I’m

 going to put you out of your misery.”

 Sundeen stood up stretching, then walked outside and away from the doorway.

 Now he’s going to look at the horses, Tindal

 thought. They were kept saddled in one of the old

 mine shafts that was on the ledge with the assay

 shack.

 He doesn’t worry about a solitary thing. Just

 piddles around like he was at home looking for

 some trouble to get into. You can see he’s restless,

 but he puts on the act he’s having a good time . . .

 like a spoiled kid who’s got to have his own way

 and even when he’s wrong won’t admit it. Hell,

 that’s what he is, a snot-nosed kid, who should

 have had his ass kicked a long time ago.

 He glanced at Stedman, then leaned head and

 shoulders out of the window and looked both ways

 along the ledge. Sundeen was not in sight.

 “George.”

 Stedman’s head lifted and he looked at Tindal almost angrily. “What do you want?”

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 Tindal glanced at the doorway, then moved

 closer to Stedman. “George, there must be a way

 out of this.”

 “You knew the way in,” Stedman said, “you

 ought to know the way out.”

 “Me!”

 “Who the hell else!”

 “Now wait a minute, George. It was you and

 Earl who got me to talk to Sundeen.”

 Stedman’s eyes narrowed and he said angrily,

 “You got a short goddamn memory is all I can say.”

 “You think I’m enjoying this!”

 “I don’t know why not. Finally you’re in something with Phil Sundeen.”

 “Keep your voice down.”

 “You don’t want him to hear you talking behind

 his back.”

 “George, make sense.”

 “Always shining up to him—”

 “Don’t talk so loud!”

 “Always ready to kiss his hind end any time he

 bends over.”

 Tindal shook his head wearily. What was the

 sense of talking to him.

 “Listen.” Stedman lowered his voice and the

 sound of it seemed edged with a threat. “I’m getting

 out of here. I’m not taking any more off of him; no

 more of this goddamn obeying orders like we were

 his hired hands. I’m waiting for the chance and

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 229

 soon as it shows, I’m getting out. You can stay married to the son of a bitch if you want, but I’ve got a

 stomach full of him. A man can stand just so much.

 You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

 “What do you mean—”

 “Just stay out of my way from now on!”

 Tindal felt his temper rise and he was about to

 curse Stedman and tell him to . . . to do something!

 But he was too enraged to speak. He turned his

 back on Stedman and returned to the window.

 Imagine him saying that to me. Of all the goddamn spineless, yellow—Tindal gritted his teeth.

 He’ll be sorry. Manager of a bank—If any two-bit

 illegitimate idiot couldn’t be manager of a branch

 bank! Well, we’ll see. We’ll get home and see how

 much business Mr. George S.O.B. Stedman gets after this.

 He’s so panicky he doesn’t even know who to

 trust. Blames me! He’s as bad as Phil. Every bit as

 crazy!

 Like that business with Jordan.

 We’re not bad off enough, Phil has to get in an

 argument with Jordan and Jordan leaves. Jordan

 said it was pointless to come back this way and be

 hunted like animals—the only one who had anything to say that made sense!

 But suddenly Tindal stopped. What was he

 thinking of? He was reasoning to the point that

 theyneeded Jordan here. But Jordan wasn’t one of

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 them. Jordan was a gunman, a wanted outlaw, yet

 he had been wishing Jordan were here; missing the

 secure feeling of having him with them.

 My God . . . I think I’m going crazy!

 He slumped against the wall and wiped his face

 with his bandanna. Just take it easy. You’ve gotten

 along for forty-?ve years using your head. Just

 calm down. Keep your eyes and ears open, you’ll

 make out all right. He looked across the room at

 Stedman. George can go take a running jump to

 hell . . . and take Phil with him.

 He had made himself become calm and now he

 sucked at his teeth, the ?rst time he had done this in

 ?ve days.

 Sundeen appeared in the doorway, unexpectedly,

 and Tindal felt himself straighten against the wall.

 Sundeen hesitated, looking from Tindal to Stedman, then said, as if reluctantly, “They’re coming.”

 “Where!” Stedman was scrambling to his feet as

 he said it.

 “Just stay where you are!” Sundeen was inside

 the doorway now looking past the frame. He was

 silent, then said, “They’re coming up the road, just

 entering the canyon.”

 Stedman moved toward the window and Sundeen snapped, “I said stay where you are!”

 Against the wall next to the window, Tindal

 could see them now straggling in almost single ?le.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 231

 The ?rst ones were reaching the company buildings now.

 He heard Sundeen go over to the shelf along this

 side wall where his blankets were and slip his ri?e

 out from between them.

 Then another sound—

 He looked back to see Stedman reaching the

 door and going out, stumbling as he started down

 the slope, then regaining his feet and running, sliding in the loose sand, shouting something to the

 men below—

 15

 In the directly above them sunlight of noon they entered the widening in the canyon that was the site

 of the mine. Frye and Danaher rode side by side a

 dozen lengths behind Merl White. The others were

 strung out behind them. Farther back, where there

 had been rock slides, the canyon was narrow and

 they had thinned out single ?le to pass through and

 had not closed up again before reaching the mine.

 The day before they had followed the tracks up

 the canyon and spent the night a mile below the

 mine site. But before dark Merl had gone on alone

 to study the deserted building through Danaher’s

 glasses. Just before dark closed in he saw the ?gure

 up by the assay shack. That was it. They would

 wait until morning to go in. It was Danaher who

 added that they would also wait for Frye. It was

 Frye’s party.

 Frye saw Merl White dismount in front of one of

 the company buildings and tie his reins to one of

 the support posts beneath the veranda. They can’t

 be too close, Frye thought. His eyes moved across

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 233

 the open area to the mine works, then lifted to the

 sandstone escarpment high above. He thought:

 Where would you hide?

 “John, where are they?”

 Danaher nodded, looking up the slope. “That

 shack way up there. They used to use it for assaying.”

 “I was wondering about us just walking in.”

 “We’re out of range.”

 “Unless Phil’s a dead-eye.”

 “Three hundred yards is long for anybody.”

 “Maybe they sneaked out during the night,”

 Frye said.

 “Merl was here with the sun this morning,”

 Danaher answered. “He saw movement up by the

 shack.”

 Merl White had the glasses to his eyes, now

 standing at the edge of the veranda shade studying

 the assay shack. They were up there and they might

 as well realize they were trapped. Maybe they

 would give themselves up and nobody would be

 hurt. Maybe. The trouble was you could not count

 on Sundeen to use reason.

 “Look!” Merl shouted it without taking the

 glasses from his eyes. “Coming out of the shack!”

 They could not see him at ?rst, not until he came

 off the ledge and started down, a dark speck

 against the sand-colored slope, then dust rising in a

 cloud behind him. They saw him roll and slide head

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 ELMORE LEONARD

 ?rst and for a moment he was hidden by the dust.

 Then, on his feet again, running, pumping his legs

 to keep up with his momentum.

 A ri?e shot cracked in the stillness and echoed

 thinly in the wide canyon. Then another and another and puffs of sand chased the running ?gure

 down the slope.

 Three shots before the men below had their ri?es

 out of saddle boots, before they were scattering but

 moving their horses toward the slope to return the

 ?re—aiming at the shack to cover the man coming

 down.

 Then he was past the cyanide vats, swerving to

 ?nd cover behind the massive structure, and the ?ring stopped.

 Frye’s men walked their horses back toward the

 company building where Frye and Danaher stood

 with Merl White as the man came across the open

 area toward them—every few steps looking back

 over his shoulder, up toward the assay shack.

 Then as he became aware of the silent, grimfaced men waiting for him, he seemed to hesitate,

 walking more slowly now and he began to brush the

 sand from his clothes. He was breathing heavily and

 his face, gray with dust, bore a pained expression.

 “I’m giving myself up,” Stedman gasped.

 No one spoke.

 His eyes, suddenly wide open, went over the line

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 235

 of men, hesitating on Haig Hanasian before they

 came to rest on Frye.

 “Kirby, I’ve wanted to give myself up . . . I

 couldn’t with that madman!” He looked at Danaher, then back to Frye, waiting for one of them to

 speak. “I pleaded with him . . . I said, ‘Phil, let’s go

 on home and face up to it.’ I tried everything humanly possible, but he’d just grin or else start cursing and there was nothing I could do about it.”

 Frye stepped toward him. “That’s all right, Mr.

 Stedman.” He opened Stedman’s coat almost gently and saw that he was not armed. “You come on in

 here,” Frye said, taking his arm, “in the shade and

 sit down.”

 “Kirby,” Stedman murmured, “the man’s crazy.”

 Frye nodded leading him by the arm under the

 veranda. “How many are up there now, Mr. Stedman, just the two of them?”

 “Phil and R. D.”

 “How’s Mr. Tindal doing?”

 Stedman hesitated, but he said, “He’s all right.”

 “Did Phil harm either of you?”

 “He like to drove us out of our mind.” Stedman

 was perspiring and his ?ngers pulled at his collar

 loosening it.

 “Did he harm you?”

 “Not like you probably mean.”

 “Or Mr. Tindal?”

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 “No . . . but you never know what he’ll do. He

 picked a ?ght with Jordan. But Jordan had a gun.

 He wouldn’t take any of Phil’s airs and he left.”

 Stedman added almost grudgingly, “He was smart

 to get out while he could.”

 Frye nodded, “Yes sir,” and asked, “how are

 Phil’s supplies?”

 “Water and food for two days. No, that was for

 three of us. They could make what they have go

 four or ?ve days if they had to.”

 “You said Mr. Tindal’s all right?”

 Stedman nodded. “He’s all right.”

 “How do they get along?”

 Stedman was calmer now and he said, “They

 quit sleeping together,” and grinned. But he saw

 Danaher’s cold stare and looking back at Frye he

 explained, “They’re not getting along. But R. D.’s

 too goddamn scared to do anything about it.”

 Danaher smiled. “Not the man of action you are,

 George.”

 “Well, I thought why should I sit up there and—”

 “Shut up!” Contempt was in Danaher’s eyes and

 in his voice when he said, “Prisoners speak when

 they’re asked a question. No other time!”

 Frye said, “Sit down for a while, Mr. Stedman,”

 and turned following Danaher out into the sunlight. Frye made a cigarette and stood next to

 Danaher looking up at the assay shack.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 237

 “That’s a long open stretch up that slope,” Frye

 said after a minute.

 Danaher nodded. “Going up the off side of those

 ore tails we’d be covered all the way up to the

 ledge. But you still have to go in the front door of

 the shack once you get there.”

 Frye was looking at the sandstone heights that

 towered above the shack. “Phil might be just the

 one to try climbing his way out.”

 “He might at that,” Danaher said. “But it would

 have to be at night else we could run up close and

 knock him off.”

 “If he wanted to do it,” Frye said, “Phil wouldn’t

 let a little thing like nighttime stop him.”

 “Well, we better have somebody get around

 there,” Danaher said. “It would probably take a

 while.”

 Frye called over Dandy Jim and told him what

 they had been talking about. The Coyotero looked

 up at the heights, picturing the country behind it

 and the roundabout trail it would take to reach it,

 and then he told that it would be near dark by the

 time a man arrived there.

 Yes, he would be willing to go. Merl White

 agreed, and when he volunteered so did Goss and

 Tobin and in less than ten minutes the four of them

 were riding back down the canyon.

 “That,” Danaher said, “closes the back door.”

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 “But there’re two side doors,” Frye said, meaning up and down the canyon. His eyes roamed over

 the deserted mine works. “And enough good places

 to hide right here in the house.”

 “Well, Kirby, that just takes it out of the commonplace.”

 He looked at Danaher. “I think you’re enjoying

 this.”

 “Kirby, if I didn’t like my job I’d get the hell

 out.”

 “I can’t picture you in anything else.”

 “Which makes it all the easier.” Danaher said

 then, “Aren’t you having a good time?”

 “I don’t know if you’d call it that.”

 “Would you rather be back trading horses?”

 Frye shook his head. “No.”

 “Then get to work and ?gure a way to pry that

 crazy bastard out of there.”

 “We might go up and talk to him,” Frye said.

 “Maybe he’s calmed down. Take a white ?ag to

 show we’re friendly.”

 Danaher thought about it before nodding. “So

 we can say we tried.” He took a handkerchief from

 his pocket and smoothed it out before tying it to the

 end of his Henry ri?e.

 Frye leaned his carbine against a support post

 and they started across the open area, Danaher motioning his men to follow. When they had crossed

 to the cyanide vats, the sheriff motioned again.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 239

 They strung out in a line, their ri?es ready, as Frye

 and Danaher started up the slope.

 They kept their eyes on the shack, going up

 slowly in the shifting sand, climbing abreast but

 with a few yards separating them. The shack

 seemed deserted: the boards bleached gray by years

 of sun and wind and there was not a sign of life in

 the dark opening of the doorway or in the windows.

 They were ?fty yards up the slope—

 “If he doesn’t show in the next minute”—

 Danaher’s breathing was labored—“we’re gettin’

 the hell back.”

 Frye’s eyes remained on the shack. “What would

 you give to know what he’s thinking?”

 The answer came from the shack. On top of

 Frye’s question the ri?e shot whined down kicking

 up sand almost directly between them. Danaher’s

 men were ready; they began ?ring, keeping it up as

 Frye and Danaher dove in opposite directions and

 rolled. Danaher came up ?ring the Henry, then

 turned and ran. As they reached the bottom of the

 slope the ?ring stopped.

 Walking back, Frye said, “Now we know what

 George felt like.”

 Danaher was untying the white cloth. “I burned

 my best handkerchief.”

 “That’s what you get for carrying a live truce

 ?ag.”

 Danaher grumbled something, then looking back

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 up the slope he said, “With a clean conscience,

 Kirby, we can say we tried. Now we sit back and

 wait for Mr. Sundeen.”

 “And judging by his short patience,” Frye answered, “that shouldn’t be too long a wait.”

 Haig Hanasian warmed up their meat and made

 coffee on the stove inside the company building.

 The stove was almost beyond use and there was no

 stack on it to take out the smoke, but it didn’t matter because they ate their meal outside under the veranda, watching the assay shack. Through the

 afternoon they played poker with matchsticks for

 chips or just sat smoking and talking, waiting for

 something that they knew would come sooner or

 later. As darkness settled they moved across the

 open area and paired off taking up positions along

 the base of the slope, then settled down again to

 wait. By Danaher’s timepiece it was a little after

 eight o’clock. Haig Hanasian was told to remain at

 the company building and watch Stedman. It was

 to keep him out of the way. They knew Stedman

 would not try to escape.

 At ten, Danaher ground the stub of his cigar into

 the sand, handed his timepiece to Frye, and rolled

 up in his blankets to sleep. Frye would watch the

 ?rst part of the night; Danaher would then be up

 until daylight. He had instructed his men to do it

 the same way.

 Frye sat in the darkness listening to the wind

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 241

 high up the canyon. It would moan softly, then rise

 to a dull hissing sound and he would hear the sand

 being blown against the deserted buildings. It kept

 going through his mind: What would you do if you

 were Phil Sundeen?

 He smoked cigarettes thinking about Tindal up

 there with him; and from Tindal his thoughts went

 to Milmary. What would Mil be doing right now?

 He would light a cigarette and as the match ?ared

 look to see what time it was.

 Eleven o’clock passed. Then twelve.

 It was shortly before one (the way he ?gured it

 later) when he heard the revolver shot from up on

 the slope, and the ?rst thing he thought of was

 Jordan—

 Twice in two days!

 Danaher was up, shaking off his blankets. Wide

 awake.

 “What is it!”

 Frye was standing now looking up the dark

 slope. The moon was behind the clouds and he

 could see nothing. “Up there, John!”

 “That was a shot, wasn’t it?”

 “A handgun.”

 In the stillness they heard one of the men down

 from them lever a shell into his ri?e.

 “John . . . Jordan pulled one that could be just

 like this.”

 “What?”

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 They heard a voice calling from up on the slope

 and there was no time to explain.

 Then the sound of the voice came to them

 clearly—

 “He’s dead!”

 Still they could not see him, but now they knew

 it was Tindal standing out in front of the shack.

 “He shot himself!” The voice echoed in the

 canyon.

 Momentarily there was silence.

 “John, it could be a trick.”

 Danaher cupped his hands to his mouth. “Tindal, you come down!” To Frye he said, “Let’s get

 him out of the way ?rst.”

 “I can’t!”

 “I said come down!”

 “I can’t!” It came as a hoarse scream.

 “We better go up,” Danaher said. He waved to

 the men over on his right to start up the slope.

 “John—” Frye hesitated. “Something’s wrong.”

 They heard Tindal scream again, “He’s dead!”

 Danaher called again, “I said come down!”

 “I can’t!”

 Danaher was suddenly at the end of his patience.

 He said roughly, “Come on!” and started up the

 slope.

 Frye looked to the left, toward two of the men.

 He ran a few steps toward them. “One of you stay

 down . . . keep your eyes open!” then turned going

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 243

 up the slope after Danaher. The other man followed him.

 Halfway up Danaher called, “Tindal!”

 No answer.

 Danaher muttered, “Damn him—”

 They could make out the ledge now as the clouds

 passed from in front of the moon and suddenly Tindal was screaming again—

 “He’s getting away!”

 They heard the muf?ed sound of hoofs somewhere off to the left.

 “He’s getting away! Stop him!”

 The horse whinnied, over beyond the hump of

 the ore tailing closest to them.

 “Phil’s getting away!”

 Danaher bellowed, “Shut up goddamn-it!”

 He wheeled then, almost sliding in the sand, and

 called down to his men below, “Get him!”

 Now they were running down the slope as ?ring

 broke suddenly from below—three shots .. . a

 fourth. Then the ?ring and the echoes of it dissolved to nothing and in the stillness they could

 hear the hoofbeats of the horse dying away up

 canyon.

 They knew without going any farther. Sundeen

 had gotten away.

 16

 Now there was nothing they could do until morning.

 They waited for Tindal to come down and he described what had happened as they walked back to

 the company building.

 Sundeen had ?red the revolver shot, he told excitedly, then had made him yell out that he was

 dead. “He had to get you all part of the way up the

 slope before he could make a break. He led one of

 the horses out of the mine entrance, then held his

 gun on me while I yelled . . . that’s why I couldn’t

 move. He’d a cut me down!”

 As they brought Tindal under the veranda they

 heard three shots spaced apart and sounding far

 off, coming from beyond the escarpment.

 “That’s the others,” Frye said.

 He walked out to the middle of the open area

 leading his horse. Then he ?red three shots into the

 air at ten-second intervals. That would tell the Coyotero there was no hurry. Then he mounted and

 rode up canyon almost half a mile and ?red three

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 245

 times again. That would be the direction they

 would take. He knew the Coyotero would understand. If there was no hurry then they would leave

 in the morning, traveling up canyon.

 He returned to the men in front of the company

 building after unsaddling and picketing his horse—

 cigarette glows in the darkness and low murmurs

 of sound as they talked about what had happened.

 He saw Tindal sitting against the wall next to Stedman, neither of them talking, and Haig Hanasian

 standing over them. Danaher stood off by himself

 near the end of the veranda.

 He thinks it’s his fault, Frye thought. Well, let

 him be. Don’t interrupt a man when he’s giving

 himself hell.

 With ?rst light they were saddled and making

 their way up canyon. The sandstone walls seemed

 to shrink and become narrower as they followed

 the road that was almost overgrown with brush

 and in less than an hour they were out of the

 canyon, descending a long sweeping meadow toward distant timber. Coming out of the rocks they

 saw riders far off to the right following an arroyo

 down out of the high country and by the time they

 reached the timber they were joined by Dandy Jim,

 Merl White, Goss and Tobin.

 Merl White said, “What’s the matter with you

 boys letting one get away?” then shut up as he saw

 the look on Danaher’s face.

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 Frye explained to him what had taken place.

 Then— “He angled across the meadow and right

 into the timber, Merl. That’s almost due west. If he

 keeps going he’ll run right into Sun-D land.”

 Merl nodded. “If I was him I’d at least want to

 take a look around home.”

 “It makes sense,” Frye said.

 “Well, let’s go then.”

 “We got something else for you, Merl.”

 “What?”

 “Taking these two into Randado.”

 “Not me.”

 “You and Ford and Joe’s been riding longer than

 the rest of us.”

 “We got more of a reason to, Kirby; outside of

 you. Get somebody else to do it.”

 There was no sense in arguing it. Frye asked two

 of Danaher’s men and they said they would, gladly

 in fact. He told Haig that he could go in also, but

 Haig shook his head and stated that he would

 rather stay out.

 Before separating, Frye moved his gelding next

 to one of the men who was going back.

 “Don’t put them in jail.”

 “Why not?”

 “They won’t be going anywhere.”

 Danaher’s man shrugged. “It don’t matter to

 me.”

 Now they rode on toward Sun-D, watching the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 247

 four horses move off, more to the southwest, toward Randado.

 When they came out of the timber Danaher

 pulled his horse closer to Frye’s. For a while they

 rode along in silence, but Frye knew what was

 coming.

 Finally—

 “Kirby, that was my fault he got away.”

 “No, you can’t take the blame for something like

 that.”

 “I got impatient.”

 “Well, you were anxious.”

 “I got to learn to hold on to myself more.”

 “You been doing all right for forty years.”

 Danaher seemed not to hear. “Like with

 Digo . . . I beat the hell out of him and nothing

 happens. You whisper something in his ear and he

 runs off at the mouth.”

 Frye felt embarrassed for Danaher and he wished

 that he would stop talking this way. It seemed out of

 character, not like the rough-voiced, coarse-featured

 Sheriff of Pima County. But that was Danaher. He

 was man enough to admit when he was wrong,

 even if it made him feel like a fool to do it.

 “John, why don’t we just forget about it?”

 “I intend to,” Danaher said. “I just wanted to

 make it clear that it was my fault he got away.”

 And that was the end of it. After that, Danaher

 was himself again.

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 Within two hours they had crossed the eastern

 boundary of Sun-D land and an hour and a half

 later they were in sight of the ranch house and its

 outbuildings.

 They pulled up in a mesquite thicket a hundred

 yards behind the main building, then waited while

 Merl, Ford and Joe went on, keeping to the brush,

 until they were beyond the bunkhouse and corral.

 They saw Merl come out of the mesquite far down

 and as he did, they rode toward the ranch house,

 splitting as they reached it, circling around both

 sides of the house to meet in the yard. They saw

 Merl and his two riders come around the corner of

 the bunkhouse.

 A dog barked and came running toward them

 from the barn. The dog stopped, cocking his head

 to look at them, then went over to Merl as he dismounted and sniffed his boots. Merl reached down

 to pat him, then came up drawing his carbine from

 the scabbard. He looked at Frye, who was dismounted now, and Frye nodded toward the

 bunkhouse.

 They heard the screen door of the ranch house

 open and close. A Mexican woman came out to the

 edge of the veranda.

 Merl called, “That’s Digo’s woman.”

 Frye walked toward her touching his hand to the

 brim of his hat and he said in Spanish, “We are

 looking for the younger Sundeen.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 249

 “He isn’t here,” the woman said.

 “When did he leave?”

 “Days ago.”

 “His father is here?”

 “He is ill.”

 “We won’t disturb him . . . only long enough for

 a few words.”

 The woman shrugged and moved aside, but as

 Frye stepped up on the porch, Danaher and Haig

 Hanasian following him, she asked suddenly,

 “Where is Digo?”

 “He is in jail.”

 The woman seemed to relax. “For how long?”

 “It’s not for me to say.”

 “Will they hang him?”

 “No.”

 The woman half turned from them touching her

 breast and closing her eyes as they went inside.

 “Who is it?”

 They looked toward the sofa that was placed at a

 right angle from the stone ?replace. Phil Sundeen’s

 father was lying there, a quilt covering him and a

 pillow at one end holding up his head. His face was

 still leathery brown, but the skin sagged from his

 cheekbones and his eyes, lusterless, were half

 closed. Frye would not have recognized him. He remembered Old Val as a robust, swaggering man always with a cigar clamped between the hard lines

 of his jaw, and with thick graying hair that always

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 seemed to have a line around it where his hat ?tted.

 Frey remembered that clearly.

 They walked toward him and he said again,

 “Who is it?”

 “Val, this is John Danaher.”

 His eyes opened all the way. “What do you

 want?”

 “This is Kirby Frye. . . . He used to work for you

 about ten years ago.”

 “I don’t place the name.” The old man’s voice

 was hard, but with little volume.

 “Mr. Sundeen,” Frye said, “I’m sorry you’re laid

 up.”

 “If you want a job you’ll have to see Phil. I don’t

 hire no more.”

 “No sir. I didn’t come for a job.”

 Danaher said, “Val, that’s who we’re looking for.

 Phil.”

 “You try De Spain’s?”

 “Not yet. We thought we’d try here ?rst.”

 “He might give the boy a job, I don’t know.”

 “Val, was he here this morning?”

 “I remember now we lost some boys a few days

 ago, so maybe Phil’ll be hiring again.”

 Danaher exhaled slowly. “You didn’t see him

 this morning?”

 “I don’t know if it was this morning or yesterday.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 251

 “Val, just try to think a minute. He stopped in

 here this morning to talk to you.”

 The old man’s head nodded. “I think he did.”

 “Did he tell you what happened?”

 “He didn’t say anything about hiring any more

 men.”

 Danaher exhaled again. “Did he say where he

 was going?”

 “But if he was going to hire men, he’d a told

 where he’d be, so I could send ’em to him.”

 Frye glanced at Danaher, then kneeled on one

 knee next to the sofa.

 “Mr. Sundeen, I certainly admired working for

 you that time. The ?rst year we pushed ’em all the

 way up to Ellsworth. You remember that?”

 “Two thousand head,” the old man murmured.

 “Then the next year we went to McDowell and

 San Carlos and you let Phil trail-boss the bunch to

 the reservation.”

 The old man’s eyes rolled to look at Frye. “I

 don’t remember you. You see Phil, though, tell him

 I said it’s all right to hire you.”

 “Well, I sure wish I could ?nd him.”

 “You got to know where to look.”

 “Where do you start?”

 “When I wanted Phil I looked where there was

 women. That’s where I’d start and that’s where I’d

 end.”

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 “Maybe that’s the thing to do.”

 “Hell yes it is. Phil’s got a nose for women. He

 can smell ’em.” The old man’s mouth formed a

 weak smile. “Like a hound dog in heat, only Phil’s

 like it all year round. I used to say, ‘Phil, for crysake get yourself a woman and bring her home and

 be done with it. You’ll wear out your seat ridin’ to

 town every night.’ And he used to say, ‘I’ll wear out

 more’n that,’ and just laugh.”

 Frye said, “He’s something.”

 “You looking for Phil? Go ask the women.

 They’ll tell you where he’s at.” Old Val chuckled.

 “Would you look any place in particular?”

 “You want a job pretty bad, don’t you?”

 “Well I’d sure like to ?nd Phil.”

 “Once he said, ‘Why in hell does a man get married with all the women there are in the world just

 beggin’ for it?’ And I said, ‘Son, when they’re beggin’ you ain’t wantin’ and when you’re wantin’

 they ain’t beggin’. That’s why you got to have yourself one handy.’ ”

 Frye said, “Yes sir.”

 “Are you married, boy?”

 “No sir, I’m not.”

 “Do you want to?”

 “I think so.”

 “Well, it’ll be a long way off. Phil don’t pay

 more’n forty a month to top hands.” The old man

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 253

 grinned. “And you sure don’t want to take your

 wife in the bunkhouse.”

 “Mr. Sundeen, I better try and catch up with

 Phil.”

 “Phil don’t poke along. You’ll have to move.”

 “But you’re sure he was here this morning.”

 “A man’s a fool to say he’s absolutely sure about

 anything.”

 “He might have been here then.”

 “He might have been.”

 Frye rose. “Maybe we’ll talk again some time

 soon, Mr. Sundeen.”

 The old man rolled his eyes and Frye could see

 the yellowish cast to them as he looked up. “You

 better make it soon if you’ve got anything to say.”

 Frye nodded. “Yes sir.” He turned and followed

 Danaher outside to the porch. Then he stopped,

 looking out to the yard seeing Merl and the others

 standing by the horses. He glanced back at the

 screen door, then at Danaher.

 “John, what happened to Haig?”

 Danaher looked toward the horses. Haig’s was

 not there. “I don’t know. He walked out while you

 were talking.” He called over to Merl, “Where’s

 Haig?”

 “He rode off,” Merl answered. “Didn’t say a

 word, just rode off.”

 17

 Sundeen waited in the shadow of the adobe wall

 until the wagon started down the alley, moving

 away from the Metropolitan Café, then he crossed

 the alley to the stairway that slanted up to the back

 porch.

 He had left his horse in the thicket that bordered

 Randado’s small Mexican community and had

 crept from one adobe to the next, keeping close to

 the walls, occasionally hearing siesta hour snoring

 coming from within, until he reached the alley that

 was in back of the café. The wagon had been a

 small delay, already unloaded when he reached the

 last adobe wall.

 Now he hesitated before going up the stairs. He

 moved to the wall next to the back window and

 looked into the kitchen. Noontime activity. The

 cook facing the stove, a waitress just pushing

 through the door to go out front. The door swung

 back and Edith Hanasian came in with it. She was

 looking in his direction, but did not see him and he

 thought: Call her now! But she turned toward the

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 255

 stove, saying something to the cook, and it occurred to him: No. Wait a while, till the rush is

 over. He was tired, dust-caked and wanted a drink.

 The best thing would be to go upstairs and wait for

 her. Have a drink and take a load off your feet, he

 decided.

 He climbed the stairs and went inside, following

 the hallway to the living room at the front. He took

 off his hat and coat, dropping them on the ?oor,

 and sank down into a stuffed leather chair stretching his long legs out in front of him. But he had forgotten the drink.

 Phil pulled himself up and went down the hall to

 Edith’s bedroom. He went directly to her dresser

 and lifted the half-full bottle of whisky from the

 lower right-hand drawer, then returned to the easy

 chair.

 For some time he sat in the chair, his head low on

 the bolster, and drank from the bottle. Then he

 placed it on the ?oor next to him and made a cigarette.

 He felt pretty good now even though his legs

 were stiff and he had a kink in his back from all that

 riding. He felt good enough to grin as he thought:

 Damn room looks different in the daylight.

 He thought of Edith then and wished she would

 hurry up and get ?nished with the dinner trade.

 Won’t she be surprised! He laughed out loud.

 I’ll tell her I saw little Haig.

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 Edith, I think that little hairy-faced husband of

 yours is quit the restaurant business and taken to

 mining. Him and some others were looking over

 that Big Beverly claim in the Huachucas yesterday.

 Edith, why else you suppose he’d be snooping

 around over there? Phil laughed again and took another pull at the bottle.

 About Haig Hanasian, Phil had no feeling one

 way or the other. He was indifferent to him, as he

 was about most things. If a man couldn’t hold on to

 his wife, that was too bad. He shouldn’t have married her to begin with. If Edith wanted to fool

 around that was Haig’s own fault. Hell, he got her

 through a Prescott marriage broker. Edith had admitted that much herself.

 He remembered when Haig had come here to

 open his café, bringing Edith with him. There had

 been a lot of talk about them then, but Phil had

 never been too interested in the talk; he had just

 watched Edith, waiting to catch her eye as she

 served him, and when their eyes would meet he

 would tell her things without even opening his

 mouth. He never forced his attention on her. He

 didn’t have to. To Phil it seemed the most natural

 thing in the world that she should want him; if anything, he considered that he was doing her a favor.

 What fun would she get out of Haig? What was

 he, a Greek? No . . . something that sounded like

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 257

 ammonia. Well, he looked like a goddamn Greek.

 Came over on a boat and opened a restaurant in

 New Orleans; then packed up and came out here.

 Probably his health. Or maybe they wanted to send

 him back where he came from, so he ran.

 Haig had gone to Prescott ?rst. He traveled

 through the whole southern part of the territory

 until deciding to locate in Randado. Then he returned to Prescott to ?nd a wife.

 Edith told Phil she had come from San Francisco

 to marry a soldier in Whipple Barracks, but he had

 died while she was on the way. Killed in action

 against the Apaches. She would lower her eyes

 telling it. To Phil, that was as good a story as any;

 but he always had the suspicion that the Prescott

 marriage broker had to raid a whorehouse to ?ll

 Haig’s order. One way or another, it didn’t matter

 to Phil.

 As soon as he saw Haig at the mine he had

 thought about coming here. Habit, he thought

 grinning. That comes from duckin’ up the stairs

 every time you see him ride out.

 Then when he arrived at the ranch and did not

 ?nd Digo, he was sure he would come here. Digo’s

 wife did not know where he was; but Edith would

 know. Only now was the awareness that he was

 alone beginning to take hold of him. He had been

 alone from the start. Tindal and Stedman and Jor-258

 ELMORE LEONARD

 dan had never been a consolation, only company;

 company he had to force to stay with him, and now

 he did not even have that.

 As soon as he found Digo everything would be

 all right. Hell, it wasn’t any fun playing this game

 by yourself. Digo would have some ideas. Probably

 he’s out looking for me. But he’d have left word

 with Edith so we could meet in case I came back.

 With Phil it was that simple. This was something

 to do; something to relieve the boredom of tending

 cows all year long. But with Digo along it would be

 a hell of a lot more fun.

 Only occasionally during the last few days did he

 try to think what the outcome of this might be; and

 always he had gotten it out of his mind by thinking

 of an immediate concern. Hell, don’t worry about

 tomorrow. It might not even come.

 But just since this morning, since not ?nding

 Digo at the ranch, it had crept into his mind more

 often: How is this thing going to end? And what

 seemed more important: What if I don’t ?nd Digo?

 But now he had whisky, and he was relaxed.

 He had almost ?nished the bottle when Edith

 came in.

 Surprise showed on her face momentarily, but it

 vanished as she glanced from Phil to the whisky

 bottle on the ?oor next to him.

 “Why don’t you help yourself to a drink, Phil?”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 259

 Sundeen grinned. “Edith, you’re somethin’.”

 “When did you get in?”

 “About an hour ago.”

 “Alone?”

 “All by myself.”

 “What happened to your friends?”

 “They got sick and went home.”

 “Somebody said Tindal and Stedman were

 brought in, but I didn’t see them.” She was silent,

 watching him grinning looking up at her. “What do

 you want, Phil?”

 “I didn’t come for a haircut.” He winked at her.

 “You could use one.”

 Sundeen laughed. “For a woman affectionate as

 you are you can sure act cold.”

 “What do you want, Phil?”

 Sundeen’s expression changed. “Edith, you

 sound funny.”

 “I’m not used to having wanted outlaws in my

 living room.”

 He straightened in the chair and his mouth came

 open in surprise as he stared at her. “Well goddamn . . . ain’t we somethin’ all of a sudden!”

 “Why don’t you just get out?”

 He came up out of the chair suddenly taking her

 by the shoulders. “What’s the matter with you!”

 “Let me go!”

 “You think I came to seeyou! ”

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 “Take your hands off of me!”

 He shook her violently. “You think I came for

 you!”

 “I don’t care why you came!”

 He threw her away from him and shook his head

 slowly, saying, “Son of a bitch,” spacing the words.

 “When I learn to ?gure out women then I’ll be the

 smartest man walking this earth!”

 She asked hesitantly, “Why did you come?”

 “To ?nd Digo. God almighty, not to see you!”

 Edith smiled faintly as if taking pleasure in saying, “He’s across the street.”

 “Where across the street?”

 Edith moved to the window and pointed out.

 “Right over there. They call it the jail.”

 “What!”

 “Take the wax out of your ears—I said he’s in

 jail!”

 Sundeen went to the next window and pushed

 the curtain aside roughly.

 “When’d they get him?”

 “The same day you left.”

 “You’re sure?” He kept staring at the front of

 the jail.

 “I saw them take him inside,” Edith said calmly.

 “I haven’t seen him come out.”

 “Edith, if you’re pullin’ a joke—”

 She smiled. “What will you do, Phil?”

 Sundeen did not answer her. The side of his face

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 261

 was pressed against the glass pane and he was looking down the street. Edith studied him for a moment not understanding, then she moved closer to

 the window and looked in the same direction. She

 saw then, halfway down the block, Frye and Danaher riding side by side and a line of riders strung out

 behind them.

 “Mr. Sundeen—”

 Edith heard the voice behind her, recognizing it,

 seeing Haig even before she turned. Phil wheeled,

 drawing his gun, and stopped dead seeing Haig

 Hanasian standing in the door. He carried a ri?e in

 the crook of his arm, but it was pointed to the ?oor.

 “Your father said I might ?nd you here,” Haig

 said.

 “What? He didn’t even know I was home.”

 “You don’t know your father.”

 “Haig, do you aim to use that ri?e?”

 “Why should I?”

 “Then set it against the wall.” Sundeen grinned.

 “I thought you had designs of using it on me.”

 “Not now,” Haig said quietly.

 Edith moved toward him hesitantly. “How long

 have you been here?”

 “For a few minutes,” Haig said. “I believe I came

 in when you were reminding Mr. Sundeen that you

 weren’t used to having outlaws in the living room.”

 “Oh—”

 “I agree, Edith.”

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 She looked at him surprised, then dropped her

 eyes again.

 Sundeen shook his head. “I feel sorry for you,

 brother.”

 “I think you’re the one to feel sorry for,” Haig

 said.

 “Why?”

 “You’re all alone. Now you have to run all by

 yourself.”

 And as if this brought it back to mind, he said,

 angrily, “Where’s Digo?”

 “He’s in jail.”

 “He can’t be.”

 Haig shrugged. “Go see for yourself.” He

 watched Sundeen go to the window, then turn from

 it abruptly and start to make a cigarette. His ?ngers

 seemed clumsy and rolling it he tore the paper,

 spilling the tobacco. He threw the shreds of it to the

 ?oor and walked over to the whisky bottle.

 “That Frye—” he mumbled. He picked up the

 bottle and drank from it. “That goddamn Frye . . .

 he’s the one—” He sank into the chair then and

 hunched over, leaning on his knees holding the bottle between them, and for a time he seemed deep in

 thought and did not speak.

 He took another drink. Frye was the one. Frye

 started it. A kid who thinks he’s something. Well

 maybe we ought to show this kid. Maybe we ought

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 263

 to throw it in his face and see what kind of a man

 he is—

 What’re you doing runnin’ from a kid!

 And suddenly it was no longer a game.

 He stood up, looking at Haig. “You get ahold of

 this Frye. Tell him I’ll be in De Spain’s. Tell him in

 front of everybody I want to see him there . . . and

 if he says he won’t come, tell him then he better ride

 out of Randado before the hour’s up else I’ll gun

 him the hell out!”

 18

 As they entered the street, Danaher sidestepped his

 chestnut closer to Frye’s dun. “Are your friends in

 jail?”

 Frye glanced at him questioningly.

 “Tindal and Stedman,” Danaher said.

 Frye shook his head. “No.”

 “I didn’t think so.”

 “I didn’t see any reason for it. I told your man to

 let them go home.”

 “You didn’t see any reason for it once before.”

 Frye grinned. He was tired, but relaxed, and for

 a while he had even stopped thinking of Sundeen.

 He was looking forward to a good meal and a bed

 with sheets. After that he would start worrying

 about Sundeen again. He’d send wires to every major town in the Territory. Never ?nding him would

 be just as good, perhaps better than bringing him

 back. Frye sat in the saddle loosely following the

 walking motion of the horse. It felt good for a

 change not to be sitting on the edge of his nerves.

 “I think they’ve had enough punishment for

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 265

 right now,” he said to Danaher, “without being

 locked up.”

 Danaher shrugged. “They’re your prisoners.”

 He said then, “That reminds me, what are you going to do with Dandy Jim?”

 “I’ll have to hand him over to the Army.”

 “What was he doing, just drinking tulapai?”

 “That’s all, though he caught his wife with somebody while he was drunk and ?xed up her face.”

 “They don’t care about things like that,” Danaher said. “Somebody will give him a lecture on the

 evils of tulapai and that’ll be the end of it.”

 Along both sides of the street now Frye saw people stopping and turning to watch them ride by.

 Some of them waved; a few called out a welcome

 and he heard Danaher say, “They’re a little friendlier this time.”

 Frye nodded thinking of the morning they had

 brought in Earl Beaudry.

 “Maybe letting Tindal and Stedman go was a

 good idea after all,” Danaher said pleasantly.

 “Now all you have to do is nail Sundeen’s ears to

 the door and you’ll have their respect.”

 There were more men under the wooden awning

 at De Spain’s. A hand went up here and there and

 Frye nodded to them. He was reining toward the

 jail when he saw Milmary Tindal standing in front

 of the store. She was watching him, her eyes remaining on him even as he returned her stare.

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 Go on in the jail, he thought. You don’t owe her

 anything. Let her wait a little bit if she’s got something to say. But he hesitated. What good would

 that do? He ?icked his reins back again and turned

 away from Danaher, urging his gelding toward her

 now.

 She looked up at him and for a moment neither

 of them spoke. Then he said, “Mil,” and stepped

 out of the saddle.

 “Are you back for good, Kirby?”

 “I don’t know. We didn’t get Sundeen.”

 “Maybe he’ll turn himself in now.”

 “Maybe.”

 She hesitated, not knowing what to say, and her

 eyes left his.

 “How’s your father?”

 She looked at him again. “Fine. He’s resting.

 Kirby . . . we appreciate you not holding him in

 jail.”

 “That’s all right.”

 “Mama says he must’ve lost ten pounds.” She

 smiled and said this as if to make all of what had

 happened seem light and of little importance.

 “He might’ve at that,” Frye said.

 She hesitated again and for a moment neither of

 them spoke.

 “Mil . . . I thought I’d call on you this evening.”

 She smiled. “That would be ?ne, Kirby.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 267

 He could see relief in her eyes and she looked

 suddenly as if she might cry.

 “Why don’t we have supper together?” he said.

 “All right—”

 “Call for you at the store?”

 “Fine, Kirby.”

 He smiled at her, then turned away leading his

 gelding across the street. They’d have a long talk

 tonight; and in the darkness it would be easier for

 both of them.

 Harold Mendez opened the door for him, stepping aside as Frye entered. Danaher was seated,

 swiveled around with his back to the desk.

 “Everything all right, Kirby?”

 Frye nodded. “It’ll take a few days to get back to

 normal.”

 Harold Mendez said, “Everybody’s talking

 about you letting Tindal and Stedman go.”

 “They still have to face the judge,” Frye said.

 “But youcould keep them locked up,” Harold

 said. “That’s what they’re talking about.” Harold’s

 gaze went to the open door, then shifted quickly to

 Danaher. “I thought you said Haig had disappeared?”

 “He did,” Danaher said.

 “He’s coming across the street.”

 Frye turned to the window and Danaher came

 out of the chair.

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 Suddenly Harold said, “My God . . . look!”

 De Spain’s doors were open and men were hurrying out, separating both ways along the adobe

 fronts, but most of them coming out to the street,

 then stopping to look back at De Spain’s. They

 were forming groups, talking, still keeping their

 eyes on the open doors. A man came out of the

 Metropolitan and called something and from the

 crowd someone called back to him, “Sundeen—”

 Now Haig Hanasian came into the jail of?ce.

 His eyes sought out Frye.

 “Did you hear?”

 “You mean he’s in De Spain’s?”

 Haig nodded. “I have a message from him. He

 wants you to meet him inside.”

 “You were talking to him?”

 “For a few minutes. He came to ?nd Digo.”

 “Where?”

 “In my living room.”

 “Oh—”

 “He was talking to my wife.”

 Frye said quickly, “He came to ?nd Digo and

 when you told him he’s in jail he asked for me?”

 Haig nodded. “I think he ?nally realizes this is

 not a game . . . and he holds you responsible for

 what has happened. I think he enjoyed it when he

 had others with him, but now he is alone.”

 “No, it’s not a game,” Danaher said mildly. He

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 269

 went to the gun rack and took down a Henry. “I’ll

 round up the others.”

 Frye hesitated. “John, I better do this myself.”

 “You don’t get extra pay doing it alone.”

 “He’s calling me.”

 “All right, you’ll show with a full house.”

 “Remember, you said before I’d have to nail his

 ears to the door to get everybody’s respect.”

 “I was just talking. What you did to Clay Jordan

 is enough. After that spreads around you’re good

 here for life.”

 “John, I’m going over to talk to him.”

 Danaher studied his deputy. He took a cigar

 from his breast pocket and bit the tip off. “Kirby, as

 far as I’m concerned you’ve got nothing to prove.

 Phil’s crazy enough to start shooting.” Danaher

 hesitated. “It wouldn’t be worth it.”

 “He’d like to back me down,” Frye said. “Just to

 look good one last time.”

 “Taking men with you isn’t backing down,”

 Danaher insisted.

 “It would be to Phil,” Frye said. “And it might

 be to all those people outside.”

 Harold Mendez said, “The hell with them.”

 “It’s not that easy,” Frye said.

 Harold shrugged. “It’s as easy as you want to

 make it.”

 Frye started for the door and Danaher said

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 quickly, “Kirby, he doesn’t use his head. You watch

 his gun now!”

 “I will, John.”

 He was outside then, going down the three steps

 and the men in the street were turning to look at

 him, those in his way stepping aside as he started

 across. He saw Milmary in front of the Metropolitan and he looked away from her quickly, his eyes

 returning to the dark square of De Spain’s open

 doorway.

 His right hand hung at his side as he stepped up

 onto the porch and he felt his thumb brush the grip

 of the Colt. Take it slow, he thought. Don’t try to

 read his mind.

 He walked into the dimness of De Spain’s.

 Phil Sundeen stood three quarters of the way

 down the bar. He was facing the front, his left elbow on the edge of the bar and a three-ounce

 whisky glass was in his hand held waist high. His

 eyes stayed with Frye.

 Behind the bar, De Spain waited until Frye

 stopped, ten feet separating him from Sundeen

 now. Then De Spain moved toward him.

 Sundeen’s eyes shifted momentarily to De Spain.

 “Pour him a drink.”

 Frye watched Sundeen and said nothing. He

 could see that Phil had been drinking. And now

 he watched him gulp the shot of whisky he was

 holding.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 271

 Sundeen brought the glass down on the bar. “Go

 ahead . . . drink it.”

 “Why?”

 “We’re seeing what kind of a man you are.”

 “Then what?”

 “I think,” Sundeen said, slowly, “you’re scared

 to raise the glass.”

 Frye hesitated. He half turned to the bar, lifted

 the shot glass with his left hand and drank it in one

 motion. His eyes ?ashed back to Sundeen and he

 saw him grinning now.

 “You thought I was going to draw on you,” Sundeen said.

 “That can work both ways,” Frye said.

 “If you’re man enough.” Sundeen grinned. He

 glanced at De Spain and the bartender ?lled their

 glasses again. Sundeen raised his, looking at Frye

 coolly, then drank it down.

 “Why didn’t you try?” Sundeen said.

 Frye said nothing.

 “Maybe you’re not fast enough.”

 Still Frye did not speak.

 “Maybe you’re just a kid with a big mouth.”

 “I’m not saying a word.”

 “A kid with a big mouth and nothing to back it

 up,” Sundeen said evenly.

 Frye hesitated.

 “Take a drink!”

 Frye half turned and drank the shot, using his

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 left hand, taking his eyes from Sundeen only long

 enough to swallow the whisky. He watched Sundeen signal again and De Spain re?lled their

 glasses.

 “Kirby, you look nervous.” Sundeen lounged

 against the bar with his hip cocked.

 “I’m just waiting for you,” Frye said.

 Sundeen raised his whisky and drank it slowly,

 then turned to the bar to put the glass down, taking

 his eyes from Frye for a full ?ve seconds before facing him again.

 “There you had plenty of time,” Sundeen said.

 He grinned again. “Plenty of time, but not plenty of

 guts.”

 Frye raised his glass unexpectedly and drained it.

 He saw the look of surprise on Sundeen’s face, then

 saw De Spain ?ll the glasses again, this time without a signal from Sundeen.

 “Now he’s drinking for guts,” Sundeen said. “A

 couple more of them and he’ll be taking that goddamn warrant out.” He drank off his shot quickly.

 “Kirby, did you bring that warrant with you?”

 “Right in my pocket,” Frye said. He saw De

 Spain ?ll Sundeen’s glass again.

 “Let’s see you serve it.”

 “Right now?”

 “It don’t matter when. It’s no goddamn good

 anyway.”

 “It’s got Judge Finnerty’s name on it.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 273

 Sundeen grinned. “What else you got?”

 “A witness outside. Merl White.”

 “I can handle Merl any seven-day week.”

 “What if Merl was standing right here?”

 “That’d be his second big mistake.”

 “Everybody’s wrong but you,” Frye said. He

 watched Sundeen take another drink. He did not

 touch his, but said quickly, “We let Tindal and

 Stedman go, but we’re going to lock you up tight

 until Judge Finnerty’s ready for you.”

 “You’re not locking anybody up.”

 “You’ll sit about three weeks waiting for the

 trial. Then Finnerty’ll send you to Yuma for a few

 years.” Frye glanced at De Spain and the bartender

 slid the bottle along the bar to Sundeen and ?lled

 his glass to the top. “Be the driest years you ever

 spent,” Frye said.

 Sundeen raised the glass and drank it off, slamming the glass down on the bar. “I’d like to see

 Finnerty with enough guts to send me to Yuma!”

 “You’ll see it.”

 “He’s got guts like you have,” Sundeen said. “In

 his mouth.”

 “Phil,” Frye said mildly, “how long have you

 been bluf?ng people?”

 Sundeen grinned. “You think I’m bluf?ng?”

 “You can shoot quicker, ride faster . . . drink

 more than anybody else.”

 “You sound like you don’t believe it.”

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 “Well—”

 Sundeen reached to the inside edge of the bar

 and picked up two of the shot glasses that were

 lined there and placed them next to the one he was

 using. He pulled the bottle from De Spain’s hand

 and ?lled them himself. And when the whisky was

 poured he raised each shot glass in turn, drinking

 the three of them down without pausing. His eyes

 squeezed closed and he belched, then he relaxed

 and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

 He looked at Frye. “Now it’s your turn.”

 “I never made any claim as a drinker.” He saw

 Sundeen start to smile and he said to De Spain, “Go

 ahead,” then watched Sundeen again as the bartender ?lled the glasses. Sundeen lounged against

 the bar staring back at him.

 Frye took his eyes from Sundeen momentarily,

 picking up the ?rst glass, making himself relax. He

 glanced at Sundeen, then tossed it down, breathed

 in as he picked up the second one and drank it, feeling saliva thick in his mouth as he raised the third

 glass, then gulped it and made himself place the

 glass on the bar again gently. He breathed slowly

 with his mouth open, then swallowed to keep the

 saliva down, feeling the whisky burning in his chest

 and in his stomach. Nausea that was there momentarily passed off.

 Now he felt more sure of himself, but he knew

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 275

 that it was the whisky and not a feeling he could

 trust. He could take more, if they did it slowly; but

 not many more even then. If he had to drink three

 consecutively again he knew he would not get the

 last one down. And thinking this he was suddenly

 less sure of himself. God, help me. Help me to hold

 on to myself. He breathed slowly, making himself

 relax. He’s had more than you have, but he wants to

 make a fool out of you and that’s all he’s thinking

 about. He watched Sundeen steadily and it stayed in

 his mind: He’s drinking more than you are. De

 Spain was ?lling the glasses without waiting for a

 nod from Sundeen and this also stayed in his mind.

 He watched Sundeen take another drink.

 Sundeen set the glass down, blowing his breath

 out slowly, then nodded to Frye. “Your turn.”

 He lifted the glass, smelling the raw hot smell of

 the whisky as it reached his mouth and he started to

 drink.

 “Frye!”

 The glass came down and he choked on the

 whisky, coughing, only half seeing Sundeen in his

 eye-watered vision. He dropped the glass, blinking

 his eyes, rubbing his left hand over them and now

 he saw Sundeen. He was laughing, still leaning

 against the bar. Frye stopped, picking up the glass.

 Sundeen said, “You thought that was it, didn’t

 you?”

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 For a moment Frye watched him in silence. Then

 he said, “You want the warrant now?”

 Sundeen straightened slowly. “Let’s see you

 serve it.”

 “Without Jordan to help you?”

 “I don’t need Jordan.”

 “You did once.”

 “He was just earning his wages.”

 “How much did you pay him?”

 “Enough.”

 “Was he worth it?”

 “Maybe.”

 “They say he was pretty good with a gun.”

 Sundeen grinned. “That’s what they say.”

 Frye’s hand dipped into his coat pocket. He

 brought out Jordan’s billfold and threw it down the

 bar to Sundeen.

 “But not good enough,” Frye said mildly.

 Sundeen glanced at it. “What’s that?”

 “Jordan’s.”

 “You got him?”

 “We buried him.”

 Sundeen hesitated. “Who?”

 “Me.”

 “What, from behind?”

 “Five feet smack in front of him.”

 “I don’t believe it.”

 “You mean you don’t want to believe it.”

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 277

 For the ?rst time, Sundeen had nothing to say.

 He lifted the whisky glass, drank it and moved his

 hand slowly putting the glass down.

 Frye glanced at De Spain. The bartender ?lled

 Sundeen’s glass again and Sundeen lifted it and

 drank it down as soon as the neck of the bottle

 tilted away from it. Frye held his glass in his hand,

 but did not drink. “You might as well ?ll it again,”

 Frye said. “Mr. Sundeen’s got some thinking to do.”

 Sundeen glared at him. “You think you’re scaring me?”

 “I think you’ve slowed down some.”

 “You don’t scare nobody.”

 “Take that whisky, Phil. You’ll sound more convincing.” He raised his own glass to his lips, seeing

 Phil tighten, then drank it down, taking his time,

 and placed the glass on the bar. Sundeen was still

 tensed.

 “Phil, you almost did it that time.”

 Sundeen gulped his drink. Bringing his glass

 down he lurched from the bar a half step and had

 to reach with his right hand to catch the edge of it.

 “You almost went for your gun, Phil.”

 “Listen, you son of a bitch—”

 “What stopped you?”

 Sundeen hesitated. “I’m waiting to see that warrant.”

 “You’re waiting, but not to see the warrant.”

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 “You do a lot of talking—”

 “You’re waiting because you don’t know what

 to do.”

 “Try serving it and I’ll show you what I’ll do!”

 “Jordan had his gun out.”

 Sundeen ?ared, “You’re a goddamn liar!”

 Frye waited momentarily. “Why’d he leave

 you?”

 “That’s my business!” Sundeen stared at him

 with hate in his eyes, then picked up the whisky,

 spilling some of it, and drank it down. “Your

 turn!”

 Frye kept his eyes on Sundeen as he raised his

 glass, then took it quickly. Setting it down he saw

 Sundeen raise another.

 Phil drank it, exhaling loudly as he brought the

 glass down. “Your turn!” he said thickly.

 “Phil,” Fry said quietly, “I think you’re drunk.”

 “What!”

 “You look drunk, that’s all.”

 “I’ll drink you into next week!”

 Frye shrugged. “You look to me about ready to

 fall over.”

 Sundeen’s face tightened as he stared at Frye,

 then seemed to relax though his hand still gripped

 the edge of the bar. “Now you’re calling,” Sundeen

 said, “but you’re going to show what you’ve got,

 too.” Still watching Frye, his hand reached across

 the bar knocking down some of the shot glasses

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 279

 lined there, but clutching two and bringing these

 back to the middle of the bar. He reached across

 and took one more. “I look drunk, huh?” He

 glanced at De Spain then. “Fill up!”

 De Spain said, “Yes, sir,” though his expression

 said nothing and he placed the six shot glasses in a

 line. He poured whisky into two of them, ?nishing

 what was left in the bottle. Then took a fresh bottle

 from the counter behind him and ?lled the other

 four, glancing at Frye as he put the bottle down.

 “Well, I’ve got to see it to believe it,” Frye said.

 “You’ll see it,” Sundeen grinned. “Then I’ll

 watch you do it.”

 He took the ?rst two standing straight with his

 feet spread and planted ?rmly, then backed up a

 step from the bar, holding the edge with his left

 hand, as he drank the third one. Frye moved toward him, watching him spill part of the fourth

 shot, the whisky running over his chin as he gulped

 it. His hand slipped from the bar and he started to

 go back, but he lurched forward and caught it

 again. His mouth was open gulping in air as he

 raised the ?fth whisky and as his head jerked back

 to take it he spilled most of it. He dropped the glass

 to the ?oor and reached for the sixth one, now

 holding his body tight against the bar. He drank it

 and brought his hand down, but the glass hit the inside edge of the bar and shattered on the ?oor. He

 held on to the bar now with both hands, swallow-280

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 ing, taking in breaths of air with his mouth open.

 He swayed and began to fall back, but he reached

 for the bar and fell against it heavily, his arms on

 the smooth wet surface, his head down breathing

 heavily and now saliva was coming from his

 mouth.

 Frye stood two steps away from him.

 “Phil, you want the warrant now?”

 Sundeen lifted his head, squinting at him, blinking his eyes, “Wha—”

 “Here’s your warrant, Phil.”

 Sundeen pushed himself from the bar, holding it

 with one hand, turning, then stumbling again,

 falling against it with his back. He hesitated, studying Frye as if he could not focus his eyes. Suddenly

 then, his hand slapped against his holster, fumbling

 momentarily, his body swaying away from the bar

 as his hand came up with the Colt and waved it toward Frye.

 Frye took one step. His left hand covered the

 cylinder of the Colt and he twisted, holding Phil’s

 shirt front with his right hand. The Colt came free

 and he pushed Sundeen at the same time.

 Sundeen fell heavily against the bar. He held on

 momentarily, but it seemed too great an effort and

 he let himself slide down to the ?oor. He rose to his

 hands and knees, shaking his head, then sank down

 again and did not move.

 THE LAW AT RANDADO

 281

 Frye exhaled slowly and looked at De Spain.

 “Send him the whisky bill. I’ll see that he pays it.”

 He took the warrant from his pocket and tucked

 it inside Sundeen’s shirt. Then he stooped, pulling

 Sundeen up over his shoulders and this way he carried him out the front door and across the street.

 He saw faces, wide open eyes, move from in front

 of him, but there was not a sound until he reached

 the steps of the jail. He heard it behind him then,

 sharp in the stillness, and he knew it was De

 Spain—

 “Didn’t even draw his gun!”

 Danaher helped him upstairs with Sundeen.

 They put him in a cell and the last thing Frye remembered was Danaher saying, “Why don’t you

 go in here . . . lie down for a while—”

 Danaher went downstairs shaking his head. It

 was a strange world. He saw Tindal and Stedman

 turn around as he reached the last step. They must

 have just come and were talking to Harold

 Mendez, who was sitting at the desk.

 Harold looked up. “They want to talk to Kirby.”

 “Kirby’s taking a rest,” Danaher said. “He’s had

 a busy day.”

 About the Author

 ELMORE LEONARDhas written more than

 three dozen books during his highly successful

 writing career, including the bestsellersMr.

 Paradise, Tishomingo Blues, Be Cool, Get

 Shorty,andRum Punch. Many of his books

 have been made into movies, includingGet

 ShortyandOut of Sight. He is the recipient of

 the Grand Master Award of the Mystery Writers

 of America. He lives with his wife, Christine, in

 Bloomfield Village, Michigan.