Martin Smith - Stallion Gate

"Speak of the devil." Augustino looked delighted, as if some deserved amusement had come his way at the end of a weary day. "Come in, come in, Sergeant Pena. You know our friends

Al and Billy from the Indian Service. Billy's the one you tossed like a sack of manure at the dance."

The shed was small for four men and a pot-bellied stove. The light was a hanging bulb. On the walls were a clock, map, telephone, a yellowed silhouette guide to German planes, clipboards with old orders of the day, licence lists, sign-in and sign-out sheets. Joe suspected that the only names signed out and not back in were his and Anna's.

Augustino paused to let the general discomfort grow. "You missed the excitement, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir?"

"Absolutely, Sergeant. Why, we had a regular posse out, a dragnet looking for an Indian friend of yours. You know, your friend who assaulted one of our guests with a shotgun. The same friend whose place you took at the dance. Weren't you supposed to be driving the Director?"

"He wanted to know the identities of the dancers, sir. So I joined the dance."

"Just like that. Did you determine any identities?"

"No, sir. They didn't take off their paint around me." Al snorted. "You didn't know the dancer whose place you took was about to be arrested?"

"How would I know that?"

"Excellent question, Sergeant," Augustino said. "That's just so excellent it's what we've been asking all day. These gentlemen suspect some kind of informer, but it's my belief that they're dumb and you're smart. Who's right, do you think?"

"I wouldn't know that either, sir."

"Well, I have an intimate and high regard for you, Sergeant, I do." He smoothed the map with his hands. "Now, we have spent a vigorous day on every highway in northern New Mexico and riding up every dirt road and arroyo around Santiago pueblo. We did find some rattlesnakes. I think it was Corporal Gruber who had a nasty spill. Your friend, however, seems to have vanished."

"He must be pretty fast, sir."

"And blind at that, Sergeant. Both shocking and remarkable. And how was your day, Sergeant? Was it a full one?"

"Yes, sir, I was still trying to carry out the Director's request. Unfortunately, I was not successful."

"Wherever he was, that's where we'll find his blind friend," Billy told Augustino, "and we won't have to scramble into every pisshole Indian ruin again."

"Were you alone, Sergeant?" Augustino looked out at the Plymouth. "Alone on this quest?" The captain took the sign-out sheet off its hook, "Don't answer. Don't do anything until I'm back."

Then Augustino was out of the door and striding eagerly to the Plymouth's headlights. Joe could make out Anna's silhouette inside the car.

"Tossed me like a sack of shit, huh?" Billy asked. , "It was the captain's expression," Joe murmured and watched Augustino lean through the Plymouth's window.

"Now, Billy acted like a genuine asshole today, interfering in a ceremonial, and I'd like to apologize." Al had a wheezy, singsong voice. "In exchange, I want you to tell me who tipped you we were going to pick up your blind pal. Someone did, because you didn't figure that out on your own. Please, I've been kicking Indian ass for twenty years, I know Indians. Turn round, please, when I'm talking to you."

In Al's hand was his rust-spotted, short-barrelled Colt, an old-fashioned model called "The Shopkeeper's Friend". Al was a small man - cowboys tended to get worn down like fence posts - but the gun made him a little larger, as if he were levitating. Billy leaned back.

"This is Indian country," Al said. "The Indian Service is the only thing that keeps it running in any civilized manner. Abuse the Indian Service and you undermine the system that keeps you people alive."

Joe looked out of the window. From his gestures, Augustino was asking Anna to step out of the car.

"At the very heart of the system is respect. Billy and I spend weeks surrounded by Indians, enforcing the laws. Laws about sheep, about booze, about proper schooling. All that keeps us safe from all the drunken bucks is respect. Hell, otherwise they'd have to send the cavalry in with us every time, wouldn't they? Look at me."

Al's eyes were screwed up with the earnestness of communication. His hat had moved back, showing hair stuck flat as feathers on the white and shining upper half of his forehead.

"That's why what you did today to Billy was so dangerous, because it undermined our professional respect. Even if it was nothing but Pueblos who saw. Thank God it was Pueblos, not Navajos or Apaches. So, Billy apologizes."

"I apologize," Billy said quickly, as one word. "Now," Al said, "you tell us who tipped you and you tell us where your blind friend is."

Through the window, Joe saw Augustino stepping back as if Anna were getting out of the car.

"Son of a bitch, you look at me!" Al raised the gun to Joe's waist. "Listen, you're just one more buck to me, one more bar-room hero. You come back with your stories as if this was the only war in history. You bucks came back from the First War the same way and I trimmed you down fast. You don't want to talk, then watch while I blow your balls off. Because you're a fucking Indian and I'm the Indian Service and you're not acting right."

Al's hand was steady, broad, calloused at the web from handling rope. He moved the ploughshare hammer back.

"No," Joe said. "No, this is a United States Army post. I'm a staff sergeant carrying out the orders of the Director of an Army project. You're a shitkicker and a sheepfucker and you won't do anything."

Al paused, snorted, lowered the Colt and eased the hammer forward. The door opened behind Joe and Augustino returned, alone.

"You were right," Al told Augustino, "it's going to take a while after this war to get things back to normal."

Augustino looked at the gun.

"Out," he told Al.

"I was just -"

"Out, both of you."

While the cowboys slipped past Joe and through the door, Augustino sat on the map. He took a cigarette from a case, lit up, sighed.

"Fun and games, fun and games, Sergeant. Not to be taken seriously. A pair of drifters like that, if they weren't employed by the government they'd be in a soup line. At least they can stay on a horse, which is more than we can say for the Military Police. Sometimes I think we have the 'Dead End Kids' in uniform." Augustine's gaze shifted to the door and the car waiting outside. "She says she asked you to drive her around. She says you were a courteous chauffeur all day and all night. Dr Oppenheimer says he sent you back to check on the dancers. Everyone's covering for you, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

The captain removed his cap, setting a tone of informality. In the light of the bulb, his eyes were deep-set and hidden. His narrow cheeks had a faint blue sheen. Hair crept from his cuffs to the back of his hands.

"You know, Sergeant, the incident between Fuchs and your medicine man sounds to me like a classic misunderstanding between races. Now you're Dr Oppenheimer's unofficial liaison with the pueblo. I can understand how you wanted to settle the problem quietly. But I hear that the Sunday after you left Fuchs, you were looking for me. Did you find me?"

"No, sir."

"You were told I was up on Bathtub Row. You looked for me there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who did you see there?"

"No one was home, sir."

"And after that, you didn't look for me any more?"

"Slipped my mind, sir."

Augustino shook his head like an overburdened confessor.

"Sergeant, I think you've gone over the edge. You allow Fuchs to be assaulted with a gun. You couldn't have over-powered a blind man? But you do attack an officer of the Indian Service? You in an Indian dance? You! I'll tell you, Sergeant, you were already back in the hole at Leavenworth, you were buried deeper than ever until you drove up in that car." Joe followed the captain's eyes to the Plymouth.