This was the man he would take across the Rio Grande-which they would call the Bravos then-to find Soldado, a broncho Mimbre, who had been fighting longer than Bowers or he had lived. Four dollars a day to guide a new lieutenant with only one year of frontier station behind him. To take him across sun-beaten nothingness and into scrambling rock-strewn puzzling never-ending canyons in search of something that would probably not be there. But always with eyes open, because the Apache knows his business. He knows it better than anyone else. How to kill. That simple? Yes, that simple, he thought. That's what it boils down to. That's what it is from where you're standing, so that's what you call it. Four dollars a day. More than a lieutenant makes. His uniform compensates for the low pay rate…though he could die naked as easy as not.

He heard Madora say, "What's he got on you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Bowers said, startled.

"He must a caught you with his old lady."

Bowers looked at him steadily, but said nothing.

Flynn took his hat off, leaning back, and felt the adobe cool against the back of his head. "Mister," he said to Bowers, "what do you think?"

"About what?"

God, the calm one. He's tensed-up being calm. "About your orders."

"You almost answer your own question. They are orders. Under the circumstances I doubt if an opinion would affect them one way or the other."

Madora grinned. "Look out, Dave. You got yourself a serious one."

"I don't believe this concerns you in the least," Bowers said coldly.

There was silence. Flynn watched the lieutenant grip his hands behind his back and walk to the single window. Flynn said to the back, "Do you know what you're talking about?"