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“Now,” Bonito said coldly, “there is no more doubt.”

“It is still in my mind,” Corsen said mildly. He lowered the pistol he’d been holding on Sunshine and turned to Bonito. He added, pointedly, “I have seen women fight before. Usually it proves nothing.”

Bonito’s eyes narrowed. “Say your words straight, Cor-sen.”

Corsen stopped a stride from the Apache. He raised his hand and swung the open palm hard against Bonito’s face. The Apache was taken off guard and staggered back, but he did not go down.

“Is that straight enough?”

Corsen looked back at Ed Fisher and swung the pistol underhand toward him, and as he turned back to Bonito he shifted his feet suddenly and came around with his right fist smashing against the Apache’s face. And this time Bonito went down.

“Maybe that’s a little straighter.” Then, looking toward Bil-Clin, Corsen said, “Is this your chief?”

Bonito came to one knee. His mouth was half open with numbness, but he smiled and said, “All right. Corsen.”

Behind him he heard Fisher say, “Here’s the knife.” Corsen half turned as if to look at Fisher, but it was a short movement. He pivoted, swinging his left hand, and again caught Bonito on the face as he was rising.

The Apache went down, rolling away from Corsen’s reach, but as he came up Corsen was there. He swung a right and then a left to the Apache’s head to beat him down again.

Bonito looked up at him, propping himself with his elbows; his face was cut at both eyes and his mouth swollen. And now he considered what to do next—how to fight this man whose not using a weapon was an insult. He brought his knees up under him, then one foot, watching Corsen closely.

Corsen moved a step closer, clenching his fists. Bonito will pull something this time, he thought. Bonito was rising, then suddenly throwing himself at Corsen’s legs. Corsen dodged and kicked out, but his boot caught Bonito’s shoulder and now the Apache was rolling. Corsen started after him, then stopped dead as Bonito jumped to his feet.

Fisher yelled, “You want it now, Ross?”

Corsen shook his head. This was the way to beat him, if it could be done. He started toward Bonito, thinking: Carry it to him. Once he starts calling the play, you’re through. Watch his eyes. They’ll tell you a snap second before he moves. He moved close to Bonito, tensed, watching the yellow-filmed eyes, smelling the animal smell of the man, seeing the eyes now and not the face.

Corsen drew his arm back slowly, knotting the fist. He shifted his weight suddenly, swinging the fist—the eyes—then just as suddenly threw himself to the side. Bonito’s knife jabbed viciously, but Corsen was not there. And as the Apache came around to find him, in that split second Corsen was ready. He went back on his left foot, his body balanced, and then his weight shifted and his boot kicked savagely into Bonito’s loins. The Apache gasped and stopped dead in his tracks, bending, holding his stomach.

And that was it. Corsen hit him with one fist, then the other, and as Bonito started to sag he caught the Apache’s arm and drove his right fist straight into the paint-streaked face. The Apache went down, dropping the knife, and landed heavily on his back.

“There, Bil-Clin, is your chief,” Corsen said. He went over to Sunshine and knelt beside him, examining the shinbone that his bullet had broken.

Bil-Clin was standing next to him now. It was hard for him to speak, even if it was not an outright apology, for he was Mescalero, but he said, “What would you have us do?”

Corsen rose and looked at Bil-Clin. “If you wish, we will get an American doctor for your son. But now go back to Pinaleño and take your dead.”

“And you will come, Cor-sen?”

CORSEN’S GAZE went over the line of Apaches at the wall. Immobile faces, streaks of vermilion and bright yellow, and looking at them he was angry. But he thought: These are Mescaleros. You know what they are. You know what they can do. You were lucky today, but don’t push your luck, and perhaps because of it make some cavalry patrol officer, who isn’t even