ey's doin', hittin' town now.
Wal, that ain't no hair off m' skull. Me, I'm gonna git Tar his treat.
Promised him some time back he could have a bait o' oats--oats an' salt,
an' jus' a smidgen o' corn cake. That thar mule likes t' favor his
stomach. Kells, he ought t' have them vittles put together right 'bout
now. This mare o' yourn what's so special, young feller.... Me, I'd like
t' see a hoss what's got to be took care of like she was a bang-up lady!"

He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. A mule head, attached to a
rangy mule body, weaved forward to follow dog-at-heel fashion behind the
scout.

A squad of blue coats was riding in--an officer and six men. They threaded
their way to the cantina where the officer dismounted and went inside. The
troopers continued to sit their saddles and regard the scene about them
wistfully.

"Looks like a duty patrol," Fenner remarked. "Maybe Cap'n Bayliss. He's
gittin' some biggety idear as how it's up t' him t' police this here town.
Does he start t' crow too loud, _Don_ Cazar or Reese Topham'll cut his
spurs. Maybe he sets up th' war shield an' does th' shoutin' back thar in
front o' all them soldier boys. In this town he ain't no gold-lace
general!"

"Troops and the town not friendly?" Drew asked.

"Th' soldiers--they ain't no trouble. Some o' 'em have their heads screwed
on straight an' know what they's doin' or tryin' t' do. But a lot o' them
officers now--they come out here wi' biggety idears 'bout how t' handle
Injuns, thinkin' they knows all thar's t' be knowed 'bout fightin'--an'
them never facin' up to a Comanche in war paint, let alone huntin'
'Paches. 'Paches, they know this here country like it was part o' their
own bodies--can say 'Howdy-an'-how's-all-th'-folks, bub?' t' every lizard
an' snake in th' rocks. Ain't no army gonna pull 'em out an' make 'em
fight white-man style.

"_Don_ Cazar--he goes huntin' 'em when they've come botherin' him an' does
it right. But he knows you think Injun, you live Injun, you eat Injun, you
smell Injun when you do. They don't leave no more trail than an ant
steppin' high, 'less they want you should foller them into a nice ambush
as they has all figgered out. Put Greyfeather an' his Pimas on 'em an'
then leg it till your belly's near meetin' your backbone an' you is all
one big tired ache. Iffen you kin drink sand an' keep on footin' it over
red-hot rocks when you is nigh t' a bag o' bones, then maybe--jus'
maybe--you kin j