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As the pounding wood, iron, and three-team racket of it came swaying toward him, he raised both arms and felt a sudden helplessness as he saw that the driver was making no effort to stop the teams. Brennan stepped back quickly, and the coach rushed past him, the driver, alone on the boot, bending forward and down to look at him.

Brennan cupped his hands and called, “Rintoooon!”

The driver leaned back with the reins high and through his fingers, his boot pushing against the brake lever, and his body half turned to look back over the top of the Concord. Brennan swung the saddle up over his shoulder and started after the coach as it ground to a stop.

He saw the company name, HATCH & HODGES, and just below it, Number 42 stenciled on the varnished door; then from a side window, he saw a man staring at him irritably as he approached. Behind the man he caught a glimpse of a woman with soft features and a small, plumed hat and eyes that looked away quickly as Brennan’s gaze passed them going up to Ed Rintoon, the driver.

“Ed, for a minute I didn’t think you were going to stop.”

Rintoon, a leathery, beard-stubbled man in his mid-forties, stood with one knee on the seat and looked down at Brennan with only faint surprise.

“I took you for being up to no good, standing there waving your arms.”

“I’m only looking for a lift a ways.”

“What happened to you?”

Brennan grinned and his thumb pointed back vaguely over his shoulder. “I was visiting Tenvoorde to see about buying some yearling stock and I lost my horse to him on a bet.”

“Driver!”

Brennan turned. The man who had been at the window was now leaning halfway out of the door and looking up at Rintoon.

“I’m not paying you to pass the time of day with”—he glanced at Brennan—“with everybody we meet.”

Rintoon leaned over to look down at him. “Willard, you ain’t even part right, since you ain’t the man that pays me.”

“I chartered this coach, and you along with it!” He was a young man, hatless, his long hair mussed from the wind. Strands of it hung over his ears, and his face was flushed as he glared at Rintoon. “When I pay for a coach I expect the service that goes with it.”

Rintoon said, “Willard, you calm down now.”

“Mr. Mims!”

Rintoon smiled faintly, glancing at Brennan. “Pat, I’d like you to meet Mr. Mims.” He paused, adding, “He’s a bookkeeper.”

Brennan touched the brim of his hat toward the coach, seeing the woman again. She looked to be in her late twenties and her eyes now were wide and frightened and not looking at him.

His glance went to Willard Mims. Mims came out of the doorway and stood pointing a finger up at Rintoon.

“Brother, you’re through! I swear to God this is your last run on any line in the Territory!”

Rintoon eased himself down until he was half sitting on the seat. “You wouldn’t kid me.”

“You’ll see if I’m kidding!”

Rintoon shook his head. “After ten years of faithful service the boss will be sorry to see me go.”

Willard Mims stared at him in silence. Then he said, his voice calmer, “You won’t be so sure of yourself after we get to Bisbee.”

Ignoring him, Rintoon turned to Brennan. “Swing that saddle up here.”

“You hear what I said?” Willard Mims flared.

Reaching down for the saddle horn as Brennan lifted it, Rintoon answered, “You said I’d be sorry when we got to Bisbee.”

“You remember that!”

“I sure will. Now you get back inside, Willard.” He glanced at Brennan. “You get in there, too, Pat.”

Willard Mims stiffened. “I’ll remind you again—this is not the passenger coach.”

Brennan was momentarily angry, but he saw the way Rintoon was taking this and he said calmly, “You want me to walk? It’s only fifteen miles to Sasabe.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mims answered, moving to the coach door. “If you want to come, get up on the boot.” He turned to look at Brennan as he pulled himself up on the foot rung. “If we’d wanted company we’d have taken the scheduled run. That clear enough for you?”

Glancing at Rintoon, Brennan swung the Henry rifle up to him and said, “Yes, sir,” not looking at Mims; and he winked at Rintoon as he climbed