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“While you’re talking to yourself, he’s moving away,” the other man said.

“All right, Russ, you’re in such a big hurry.” He raised the Henry to his shoulder and called out, “Hold it there!”

Brady reined in, half turning his mount.

“Don’t look around!”

The younger man came out almost to the road, to the left of and slightly behind Brady. “Take your coat off, then the gun belt.” Moving closer, keeping the Henry sighted on Brady’s back, he watched Brady pull off the coat. “Now let it drop,” he said.

“It’ll get all dirty.”

“Drop it!”

Brady obeyed, then unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall next to the coat.

“Now the Winchester.”

Brady drew it from the saddle boot and lowered it stock down.

“You got business around here?”

“If I do it’s mine,” Brady answered. “Nobody else’s.”

He tried to turn, hearing the quick steps behind him, but caught only a glimpse of the man before he was pulled off the saddle, and as he hit the ground and tried to roll away, the barrel of the Henry chopped against the side of his head to stop him.

The rifle barrel prodded him then. “Get up. That didn’t hurt.”

Brady pushed himself up slowly with a ringing in his ears and already a dull, hard pain in his temple. He felt the rifle barrel turn him to face the horse.

“Now stand like that while you take your shirt off and drop your pants.”

“I can’t go around without any clothes—” He felt the hand suddenly on his collar, pulling, choking him, then jerking and the shirt ripped open down the back. Behind him the man laughed.

“You don’t know what you can do till you try,” the man with the Henry said.

Brady pulled off the shirt without unbuttoning it, used his heels to work off his boots, let his pants drop then stepped into the boots again. He stood now in his long white underwear, wearing boots and hat, and staring at the smooth leather of his saddle close in front of him.

The second man came out of the trees. “Let him go now,” he said.

“When I’m ready.”

“You’re ready now. Let him go.”

“Russ, you’re the nervous type.” The Henry swung back on Brady—“Go on!”—then raised slightly as Brady stepped into the saddle, and the younger man said, “Don’t he cut a fine figure, Russ?” He stood grinning, looking up at Brady, then moved toward him and yelled, “Kick him! Go on, run!”

As Brady started off, the man called Russ went back into the trees for the horses. When he came out, Brady was halfway across the meadow and the younger man was going through Brady’s pockets.

“How much?” Russ asked.

“Ten dollars plus and some papers.”

“What kind of papers?”

“How’d I know?”

“Bring them along, for Ed to look over.”

“You can have them,” the younger man said. He began unbuckling his gun belt and Russ frowned. “Where’re you going?”

“Steppin’ out, with my new suit on.”

“Listen, you know what Ed said—”

“Russ, I don’t care what old Ed thinks or says.” He winked, grinning, kicking off his boots. “That’s a fine-looking girl down there.”

AS JOE MAUREN had described it, the Glennan place was almost hidden in deep tree shadow: a stand of aspen bordering the front yard, pinyon close behind the house and beyond, on higher ground, there were tall ponderosa pines. The house was a one-story log structure with a shingle roof but an addition to it, built out from the side and back to form an L, was of adobe brick. A stable shed, also adobe and joined to the addition by twenty feet of fence, stood empty, its doors open.

Brady passed through the aspen, noticing the empty shed, then moved his gaze to the house, expecting the door to open, but thinking: Unless everybody’s gone.

You’re doing fine your first day.

Straight out from the door of the log house he reined in, waited a moment then started to dismount.

“Stay up!”

Over his shoulder Brady caught a glimpse of the girl standing at the corner of the house. She was holding a shotgun.

“You don’t have to turn around, either!”

Brady shook his head faintly. He didn’t move. Twice in one day.

The girl said,