The girl tapped the quirt impatiently against her knee and glared at him. He took it without flinching.

``I said go home, Joseph. You've got no business up here.''

The half-breed didn't answer this time. But the scar seemed to pull hard at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were hurt and angry. It made Wilson wonder. He watched the half-breed as he turned silently. They could hear the pony's feet on the dry leaves for a while, then the sound faded out.

Wilson brushed the dust from his coat. ``Who was that?'' he asked. ``Your personal guard? You're pretty hard on him.''

``He works for my father,'' the girl said, and then seemed to change her mind. ``He's a friend. His name's Joseph Sanchez. Is there anything else you want to know?''

``Not now,'' Wilson said. ``I guess I'll find out soon enough. You've got blood on your cheek. Not yours. Mine. It must have got there when you fell against me.''

She wiped it off with the sleeve of her coat.

``I'll bet that's as close as you've been to a man since you were a baby,'' Wilson said.

He saw her hand start to work down the leather thong toward the handle of the quirt, and he grabbed her wrist. ``Oh, no,'' he said, and he was without humor now. ``I've had enough of that. I've had enough of you. I don't know what goes on around here, and I don't care. I don't know what makes you think you can get away with this kind of business, and I don't care about that, either. You took me by surprise. But I'll know how to handle you next time.''