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Bonito did not move. Corsen was looking at him now, but he glanced away momentarily toward Ed Fisher, and nodded to him.

“Let me tell you something, Bonito. There are others who live here now—some with authority that seems to contradict yours. How can you be a chief if you have opposed only this old man, Bil-Clin?”

HE GLANCED TOWARD the house and saw them coming out now. “What about the government man, Bonito? He tells me you are a woman—a filthy pig of a woman with the diseases of animals. Unfit to live. And he has much authority. Perhaps he is the true chief here?”

Bonito’s eyes had gone to Sellers as he appeared in the doorway. The eyes held on the man, narrowing, and then Bonito was over the wall.

“How would you have it, Cor-sen?”

“Whatever is customary.”

“With the knife, then.”

“I’ll tell him.” Corsen turned to the men in front of the station house. “Sellers, Bonito says you’re afraid to fight him alone.”

Sellers was startled. “You’re crazy!”

“Ask him.”

“Fight him with what?”

“Knives.”

“Now I know you’re crazy.”

“You want to convince him you’re boss, don’t you? Beat him in a fair fight, the way they have to pick their chiefs sometimes.”

Fisher moved a step toward Sellers and, as he did so, brought the Winchester up and down in a short motion and Sellers’s pistol was out of his hand. He looked at Fisher with complete surprise, watching the outlaw pick up the pistol.

“I’ll hold it for you while you’re teaching that red son a lesson.”

“Corsen! Tell him I won’t fight him, that we don’t do this in our government.”

“Bonito,” Corsen translated, “he says he does not have a knife.”

BONITO REACHED behind him and drew a dull-gleaming blade from his waistband. His arm swung low. The knife scraped, bouncing over the sand to stop near Sellers.

“Corsen, tell that savage—”

“Listen,” Corsen said, “this started because of you and Bonito. So you and he are going to finish it.”

“He’s fought this way all of his life. I wouldn’t have a chance!”

Corsen shrugged. “You can’t tell.”

Bonito was handed a knife and without hesitating he stepped toward Sellers.

Fisher stooped, picked up the knife at Sellers’s feet, and put it in his hand. “If you make it, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Wait a minute, Ross!” Sellers backed up. “Ross, tell him I won’t do it—”

But Bonito was in front of him now.

The Mescalero lowered his head, hunching his shoulders, and brought the knife up in front of him, looking up at Sellers’s face through half-closed eyes.

“Ross!”

The blade flashed, a short swipe of naked arm that was out and in before anyone could see what had happened.

Sellers screamed. His left cheek was slashed from ear to mouth.

“Ross!”

Bonito feinted toward Sellers’s head. Going back, Sellers brought

up his arm, but the blade dropped. It flashed low under his guard and flicked a short arc across the sucked-in stomach. Sellers’s vest opened from pocket to pocket and he screamed again and this time turned and started to run. But he came up short, pushed, jolted back to face Bonito by Teachout, who stood behind him.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Teachout said.

“Let me go!”

Bonito stood waiting.

Corsen’s gaze went from him to Sellers. “Are you through?”

Sellers, blood smeared over his face, was breathing hard, holding his stomach. “Ross.” He gasped. “Shoot him! Now, while he’s still!”

“Are you quitting?” Corsen said.

“God! Shoot him!”

Corsen said calmly, “Fight him, or else get out.”

Sellers looked at him strangely, taken by surprise. “Get out?”

“That’s right. Ride out of here and take Verbiest with you. Forget you ever worked for the Bureau. There are seven people here to testify you’re not fit for the job. Now, either fight him or write yourself off.”

Sellers hesitated, fingering the cut across his stomach, his eyes on Corsen. Then his gaze went slowly to Bonito, who stood unmoving, watching him. Gradually Sellers’s grip loosened around the knife, and as it dropped from his hand he turned abruptly and walked to