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Walker was silent. The surprise was on his face for a brief moment. It passed, and still he did not say anything.

“How’s the leg?”

“Stiff.”

“I suppose it would be.”

McGrail moved the cloth slowly, steadily along the pistol barrel. Abruptly he said, “You wouldn’t know the whereabouts of a man named Beckwith, would you?”

Walker was startled. “Should I?”

“You’re not one for answering questions, are you?”

Walker unbuttoned his coat and drew tobacco from his shirt. He made a cigarette and replaced the tobacco, leaving his coat open.

“I could never wear a shoulder holster,” McGrail said. “Would always feel bound.”

Walker exhaled cigarette smoke. “You get used to anything.”

“I thought you might have heard of this Beckwith,” McGrail said. “I’m rather anxious to meet him, myself—you see, he’s a Confederate agent.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

McGrail shrugged. “Just conversation. Thought you might be interested. You see, this Beckwith thinks he’s been putting something over on us, but there are as many people in Valverde giving information to me as there are to him.” McGrail was relaxed. His eyes were not tired now, and his full red beard had been combed and trimmed.

“People like waiters and bartenders?” Walker said.

“All kinds of people, doing their bit.” McGrail smiled.

Walker dropped his cigarette to the plank flooring and stepped on it and saw the major frown. “If you have something to say, say it.”

McGrail hesitated, watching Walker closely. He had been leaning against the front of his desk. Now he moved around it and, next to the window, unrolled a wall map by pulling a short cord. He beckoned to Walker with the handgun.

He moved forward hesitantly and watched McGrail point with his left hand to a dot on the map, but he could not read the name because of McGrail’s hand. But east and north of the dot there were other names that could be read. Five Forks, Malvern Hill, Seven Pines. And suddenly he felt the skin prickle on the nape of his neck and between his shoulders.

“We heard less than an hour ago,” McGrail said quietly. “On the morning of April ninth, here at Appomattox, Lee surrendered to General Grant. Mr. Walker, the war is over.”

The room was silent. Walker’s eyes remained on the map, unmoving. The war’s over, he said in his mind, and repeated the words. The war’s over. He felt relief. He waited for something else, but that was all. He felt only relief. How are you supposed to feel when you lose a war? he thought. He looked at McGrail now and watched the cavalryman step to his desk and lay his pistol there. He felt his own pistol, heavy beneath his left arm, and now his hand dropped slowly from his coat front.

“I just now sent a man to Valverde,” McGrail said. “You must have passed him. News travels slowly out here, doesn’t it?” he said now. “You know April the ninth was two days ago—the day before we found you in that draw.”

The cavalryman began arranging papers that were scattered over the polished surface of his desk. He looked up at Walker who was staring at him strangely.

“Mr. Walker, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a mountain of reports to wade through that have to be done today. That was all you wanted, wasn’t it? To return the horse?”

Walker hesitated. “As a matter of fact, there was something else.”

McGrail looked up again. “Yes?”

“I wondered if you might have a rig I could buy,” Walker said. A grin was forming through the beard stubble. “It’s hard going astride, with one leg dragging. You see, I’ve got a long way to go—down the Rio Grande to Cuchillo, then west toward Santa Rita—”

16

Blood Money

Original Title: Rich Miller’s Hand

Western Story Magazine, October 1953

THE YUMA SAVINGS and Loan, Asunción Branch, was held up on a Monday morning, early. By eight o’clock the doctor had dug the bullet out of Elton Goss’s middle and said if he lived, then you didn’t need doctors anymore—the age of miracles was back. By nine Freehouser, the Asunción marshal, had all the facts—even the identity of the five holdup men—thanks to the Centralia Hotel night clerk