“Well, if he ain’t gonna scalp you, why are you in such a raving hurry?” Billy asked.

The cowboy was a lanky fellow with a big mustache whose temper was evidently unstable.

“Because, goddamn you, I ain’t an idjit!” he exclaimed. “I ain’t betting my hair on no loose deal like this. Bloody Feathers might decide he wants the beef and a few white scalps to boot.”

With that he loped off down the Pecos, soon to be joined by his companions. The beeves walked slowly on toward the town—it was as if they felt compelled to deliver themselves.

Bloody Feathers rode into Anton Chico with an air of relaxed indifference, much as his father had ridden into Greasy Corners. He was more darkly complexioned and far better mounted—he rode a pretty roan gelding—but the family resemblance was evident: the same stocky build, the same huge head as his father. He carried a Winchester in a fringed scabbard and wore a black headband across his forehead.

“Go shoot him!” Vivian whispered to Billy.

But Billy Bone was watching Bloody Feathers as if hypnotized—it was clear that in this instance gunplay was not on his mind.

The two Indians with Bloody Feathers trotted on through town and circled the approaching cattle, but Bloody Feathers, without a glance at us, rode over to where the Indian girl was grinding corn—though by then she had stopped her work and was staring fearfully at the man, no less hypnotized than Billy.

I admit I was awed myself. Though dressed simply and not apparently hostile, Bloody Feathers seemed to fill the town, or at least to seize the eye. It would not have been easy to go casually about one’s business with such a presence there.

He stopped near where the girl was working and said a few words to her in low tones. The girl immediately put down her grindstone and climbed on the roan behind him.

“Look here, Viv, he’s stealing your girl,” Billy said. “I guess you’ll have to be the one who’ll have to shoot him.”

You have to give Viv Maldonado credit for some fire. Before his dusky Helen was well settled on the horse, he was crossing the street in protest.

“Stop! You can’t take her!” he said loudly. I believe he might well have tried for a shot, but his pistol was somewhere beneath the heavy serape, and not easily extracted. Not for nothing, though, had Viv been a star of the circus; he marched across the street with a reckless stride, ready to do battle for amore.

Bloody Feathers grinned—being challenged by an Italian acrobat in a run-down village on the Pecos evidently held some comedy for him.

“Why do you grease your hair with that skunk grease?” he asked. Vivian, of course, was as pomaded as ever.