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He answered him, “I’d just as soon get shot as have to walk home. You got any objections to just going on like we don’t know he’s there?”

Fallis shook his head, swallowing. “Anything you say, Virg. Probably he’s just out hunting turkeys….” He dropped behind the older man asthey edged along the smooth rock of the canyon wall until there was ten feet between their horses.

THEY RODE STIFF-BACKED, from habit, yet with an easy looseness of head and arms that described an absence of tension. Part of it was natural, again habit, and part was each trying to convince the other that he wasn’t afraid. Patman and Fallis were good for each other. They had learned it through campaigning.

Now, with the tightness in their bellies, they waited for the sound. The clop of their horses’ hooves had a dull ring in the awful silence. They waited for another sound.

Both men were half expecting the heavy report of a rifle. They steeled themselves against the worst that could happen, because anything else would take care of itself. The sound of the loose rock glancing down the slope was startling, like a warning to jerk their heads to the side and up the slanting wall.

The man was standing in the spot where Patman had pointed, his rifle at aim, so that all they could see was the rifle below the hat. No face.

“Don’t move a finger, or you’re dead!” The voice was full and clear. The man lowered the rifle and called, “Sit still while I come down.”

He turned and picked his way over the scattered rock, finally half sliding into the hollow that was behind his position. The hollow fell less steeply to the canyon floor with natural rock footholds and gnarled brush stumps to hold on to.

For a moment the man’s head disappeared from view, then was there again just as suddenly. He hesitated, watching the two men below him and fifty feet back up the trail. Then he disappeared again into a deeper section of the descent.

Dave Fallis’ hand darted to the holster at his hip.

“Hold onto yourself!” Patman’s whisper was a growl in his heavy mustache. His eyes flicked to the hollow. “He’s not alone! You think he’d go out of sight if he was by himself!”

The boy’s hand slid back to the saddle horn while his eyes traveled over the heights above him. Only the hot breeze moved the brush clumps.

The man moved toward them on the trail ahead with short, bow- legged steps, his face lowered close to the upraised rifle. When he was a dozen steps from Patman’s horse, his head came up and he shouted, “All right!” to the heights behind them. Fallis heard Patman mumble, “I’ll be damned,” looking at the man with the rifle.

“Hey, Rondo!” Patman was grinning his sad smile down at the short, bowlegged man with the rifle. “What you got here, a toll you collect from anybody who goes by?” Patman laughed out, with a ring of relief to the laugh. “I saw you a ways back. Your toll box was shining in the sun.” He went on laughing and put his hand in his side coat pocket.

The rifle came up full on his chest. “Keep your hand in sight!” The man’s voice cut sharply.

Patman looked at him surprised. “What’s the matter with you, Rondo? It’s me. Virg Patman.” His arm swung to his side. “This here’s Dave Fallis. We rode together in the Third for the past five years.”

Rondo’s heavy-whiskered face stared back, the deep lines unmoving as if they had been cut into stone. The rifle was steady on Patman’s chest.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” Patman repeated. “Remember me bringing you your bait for sixty days at Thomas?”

Rondo’s beard separated when his mouth opened slightly. “You were on the outside, if I remember correctly.”

Patman swore with a gruff howl. “You talk like I passed sentence! You damn fool, what do you think a Corporal of the Guard is—a judge?” His head turned to Fallis. “This bent-legged waddie shoots a reservation Indian, gets sixty days, then blames it on me. You remember him in the lock-up?”

“No. I guess—”

“That’s right,” Patman cut in. “That was before your time.”

Rondo looked past the two men.

“That wasn’t before my time.” The voice