The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham

succeeded! Your father’s life was paid for to the last Apache hide! Forty heathen Indians! One here, a couple of others there ...”
    Stricken, Henry stared into the parched old face. “You’re not serious.”
    â€œYou bet I am!” He clapped Henry’s shoulder.
    Henry stood up. “How in God’s name did you know who committed the massacre? That was Yaqui country as well as Apache. Not to mention outlaws! The treasure was never found, and Indians didn’t give a damn for money. My God, General, do you understand what you’ve done?”
    Stockard opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and suddenly snatched the cigar from his mouth. He looked at it and hurled it at Henry. It struck his chest, leaving ash on his clean white shirt.
    â€œUnderstand?” he roared. “I understand, but you don’t! You haven’t seen the dead and tortured men and women! You haven’t risked your life to put those savages in the corrals where they belonged. Ranchers are safe here now, and the Indian respects us. Not because of mollycoddles like you, but because men like me and Crook and Miles put our lives on the line!”
    The little bell over the door tinkled and Ben Ambrose entered.
    The editor halted in the doorway and glowered at Henry. He made his twisted cigar fume, his lips emitting little puffs of smoke. His face was as brown and dry as jerked beef, and Henry thought of a mummy he had seen in a museum.
    â€œYou miserable son of a pariah dog!” Ambrose said.
    Henry studied him like some curious creature he did not recognize: a wheeled lizard, a flying dog. And he shook his head in wonder.
    â€œListen to yourself, man! That’s terrible talk. Isn’t this the country where a man can get shot for opening his mouth? I thought I let you down very easy.”
    Ambrose threw his cigar at the cuspidor, dropped behind his desk, and glared on in a bitter silence.
    Henry sighed. “Ambrose,” he said, “I’ve been trying to understand something, and I think maybe I’ve got it. You’ve had things your way so long, people think you’re dangerous. You make noises like a bull canary, and people think they’d better give you room. Then a man like me comes along and you insult him, and he doesn’t know he’s supposed to grin and do a barnyard shuffle. You see? Well, I’m sorry about ruining that big gold apple of yours , but I had to let people know I’m not the braggart you said I was. You put me in a tough spot. Don’t you see?”
    Ambrose tensed, leaning forward. “I see that you’ve put me in one now ... it’s not over. It’s just started.”
    The general said roughly, “Forget it, Ben. You blundered, and you paid for it. Let’s get down to business. Get the maps.”
    From a rack Ambrose brought a sheaf of maps hanging like drying bed sheets. His face sullen, he brushed away some paste pots and litter on a composing table and flopped the maps down, then went to stand and stare out the window into the street.
    General Stockard rustled impatiently through the maps, found the one he wanted, and banged down slugs of type to anchor the corners. “Stand here, where you can see. Now, pay attention....”
    The map bore the proud emblem of the U.S. Army Topographic Command and covered the area of the Mexican border from the Huachuca Mountains twenty miles east of Nogales to the Pajarito Mountains about the same distance west. Southward, the world appeared to end at Nogales, for below the border all was white paper. Curious to see where he had been, where he was, and where he was going, Henry leaned over the map. Stockard jabbed a finger at a grid intersection.
    â€œHackberry Spring—then straight up the river. Two hours’ ride. My land—whoops, Parrish’s land!—starts there, right at the river, some of the old Baca Land Grant. Runs west through twenty miles of hellish canyons,