Текст книги "Apache Canyon"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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The major smiled grimly. "I thought so," he said. "The Interior Department knows the situation. I've joined forces a good many times with the Indian agent here to protest the situation. You know that as well as I do."

"That doesn't change the facts," Brady insisted. "I'm not blaming you. Major. I just don't feel like hounding Inyo any more. I figure he's taken enough."

The major nodded. "Brady, I'm going to play my

ace, and I hope it works well enough to change your mind." He tapped the telegram on his desk with his index finger. "Sherman's headquarters has just advised me that the Interior Department is now willing to transfer this band of Coyoteros to the San Carlos Reservation in the White Mountains. But they won't approve the removal until and unless Inyo brings his renegades down out of the hills and back to the reservation. He's done too much damage and killed too many people. The Government wants him where it can watch him before it does him any favors."

All the while he spoke, he was watching Brady s expression-a growing, unconvinced frown. "It smells," Brady said. "Of what?"

"Cow dung," the scout answered bluntly. "It sounds to me like just another empty Washington pohticos' promise to trick Inyo into returninjg to the reservation."

"I don't think so," the major said. "For one thing, this is over General Sherman's signature. Sherman does not make empty promises. For another thing, feelings are getting pretty high in the East about this whole Indian problem. Nobody's Ukely to put up with any more Washington double-dealing on this question. They're all remembering what happened to Custer a few years ago. I think they'd rather make the Indians happy than go through that again."

Brady was nodding but the major noticed that the frown remained. "I'll think about it," the scout said. He stood up and put on his hat. "I'll think about it," he said again, nodded to the major, and went out of the room.

Rubio swung away from the corner and followed on Brady's heels.

As the major put the telegram in a drawer, he heard the heavy tramp of Sergeant-Major McCracken's returning footsteps. The sergeant-major's bulk filled the doorway and his deep-throated voice filled the room:

"Captain Harris is bringing his troop in from scout detail," he announced.

"All right," the major said. "Thanks, McCracken." He got up and walked out toward the parade ground.

Captain Justin Harris left his half-troop of dry and dusty cavalrymen under the expert command of Sergeant Mitchell Andi-ews, and rode his own leg-weary horse across the parade ground to the commanding officer's office. The major was standing on the porch, a bull-shouldered, level-eyed officer, twisting the points of his mustache. Down the row of buildings Harris saw Will Brady and Pete Rubio leading their horses into the stables.

Dust was a fine, gritty coating on everything– including Hanis's lips and cheeks and eyelids.

Heat still held its heavy hand against the earth; shadows were long and red-tinged. As he dismounted, Harris had a glimpse of McCracken s heavy shape bent over the desk inside the front office.

He saluted the major tiredly and left his horse's reins in the hand of the trooper who came up for them, and stepped up onto the porch. The adobe waU was pink in the low sun's hght. Harris's lean frame moved with the stiffness of a long journey. His voice was an unhurried Virginia drawl: "We went up the Smoke to Tilghley's Ford and made a swing around through Spanish Flat. No sign of Apaches up that way. We came back along the foothills of the Arrowheads, and two mornings ago we came onto a bunch of hoofprints. Unshod horses. We followed the trail and at noon we found Vic Manter's wagon. Remember him, Major?"

The major nodded. "Itinerant trader."

"Called himself the Apaches' friend." Harris said. "The wagon was burned to charcoal. They'd staked Manter out over an anthill. There wasn't much of him left—we buried it. Then we followed the tracks up to where they split up in the foothills and the trail petered out."

'Inyo's bunch?"

"Yes."

"Come inside, Justin."

Harris followed him inside and waved back Mc-Cracken's informal salute. He left the door open to the major's office and stood relaxed, waiting while the major opened a drawer, pulled out a telegram and handed it to him.

HaiTis read the message and handed it back. "I see," he said. "This business with Manter won't help Inyo's chances any."

"No," the major said, "it won t. A few more raids like that, and the Interior Department vidll take back its offer." .

Harris looked through the window toward the Arrowheads, now turning indigo, violet and salmon-red under the rays from the setting sun. "I guess it's likely to be a long, bloody summer, Major."

"Maybe," the major repHed. "And then again, maybe not. I want you to stand ready to go up there with Brady for a powwow with Inyo. We still may be able to talk him into coming back peacefully."

Harris nodded. He turned back toward the door and said, "I want to get a few pounds of dust washed off."

"Just a minute. Captain."

It was the major's formal use of the word "Captain' that halted Harris. He turned to face the major, half-unconsciously bringing his lean body to attention.

"There's something I have to ask you," the major said. His hand came up to twist the end of his mustache. "This is a small post, Justin. Talk runs aiound pretty fast here. "Talk?"

"Talk-about you and Mrs. Sutherland. Is there anything to it? I'd better know, Justin."

Harris could see that the major was both troubled and embarrassed by asking the question. "Did Captain Sutherland make a complaint. Major?"

"No. He did not. This is purely gossip, third-hand at best. But it has come to my attention and I think I ought to know about it." The major seemed to grow abruptly conscious of the severity with which he was twisting the point of his mustache; he dropped his hand self-consciously to the desk top and let it He there. "What's the truth of the matter, Justin?"

"I've had a few words with her from time to time," Harris said. "Nothing more than that, Major." "There's nothing between you, then?" "Not on my part, at least." Harris realized he was giving answers that were ambiguous. He tightened his fists at his sides and felt his jaw creep forward.

Major Cole looked down and picked at a fingernail. "It would be improper of me to pry further, I think. But I ought to caution you about a couple of things, Justin. This kind of talk must spring from some source. And as I said, it makes the rounds in a considerable hurry. If it continues, it might make a good deal of trouble for you-both from George Sutherland, and from Sadie Rand, if she hears of it. She is your girl, isn't she?"

"I like to think so," Harris answered, bringing up into the front of his mind a clear image of the blonde girl's clear-eyed features. "Is that all. Major?"

The major giamted. "Damn it, I don't like this any more than you do. Don't stiffen up on me—I've seen enough of that today. Just pay heed to an old soldier's advice, Justin—and spike these rumors before they go any fiuther."

Harris shrugged his wide, loose shoulders. "I'm not sure how I'd go about doing that, su," he said. He saluted and went out.

Passing McCracken's desk, he stopped and turned, and put his suspicious glance on the sergeant-major's broad, red face. McCracken met his eyes with bland innocence. "Something I can do for you. Captain?"

"I guess not," Harris said, and added, "I never figured you for a gossip, McCracken."

"Why, what does that mean, sir?"

"Forget it," Harris said. He put on his hat and went out into the twilight.

An hour .later, after a bath and a shave and a change of clothies, he emerged from the officers' mess and stood on the edge of the parade ground, glancing up at the stars. He stretched, Hghted a cigar, and went across the compound through the night, his red cigar tip glowing and bobbing with his progress. On his way out of the garrison area, he saluted the guard and then tramped a well-packed trail toward the civilian camp, passing the end of the row of laundress shacks. The sound of a girl's calculated laughter came to him dimly from the saloon when he went by it; he continued to the sutler's store and went up onto the porch, and stood in the darkness a moment before he put his thumb on the doorlatch and went in.

The big, disorderly room of the store was warmly illuminated by oil lamps suspended on the walls. Chet Rand, the sutler, stood behind the beer counter talking to the only customer, Will Brady. Brady had changed out of his trail costume into town garb-broadcloth trousers and a colorful flannel shirt. The scout's unruly black hair needed cutting; it always seemed to need cutting. Brady grinned when he saw Harris and waved a half-full beer mug in greeting; Harris came forward, still wearing the troubled expression that had burdened him since leaving Major Cole's office, and said in a subdued tone, " 'Evening, Will. Chet."

"Sadie's out back in her room," Chet Rand said. He was a florid-cheeked man of some fifty years, dressed in a soiled and ill-fitting dark suit. "I'll tell her you're here, Justin."

Will Brady put up his hand in a gesture. "A little later, Chet. I want to palaver with the captain first."

"Why," Rand said, looking puzzled, "why, all right, Will." He drew a mug of beer and put it on the counter before Harris, and went back through the rows of drygoods to a rear door, through which he went out.

When the door had closed, Harris regarded the scout and said, "What's on your mind, Will?"

Brady indicated the full mug wth his hand. "Drink up. You just put that uniform on fresh?

"Yes."

"It's already dusty," Brady said. "Hell of a country." He set his mug down and hoisted himself up to a sitting position on the counter, swinging his legs loosely, lightly banging the counter-front with the backs of his bootheels. Presently he said, "George Sutherland was in here a while ago. Pretty drunk. Asked if you were here, and then left. Somebody's put a bee in his bonnet, Justin." Harris uttered a small groan. "Not you, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The major gave me a little speech tonight.''

"So it's already got to him, has it?"

"Hell," Harris said, with a soft viciousness. "I'd like to go out and tell the world to mind its own business."

Brady chuckled. "That won't happen for a while yet, I suspect. I'll shut up if you want, but I just thought I'd warn you—Captain Sutherland looks like he's out for blood." Brady's emphasis on the word "Captain" was heavy and a trifle sarcastic; Harris knew, from many months of traiUng with Brady, just what Brady's opinion was of the B Company commander.

"Thanks for the warning," Harris said.

"We had a little excitement while you were gone," Brady said in an idle tone. "Tonio busted out. Pete and I went up after him and caught him at Yeager's ranch. He's back in the guardhouse now, plenty snug, I guess."

"Sounds like a good job done."

"Wasn't hard. Tonio's too young to have learned all the tricks yet. If he'd been smart enough, or a little older, we'd have lost him. A smart one wouldn't have headed for Yeager's—he'd have stayed in the rocks. Nobody could find a man in that rockpile soutli of Yeager's."

Harris nodded. "Did the major show you that telegram from General Sherman?" "He did."

"He made some remarks to me about the two of us going up to Inyo's camp to try and talk him into coming back to the reservation peacefully."

If Brady was surprised, he didn't show it. All he said was, "When?"

"The major's still waiting for orders." "My contract's up next week," Brady said. Harris's hand with the beer mug paused halfway to his mouth. He lifted it slowly the rest of the way and drank, looking closely at Brady over the rim of the mug. "You're not going to quit us now, are you?" "I'm thinking on it," Brady said. "Listen, Justin, don't get your hopes too high. Talking to Inyo wouldn't do much good at this point." i

"Why not?"

"Inyo might be willing to come down, but I doubt we'd get much co-operation out of that pack of young bucks with him. And if we took this kind of a proposal to him, he'd have to hold a council of warriors. He may be a war chief, but he doesn't have the authority to tell any of them what to do when it comes to giving up the fight."

"Why shouldn't the rest of them accept the offer? It's a good one."

"Sure," Brady said softly. He shifted his seat on the counter. "But those young bucks have tasted blood, now. They know the smell of a fresh kill. They'll never get the kind of excitement on the San Carlos reservation that they're getting right now, raiding all over the Territory and downi into Mexico."

Harris shook his head. "I won't argue. You know them better than I do. But if they've got enough respect for Inyo's judgment, and if he's in favor of coming back to the reservation, it just might work."

"Sure," Brady said again. "It might. But it's a mighty thin chance. And you and I might get our heads cut off if we went into the middle of Inyo's camp and then they decided not to take up the offer."

Harris finished his beer and put down the empty mug. "That's the kind of business we're in," he answered. "We get paid to take risks."

"You, maybe. Like I said, my contract's up next week."

"Aagh," Harris said in disgust. "You won't quit any more than the major will—not until this thing's finished."

"Don't count on it, Justin."

"Just the same, that's one thing I'm not worried about," Harris hed. He went around the end of the counter and came back through the trough to the beer keg. "Want another?"

"Obliged."

Harris drew two fresh beers and sKd Brady's across the counter. Then he came around in front again and stood idly fingering a bolt of cloth on a wooden rack.

Brady said, "If you're worrying about Sutherland, maybe you ought to do something about it."

"Like what?" Harris demanded, wheeling on him.

Brady shrugged. "Talk to him—straighten this mess out before it gets bigger than you figured on."

Harris shook his head. "I know him better than that. You don't talk George Sutherland out of anything. He'll fight at the drop of a hat, but it takes a lot more to make him think. If he's got something in his head about me, I won't get it out by talk."

"Beat him up, then,'' Brady said in an offhand tone, and dropped off his seat. "I guess I've about emptied my bucket of wisdom for one night," he said, and grinned, and went out through the front door.

Harris shook his head, musing quizzically about Brady's strange, carefree personality, so much contradicting the man's physical powerfulness and heavy, craggy features.

Harris went back through the store to knock on the door that led into the Rands' living quarters.

Sadie Rand, all youth and blondeness and quiet prettiness, opened the door. "Dad's gone out to the saloon," she said immediately. "Do you want some coffee?"

Harris smiled. "Not on top of beer, thanks." He leaned forward, catching the point of her chin on his finger, and lifted her head for a kiss.

She seemed to notice his restraint; she came through into the store, closing the door behind her. "That was a cool greeting. Captain," she said in a playful tone. She glanced at the mug of beer in his hand and walked right past him to the counter. "Your friend left half a mug of beer," she said.

"Will Brady."

"I know. Dad told me he had something mysterious to talk to you about." She picked up Brady's half-mug of beer and put it to her lips, and drank in sips. Harris followed her forward and stood six feet distant, watching her with affection plain in his eyes.

She looked up, meeting his glance, her eyes holding his over a lengthening moment of stillness. Her gaze was too level—she had something on her mind.

Presently she said, "Captain Sutherland was in here a little while ago. He was drunk and he was talking pretty loudly. I couldn't help but overhear." She folded her hands in front of her and cocked her head to one side. "I assumed he was under the influence of a conclusion that he'd jumped to.''

"He was."

"I assumed he didn't know what he was talking about."

"Hell," Harris said, hearing the disgust in his own voice. "Now you, too. You didn't believe what you heard then, but you're not sure now. That's it, isn't it?"

He rammed his hands in his pockets and thrust his head forward, staring at the floor. After a while, Sadie's voice came to him: "I only want a little reassurance, Justin. All you have to do is tell me it isn't true."

His head came up. "Either you trust me, or you don't," he said flatly. He swung and pushed his way out of the store, with the heat of rising anger stinging his belly and throat.

Brady worked with methodical thoroughness, running the steel currycomb along the sleek hide of his horse. A single lantern hung from a nail at the end of the stall, bathing the interior of the stable in a flickering yellow glow. He gave the appearance of a very content, very mild and carefree man. But the revolver hung ready at his hip and his ears were always attuned to the many sounds of the night, so that he was aware of Captain Justin Harris's approach long before Harris came into the stable runway.

"Howdy again," Brady said mildly. "Looking for something?"

"Sutherland," Harris said in a taut voice that revealed his anger. "I want to get this settled. Have you seen him?"

Without changing expression, Brady pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "He s in that empty stall."

"What?"

"Drunk. I guess he slipped in there to sleep it off. Didn't want his wife to see him."

Harris came forward with a determined stride and peered into the dimness of the vacant stall. Brady watched him for a moment, then returned to his task of currying the horse. He heard Harris mutter something, after which the captain came forward and stood by him, watching him curry the animal, saying nothing. Brady said, "Where to now?"

"Home to bed," Harris grunted, swinging away. His walk was stiffer than usual.

Harris disappeared into the night and Brady continued his methodical task, moving around to the off side of the horse. When he was done currying, he rubbed the animal down carefully and slipped the almost-emptied nosebag off its head. He went forward to the water tiough and filled a bucket and brought it back for the horse. Finally he patted the horse's neck and put the bucket back where he had got it.

He was coming back to turn out the lamp when something disturbed him. He stood still, frowning. Then he heard a muffled scratching issue from the vacant stall where the diunken officer was sleeping. Brady grunted and moved toward the lamp.

By the time he got to it, Sutherland was standing unsteadily in the mouth of the stall. "Brady," Sutherland said thickly.

"That's my name."

Sutherland shook himself. In the pale wash of moonlight his round face seemed cherub-like. He

Tubbed his hands up and down against the side of -lis trousers, looking around confusedly. "Did anyone •Ise see me here, Brady?"

Brady said, smiling, "I reckon half the men on the post saw you walking around tonight, Captain. You'd had a few drinks."

"Did I say anything?"

"You came into the sutler's and asked if anybody'd seen Captain Harris. That's all I heard you say."

Sutherland shook his head as if to clear it. "I was in the sutler's twice tonight," he said. "Who else was there?"

"How would I know. Captain?" Brady kept his voice and face expressionless. He reached up toward the lamp.

"No. Wait—leave the lamp burning." Sutherland looked puzzled. "Damn it, where's my saddle?"

"On your own rack down there, I'd guess."

Sutherland shook his head again, violently.

"Sure—sure. Well, thanks. Good night, Brady."

"Going somewhere, Captain?"

"A ride, I guess—clear my head." Sutherland was in pretty bad shape, Brady could see. The scout touched his hatbrim in acknowledgment. "I hope you feel better, come mornin'," he said, and walked out of the stable.

Brady waited on the porch of the adjutant's darkened oJBBce, standing back deep in the shadows, rolling a smoke and lighting it. The night sky was a velvet depth of indigos and blacks; a thin rind of moon hung a third of the way up, affording little illumination. Brady put his shoulderblades against the wall of the building.

Presently the faint splash of hght in the stable doorway was extinguished, and shortly thereafter a horseman issued from the place. Sutherland rode within ten feet of Brady. Sutherland's horse cHp-clopped across the dusty length of the compound. Dimly through the night, Brady heard a few soft words exchanged between the mounted officer and the trooper on guard; then Sutherland rode on out of hearing.

Brady pulled a last drag of his cigarette and tossed the butt out past the edge of the porch. He was about to turn down the walk when he caught the sound of muffled steps through the powder-dust. He stood still and looked back.

The shape advancing was a very tall, very thin one. Brady stepped to the edge of the porch and said, "Howdy, Emmett."

The tall man came right ahead until he was close enough to make out Brady's features.

"Howdy yourself," said Emmett Tucker, who was Justin Harris's company sergeant.

Tucker was thin to the point of emaciation; his hair, brick red, was gray in this Hght. "Scouting for Injuns on the adjutant's porch, Will?"

"Sure enough," Brady answered in a lazy tone.

"I just saw Captain Sutherland on his way out the gate. Wonder where he's off to at this hour of a black night?" Tucker spoke in an Alabama drawl. He might have been thirty-five or fifty; it was impossible to tell.

He leaned a long bony-fingered hand against the porch post and spat toward the ground. "Cap Harris said we might be doing some riding in the next few days. Up into the Arrowheads, just the three of us."

Brady chuckled. "You never get left out of anything, do you?"

"Wouldn't want to miss anything," Tucker repHed. And he added, in a tone of dry good humor, "Somebody's got to go along and wet-nm-se the captain."

"Captain Harris doesn't need any wet-nursing, Emmett."

"Sure," Tucker murmured. His rawboned face cracked into a grin. "Almost as good an officer as I was, I reckon."

"You were an officer?"

"That was another war," Tucker murmured. He swung away abruptly and plowed through the night, apparently headed for the saloon. Tucker didn't drink often, but when he did, he put Sutherland's performance of tonight to shame.

Presently, Brady turned down the porch and walked toward the officers' houses. The night was deep and still. His footsteps along the porch boards sent back crisp echoes. He dropped off the end of the porch and went through the dust, walking with measured paces, pulling his hat forward across his brow, passing the major's house and the adjutant's and Surgeon Clayton's and Justin Harris's, and turning without hesitation up the stone-bordered walk of George Sutherland's house. A lamp burned inside; he lifted his fist and knocked.

Eleanor Sutherland owned a striking clear-featured beauty and the power to attract men strongly. And she knew it. When the door opened, she stood in dark silhouette against the hghted room; she tosSed her hair and Brady stood fast, letting her size him up, letting her take time to decide on her course of action.

It was some time in coming, but fmally she said, "Hello, Will."

He nodded and removed his hat.

"Well," she said a little dryly, "I suppose you want to come in." She stepped aside and swept her arm toward the room in a half-sardonic gesture. "Welcome to my parlor. Will."

Making a point of ignoring her sarcasm, he walked on into the parlor.

"Sit down. Will. What brings you, on such a fine night?" Everything she said seemed tinged with irony; he suspected it served mainly to cover up a monumental unhappiness; but that, for the moment, was not his concern. He sat, crossing his legs and hanging his hat over the lifted knee.

"I'll fix you a drink," she said, walking past him toward the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder: "That hat looks as though wolves have been chewing on it."

"I keep it out of sentiment," he said, matching her tone for dryness.

In a little while she came out of the kitchen with a half-filled tumbler of whisky in each hand. She put one on the table beside his chair, then looked around the sparsely furnished room with evident disdain. "You can't keep dust off things for five minutes here," she said, and shrugged, taking a place on the love seat facing him. She took a drink and regarded him blankly.

"Where I come from," Brady drawled, "ladies aren't supposed to drink hard Hquor in polite society."

"Since when is this polite society. Will?"

"I was under the impression your husband's an officer and a gentleman."

Her only response was a short laugh. She tossed her head back and watched him. Beautiful dark eyes she had; even now her beauty had the power to sway him, forcing him to maintain constant guard over his impulses.

She took another sip and said, in a far gentler tone, "It's been a long time since you've darkened my door, Will. To what do I owe the pleasm-e?"

She was now defensive and this surprised him; never before had she seemed to feel a necessity to construct shelters around herself in his presence.

She turned her supple body half-sideways on the love seat arid extended one long, graceful arm along the back of it and sat, drink in hand, regarding him through half-closed lids.

By way of answer to her question, he said, "Talk has been going around, Eleanor. I think you're playing dangerous politics."

"And just what," she rephed with mock sweetness, "is that supposed to mean?"

His drink sat where she had placed it on the table, untouched. His slouched posture was relaxed; long years of bone-pounding movement had trained him to treasure each available moment of inactivity and put it to best use.

He said softly, "I always figured you owned a little more respect for public opinion."

Her eyes flashed; he saw her hand clench white around the glass. Her words, though softly spoken, had bite in them: "You didn't seem to feel the same way a few months ago, Will. I didn't see any concern then on your part for George or for pubhc opinion."

"You and I were careful," Brady said. "We didn't let it get around."

"And that makes everything right," she answered.

He ignored the edge to her words. He said, "You've gotten careless."

She leaned forward, suddenly tense, suddenly dead serious. "Will, you and I were washed up months ago. You were the one who said so. Now what gives you the right to come in here and dictate my life to me?"

"I don't like what you're doing."

"Well," she said in measured syllables, "that is just too bad."

But her eyes behed the hard crust of her words; her eyes were too bright—the beginning glisten of tears. She stood, turned away, and walked across the room to the small window cut into the adobe-plaster wall; she snatched the curtains aside and leaned forward, arais braced against the sill. It was, he knew, another pose; there was nothing she could see through that window except her own reflection, and perhaps his. But her words were no pose. "What do you want from me, Will?"

He answered with disquieting calmness: "I want you to leave Justin Harris alone."

She wheeled. Her fists again were clenched. "You have no right to ask that of me."

"Come on, now," he said soothingly. "I don't think you understand what you're playing with, Eleanor."

"Don't I?" She walked swiftly toward him and glared down at him; he had to fear his head back to look at her. "Then listen to this, Will Brady. I don't know what it was that changed your mind about me a few months ago, but all of a sudden you decided you were too good for me. You dropped me, and that's fine—for you. You don't have to go on living, day in and day out, with George Sutherland. You don't have to sit and go quietly mad while he plays his stiff-backed little military games and preens himself in front of the mirror and complains every hour about the miserable administrative mistake that assigned him to this forsaken outpost. You don't have to live your life with a man who's lost all capacity for loving and feeling—you don't have to hve with a cold, dead machine. Will."

He interrupted her softly: "I didn't choose to marry George Sutherland, either. We make our own beds, Eleanor. You and I have talked this out before—and you know my feelings. It would be a lot more honorable for you to leave him than to keep playing around right under his nose."

Flesh rippled along the line of her jaw. "Let me finish, Will. Don't talk to me about honor. I've heard more tlian I can take about honor. Pride and honor—nothing else matters any more to George. Well, I've had my fill of it-right up to here." She threw her head back and touched her throat.

"All right," he said mildly. "That changes nothing."

"Doesn't it? Will, love is something you have to keep aHve, like a fire. You've got to feed it. George quit all that a long time ago."

"Then leave him."

"Leave him? And go where?"

"You'd make out all right, I reckon," he drawIed.

"I was wUing to go away with you. Will. Remember that little horse ranch up in the mountains? But you didn't want it. You wouldn't have any part of it You had a sudden attack of 'honor.' And I haven't seen you since that day." She dropped abruptly to one knee; her hand moved forward, ahnost reluctantly—as though it were against her will—and her fingers toyed with his sleeve. "I had to do something, Will," she said in a small voice.

"So you took up wdth Tucker," he replied, appearing untouched. "Sergeant Emmett Tucker—quite a comedown, wasn't it?"

"So you knew about that."

"Purely by accident. It didn't last long with Tucker, did it, Eleanor?"

Her head shook back and forth. There was a light deep in her eyes—perhaps it was desperation. "Emmett is a good man," she said tonelessly, 'iDut he's troubled. He's got too much in his past. There are things he's too proud to forget. It was no good between us. We both had to force ourselves."

"So Tucker went back to the bottle," he observed, "and you turned to Justin Harris." "Justin is a man, Will."