Free The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Page B

flexed his shoulders. Inside the newspaper office he could see the general standing coolheaded, arms crossed, waiting.
    Looking almost pensive, Henry rocked another shell into the chamber, his eyes on the swinging wreckage of the sphere, his front sight trailing it back and forth like a metronome, but with the gun still at the offhand position. At the precise moment, he squeezed off the shot. The globe was ripped from the boom to which it was bolted.
    A man bawled, “There she goes!”
    The globe made an arching flight and landed in the street. It bumped along a few yards and came to rest in the dirt. Henry pulled the loading lever down and threw the breech open, like an antagonist offering another man his hand after some bitter words.
    â€œGeneral?” he called.
    Stockard came to the walk, still clutching the printer’s stick, and he looked unruffled.
    â€œThe hell you aren’t Black Jack’s boy!” he shouted. “Now, if I ever knew a Logan, you’ll get drunk on Bushmill’s and sing till sunup!”
    â€œI said I was my own man. I’m going home and clean my rifle. Tomorrow we can talk about the kind of man Ambrose is.”

Chapter Nine
    His ears still ringing, Henry poured water from a pitcher into a basin, scrubbed the powder-smoke grime from his hands, and then used the soapy water to sluice out the barrel of his gun. Afterward he ran oily patches through it and wiped the gun with affection. He chuckled as he put it away in its case.
    Then he noticed a small religious postcard lying on the white candlewick bedspread.
    He picked it up. It represented a crucifix, more gruesome than most he had seen, with great gouts of blood running down Christ’s body and face and a crown of thorns like barbed wire. Was Allie the religious person who was slipping the message to him? More likely Miss Leisure was the culprit; who, however, was bound to be a Southern Baptist. So who was his secret pal? He turned the card. A message was written in careful handwriting on the reverse, but the language of the author was Spanish.
    Yawning, Henry trudged down the hall to the kitchen, where he found Alice Gary washing up the supper things with the help of the same little Mexican girl who had led him to his room. “Hey, Allie!” he said, and she started and looked at him.
    â€œHenry! Thank heaven! I heard a lot of shooting....”
    â€œWe had a little turkey shoot down there,” Henry said. “I was wondering if you could translate this for me.”
    Allie looked at both sides of the card and spoke to the girl. The girl whispered in her ear, twisting at a chocolate-brown braid and rubbing her knees together.
    â€œShe says a boy brought it from Father Vargas, at the Catholic church. That’s on the other side, the other Nogales. It says, let’s see ... ‘ Esteemed—dear —Señor Logan, please to, to ... please do me the favor of, of to visit me ... at the church, as fast, as early as you can. Mañana!’— know that one? You’ll learn it!—‘on negotiations ... no, business, of the more great, greatest delicacy....’ Well! have you been sparking some Mexican lady?”
    â€œNo, ma’am! I don’t get this,” Henry said. “Is my soul a matter of the greatest delicacy?” He scratched his armpit, yawned again.
    Allie said she didn’t savvy, either. Henry said, “I reckon it’ll keep till mañana ,” and went to bed.
    Roosters, donkeys, dogs, and bells, wagon tires grinding along the street, horses clopping, and finally a train whistle down the hill woke Henry early the next morning. The window curtain glowed with the clear rose of an Arizona dawn. He groped for his watch, squinted, and saw that it was five-forty. Still groggy, he sat up, wound the Ingersoll, and began to feel sudden excitement about the day ahead.
    By the time he had shaved, breakfast was ready. Arthur Cleveland was eager to hear