Escape from Five Shadows

7

By five thirty A.M. the roving night guard had made his last swing through the compound, checked with the gate guard and had gone to wake up the cook. Fifteen minutes later, Renda and the day men were up and dressed. They unlocked one door of the barracks, brought the convicts out single file and counted them before marching them to the outside mesquite-pole-

awninged mess tables behind the barracks.

At six o’clock they were lined up in front of the barracks again. A few minutes later, three single-team wagons moved out of the compound-the first carrying equipment, the other two, the convicts. A guard rode alongside both of the convict wagons and Renda and Brazil brought up the rear. As the wagons rolled through the gate, twelve Mimbreño trackers rode out from their camp. Three of them held back to follow the wagons, but the rest went on, spreading out and running their horses now toward the looming sand-colored slope less than a mile in the distance. As the sun rose higher, five shadow lines formed by washes and rock slides would creep down the slope like a gigantic hand groping for the convict camp below.

In the third wagon, sitting next to Bowen, Pryde said, “There they go. You see them in the morning, then you see them maybe once all day.”

“Unless,” Bowen said, “you try to run. Then you see them again.” He watched Salvaje, a good fifty yards out, ride by the wagons, and he nodded, saying to Pryde, “How’d you like to have him on our side?”

Pryde turned to watch the Mimbres. “That would do it, wouldn’t it?”

That would do it all right, Bowen thought-his eyes raising to Renda and Brazil who had separated and dropped back a dozen yards or more to be clear of the dust rising from the wagons-once you got by those two. Maybe, he continued to think, there’s where Lizann comes in. To help you get by.

But how does a woman help you break out of a convict camp?

No-don’t underestimate her because she’s a woman. Not that one. And don’t think she’s doing it for you. You guessed it and she admitted it. She wants out. She wants to be free of Renda…and the wire fence and the Mimbres and the sun and…even if it means running away with a convict she doesn’t know from any other convict. Think about that. Think about it good and see what it tells you. A woman who’s willing to leave her husband behind…willing to help a convict if he’ll help her. Picture the way she was in the stable and the way she spoke, then add. Add it up without cluttering it with running-hiding-making-it-escaping-from-it pictures and see what you get. Put yourself in her shoes. Be sick of your husband and hating Renda and hating everything in sight. Then look at you. A weapon. Somebody Renda beat hell out of. Somebody angry enough. You said it yourself. You don’t have to reason it out. You said it yourself in the stable. Somebody angry enough. She’ll use you for a battering ram to bust the door down. That’s all. If you can get up and run out yourself, all right. If you can’t, she’s not going to stop to help you up. And if she fails, then it was a convict who forced her into it.

And so you know all that just by looking at her face, guessing what wasn’t said but what was almost said. Is that how you know all about her?

Yes. Some things you know.

Some things are very simple and you can take all this reasoning that really isn’t reasoning and throw it out because you knew with the first word she said and the way she said it that she was after something and if she wanted it bad enough she’d get it, one way or another. With you or with somebody else. And knowing it you’ll go along with her, because at least it’s a chance and one chance is better than six more years of this. Even if you don’t make it.

So what have you got?

He was still watching Renda and he thought: Ride over here close and look the other way and let that shotgun barrel stick out a little more.

Then get Brazil first.

Yes, that’s smart thinking. Ask Pryde if he thinks that’s cool, calm, smart thinking. Ask him if he feels anything about it.

If you planned a break with one of the convicts, he wouldn’t think of you, would he? He’d think of himself. And you’d think of your self. That’s what it comes down to. She’s as much a prisoner as anyone else. So if she wants to get out, even needing somebody else, she’ll be thinking of herself. It’s not surprising now, is it? Suddenly it’s not surprising. Your mistake was thinking of her as a woman instead of as another convict.

So forget she’s a woman and just listen to whatever she has to say. Forget she’s supposed to think like a woman, however women are supposed to think. She’s another convict. Put a convict’s shirt on her and numbered pants if that makes it any easier.

He began to picture Lizann in a man’s shirt, not doing it intentionally, but because it was already in his mind; but suddenly the woman was no longer Lizann and he was picturing Karla Demery in a faded blue chambray shirt, the one she had been wearing that day three weeks ago.

As the trail began to climb, Bowen watched Brazil come up almost to their wagon before turning his horse from the trail. He rode even with them then, but off beyond the twisted, shaggy-barked cliff rose bushes that grew close along the wagon ruts. Renda remained behind, though he seemed to be closer to the wagon now. The three Mimbres who had trailed him were no longer there.

Then, watching Renda, Bowen thought of Karla Demery again-picturing her with Renda in the station yard. Then later, when he had been close to her-

Her short black hair making her look almost like a boy yet, strangely, more feminine because of it. A slim body. Small even features. Clean-scrubbed, clean-smelling and dark from the sun, though you knew some of the warm brown was Mexican blood and you could see it in the eyes-one quarter from her mother’s side. Not more than one quarter. In the eyes that were alive and didn’t move from your face as you spoke, though not the way Lizann Falvey’s had not moved.

Read Karla, Bowen thought. Not the giving you the clothes and the horse and the talking about the lawyer. Read what was behind her eyes the way you did Lizann’s. If you can do that, you’ll understand the horse and the clothes and the other thing. But it isn’t as easy, is it? You don’t just label her and say, There, that’s why she’s doing it.

Which one would you rather be with?

For what?

For anything!

You almost kissed her.

You almost kissed both of them.

No…Karla. You almost climbed right off the horse to kiss her. Not for what she had done but because you wanted to. The other was different. Lizann was trying to make you kiss her. But you didn’t.

Maybe you should’ve gotten off the horse.

The wagons followed a dry wash down through rock-strewn, pinyon-studded talus to the wide floor of a canyon and here intersected the new road that, following the canyon, came down from the north. The wagons moved down canyon a good three hundred yards before halting at the end of construction.

Bowen waited his turn, then jumped down from the wagon. Pryde followed him. They started for the equipment wagon as Brazil rode up.

“You two unhitch the team.”

Pryde looked up at him. “We’re going to pull stumps?”

Brazil grinned. “Till your back breaks.”

They watched Brazil ride on to the equipment wagon. “I knew we’d be pulling stumps,” Pryde said.

“One job’s as bad as another,” Bowen said. He looked back along the new road. “We didn’t miss very much. That needle rock back there. We were even with it three weeks ago.”

Pryde squinted along the canyon. “Maybe two and a half miles.”

“Renda’s making it last,” Bowen said.

Pryde nodded. “Four months to come about twelve miles and not doing much more than cutting a path.”

“With another four miles to go,” Bowen said. He turned to look down the canyon. “The hardest four. Up over the rocks, then down to come out somewhere behind the stagecoach station. Renda can make that last a good two months.”

“He must know somebody,” Pryde said.

Bowen nodded. “He’d have to. He doesn’t know anything about road building.”

“The government must have lots of money,” Pryde said thoughtfully. “Six months to build sixteen miles of road through the mountains to save one day’s travel from Willcox to San Carlos.”

“To save a half day,” Bowen corrected. “You know Renda knows somebody.”

Brazil motioned to them and they brought the team up past the equipment wagon where two convicts stood waiting for them. One, a Mexican, with a twelve-foot length of chain over his shoulder; the other leaning on a long-handled shovel. Bowen nodded to them.

The convict with the shovel squinted as if he needed glasses and the lines of his face formed a nervous, half-smiling expression. He was a small man, perhaps forty. His straw hat was cocked over one eye and his shirt collar was buttoned, though it hung loosely, at least three sizes too large for him, and he gave the impression that even in convict clothes he was trying to keep up his appearance-the white collar, coat and tie appearance of a man who had been an assistant cashier at the Wickenburg bank until the day he stole five hundred and fifty dollars to cover a gambling debt. His name was Chick Miller; the man who had described the supply wagon trip to Bowen.

“Corey,” he said now, “I’m sorry you didn’t make it.” When Bowen said nothing, he added, “I hope you don’t hold it against me.”

“Why should I?”

“I mean since I was the one told you to try it.”

“I made up my own mind,” Bowen said.

Chick grinned. “Brazil came riding like hell through here to gather the trackers and we thought for certain you’d made it.”

“Chick, did you tell Earl I was going to try it?”

The question came unexpectedly and Chick Miller straightened, his hands sliding down the handle of the shovel. “Why would you think that?”

“Just tell me if you did.”

“Of course not!”

“Chick, I don’t care if you did.”

“Maybe he saw us talking.”

Bowen nodded. “Or maybe you suggested he try it.”

“I might have done that.”

“Then told him I was going to.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Chick, I’m not holding it against you if you did. I just want to know.”

“I might’ve mentioned you were thinking about it.” Chick Miller shook his head then. “But I wouldn’t have come right out and told!”

The Mexican, a young, clean-shaven, dark-skinned man, said, “That’s why I don’t even think about it. You get it in your mind to run and everyone knows about it.”

Chick Miller looked at the Mexican. “You keep out of what don’t concern you.” He stopped then, seeing Brazil riding toward them.

Brazil pulled up, his Winchester across his lap and pointing at them. “Just passing the time of day?”

Chick Miller grinned. “We’re waiting for the axe crew to give us some work.”

Brazil nodded to a tree stump just beyond them. “There’s one left from Saturday. Start on it.”

“That one won’t be in the roadway,” Chick Miller said.

Brazil studied him. “You going to argue over it?”

“I just thought, why pull her out if she’s going to be off the road anyway.” He saw Brazil start to dismount and the half-smiling, squinting expression came over Chick’s face. “I mean it’s not going to be in the way.”

Brazil swung down and started for him. He waved the barrel of the Winchester at the other three men and said, “Get out of the way,” not taking his eyes from Chick.

“We’ll take her out,” Chick said. He glanced at the Mexican, seeing him move away; then to Bowen and Pryde who were watching Brazil and now he saw them back away slowly. As he turned to Brazil again the Winchester barrel was swinging toward him. He threw up his arms and fell back stumbling but keeping his feet and the barrel slashed past his head. Chick started to run.

“Stand where you are!”

He stopped, but seeing Brazil coming toward him again, began to back away.

“I said stay where you are!”

Chick held up his hand. “I don’t want to get hit. Listen, we’ll pull the stump. Just let me get my shovel.” His extended hand pointed. “I dropped it over there.” His eyes opened wide as Brazil moved toward him and at that moment he turned to run, taking one stride as the rifle barrel slammed across his back and he went down covering his head with his arms.

Brazil looked down at Chick, then turned from him. “Now pull the stump,” he said.

The Mexican went to Chick and kneeled over him. Bowen watched Brazil mount and ride down canyon. There, twenty yards ahead of them, a half dozen convicts were clearing the pinyon clumps: cutting the trees close to the ground, but leaving enough stump for the chain to be wound around and fastened to securely.

As the Mexican helped Chick to his feet, Pryde and Bowen walked over to them. Pryde asked, “How are you?”

An exaggerated expression of pain was on Chick’s face. “He’ll be sorry he did that.”

Pryde shook his head. “When the time and the day comes, you’ll be second in line. I got first dibs on Mr. Brazil.”

The Mexican was looking at Pryde. He smiled then. “If that day ever comes, I hope I’m there to see it. When you’re through with him, maybe I’ll kick him in the face.”

By noon, they were not more than a hundred yards farther down the canyon. The convicts worked as slowly as Renda would let them, knowing that he wanted to stretch the job time for all it was worth. Still, two or three times a day Renda would conscientiously speed up the work pace, as if rebelling against this one small advantage they held over him.

The clearing crew would cut down the pinyon and large mesquite bushes, drag them to the side of the canyon and burn them. The stump-pulling crew followed-digging under the shallow-rooted pinyon stumps, looping the chain about the trunk stub, levering with the shovel and finally pulling it out with the wagon team. One of them would drag the stump to the nearest fire as the others went on to the next stump.

Two guards watched the clearing crew because there was usually thick brush ahead of them. From the east side of the canyon, Brazil watched the group Bowen was with and most of the time Brazil did not leave the thin strip of shade close to the slanting talus wall.

Behind them came the pick-and-shovel crew-filling the stump holes from “borrow pits” along the side of the road, breaking stones, clearing the small mesquite bushes and the yellow-blazing patches of brittlebush, raking them over to the bonfires.

The scraper came next-two timbers bolted together and pulled by a wagon team. Six men, Manring one of them, stood on the timbers to add weight. The scraper bumped along over the roadway, the convicts losing their balance, jumping off and on, and every ten or fifteen feet the team was pulled off to the side, dragging with it the loose rocks and sand that the timbers gathered.

Two men with shovels came last-filling the potholes that the scraper passed over and did not fill completely. Renda stayed even with them, walking his horse along the east-wall shade approximately one hundred feet behind Brazil.

The Mimbreños were up on the canyon patrolling along both sides. They remained in the shadows of the pinyon pines and were not seen all morning, not until Renda stopped work at noon.

As the convicts drifted over to the east wall where the equipment wagon stood, Salvaje and two of his Mimbres came down a shallow wash, a dust cloud trailing behind them. They were riding past the equipment wagon when Renda called to them and they pulled up. The two Mimbres sat their horses, motionlessly watching Salvaje rein toward Renda who was now facing the convicts grouped at the back end of the equipment wagon. He pointed to Bowen, Pryde and the Mexican. “You three step out,” he called. Then turned to Salvaje again. “You’re going to the creek?”

The Mimbreño nodded and held up three fingers. “That many at a time.”

“Take these men with you,” Renda said. “They’re going to water the teams.”

The Mimbres moved off one at a time as each pair of horses was brought out. Salvaje waited until Bowen came up, then fell in next to him and they moved the team down the canyon, winding through the scattered scrub brush to a stand of sycamores that showed darkly against the west slope. A trickle of water came down from the rocks and formed a shallow pool in the deep shade of the trees. From here, the creek flowed to the end of the canyon, disappeared into the rocks and came out again miles to the south, above the Pinaleño station.

They drank: the convicts first, the Mimbres one at a time, and now they rested as the horses stood over the clear, sand-bottomed pool, their muzzles touching the water, rippling the water with breath from their nostrils, raising and shaking their manes, tails fanning lazily and now and again a rump or flank quivering to dislodge an unseen something.

Salvaje touched Bowen’s arm. “But for the work of getting more horses, I wish you would run away another time.”

Bowen frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“That was a good thing with you in the meadow,” Salvaje explained. “But the two horses you killed I was made to replace.”

“Renda made you buy two horses?”

Salvaje shrugged. “Not buy; but it is the same thing.”

“You’d think he’d supply the horses,” Bowen said.

Salvaje shook his head. “He is not easy to live with. Sometimes I see him as an escaped man. If he was ever that, he would not be brought back alive.”

Bowen hesitated. The Mimbre’s words took him by surprise and stayed in his mind as he said, “You speak English very well.”

“From San Carlos.”

“I visited Cibucu many times,” Bowen said. “When I was trading horses. I knew Zele and Pindah and Bu-sikisn.”

Salvaje’s eyes came alive. “They were of Victorio.”

Bowen nodded. “I drank tulapai with Zele and he told me much about Victorio and old Mangas.”

“Perhaps I was there then,” Salvaje said.

“They spoke of a band still in the Sierra Madres,” Bowen said. “Maybe you were there.”

Salvaje nodded thoughtfully. “The good days. At San Carlos it was not easy to live among Tontos and Mojaves.”

“But better than here?” Bowen asked.

“Sometimes. The men such as you make it worth staying here.”

“The men who run?”

“The ones who know how to run. Some are like children about it. Others do well.”

“Listen,” Bowen said then, “I’m sorry I cracked a couple of heads that day. I mean that truthfully, because I don’t have any fight with you or your men.”

Salvaje’s eyes held on Bowen and he studied him thoughtfully, as if wanting to understand all of Bowen, all of the things about him that would never be spoken. Finally he said, “Maybe you try it again some time.”

Bowen nodded. “Maybe I will.”

The team horses raised their heads from the pool a moment before Bowen heard the leaf-rustling, twig-snapping sound of someone coming through the trees. He looked up as Salvaje rose, expecting to see another of the Mimbres or one of the guards and his face showed open surprise as Karla Demery walked her horse into the clearing.

Bowen saw her look directly at him, then her skirt curved gracefully as she stepped from the saddle. Again, she was wearing a man’s shirt and her dark hair was even shorter than he had pictured it-curving low on her forehead, but brushed back on the sides into a soft upcurl at the nape of her neck. And Bowen was thinking, watching her take her horse to the pool edge: I’ll bet she can ride like hell. I’ll bet she can cook and shoot and do everything like hell. But, he thought then, seeing her looking at him again and feeling the sudden quickening inside of him: Don’t try to figure her out.

Karla’s gaze moved from Bowen and Salvaje to Pryde and the Mexican, then raised to the two Mimbres standing behind them. To no one in particular she said, “No guards? I’m surprised at Mr. Renda.”

Squatting at the edge of the pool, the Mexican pushed up his hatbrim with his thumb. “These barbarians are guards enough.”

“I’m still surprised,” Karla said. Her eyes returned to Bowen and Salvaje. “I’m delivering mail to the camp, but I might as well leave it with you.” She looked directly at Bowen. “You’ll see that Mr. Renda gets it?”

Bowen nodded. “Sure.” He started to rise and Salvaje stepped in front of him.

“Your friend understands English?” Karla said.

Bowen glanced at Salvaje. “Very well.”

Karla was looking at the Mimbre now. “I’ll give it to this man-Bowen.”

Salvaje shook his head.

“We’re missing two horses,” Karla said evenly. “Both of them wearing a Double-H brand. Would you like the San Carlos man to visit your ranchería?”

The Mimbre stared at her, not answering.

“Mr. Bowen,” Karla said. “You’ll find the mail in the left-hand saddlebag.”

Bowen hesitated. He walked around the pool then, past the team horses, feeling Salvaje and the others watching him. He saw Karla leaning close to the horse patting its neck, but as he came around to its off side she straightened up and moved toward him.

“Let me help you.”

“What’re you up to?”

Close to him she began unbuckling the flap of the saddlebag. “Just listen to me.”

“They can hear us!”

“Then don’t talk!” Her voice dropped to a half-whisper as she said, “I heard from the lawyer in Prescott. He’s agreed to look into your trial, but he wants a few things cleared up.”

Bowen frowned. “Why should he help me?”

“Because I asked him to!”

“He can’t-”

“Be quiet and listen!” She spoke rapidly then, her voice a soft, hoarse whisper. “Think back and don’t waste words when I ask you a question. Mr. Martz says there’s little mention of the bill of sale in the court records. Was it shown as evidence?”

“It was shown for a minute.”

“Did Manring admit forging Mr. McLaughlin’s signature?”

“That didn’t come up.”

“But it was a copy of McLaughlin’s style of writing.”

“I think so.”

“Then why didn’t they try to find out who filled out and signed the bill of sale?”

“The judge assumed it was Manring.”

“How would Manring know how McLaughlin wrote?”

“McLaughlin claimed Earl worked for him three years before.”

“And he’d remember McLaughlin’s script?”

Bowen hesitated. “Wait a minute. You’re assuming Earl forged the receipt…that he stole the cattle!”

“Mr. Martz is assuming it. He knows McLaughlin well, a man with a good reputation. He’s never done anything like this in his life. He’s never had to. With the land he has, taking a few hundred dollars from Manring wouldn’t be worth the bother.”

“If Earl forged the receipt, I don’t know how he did it.”

“Neither does Mr. Martz. That’s the first thing he has to find out. Next…was the bill of sale made out on plain paper?”

“No, it had McLaughlin’s letterhead on it.”

“His regular stock-sale receipt?”

“That’s what it looked like.”

“Where did Manring get it?”

“All I know is what he told me. McLaughlin gave it to him.”

“Which isn’t true.”

“Your lawyer friend’s doing a lot of assuming.”

“It’s his business. This isn’t something new to him.”

“He’s sure about McLaughlin?”

“Of course he’s sure! He’s lived in Prescott for twenty years and has known Mr. McLaughlin longer than that.” Karla pulled a bundle of letters from the saddlebag and pushed it at Bowen. “Manring couldn’t have known enough about McLaughlin’s handwriting to copy the signature himself. He wasn’t in a position to pick up a blank bill of sale form. So…who did?”

“Maybe I’d better ask Earl.”

Karla shook her head. “Don’t do anything until I hear from Mr. Martz again.”

“There’s not a lot I can do.”

“Talking to Manring could lead to a fight.”

“That might be all right.”

“That would be fine. You’d end up out of reach in the punishment cell. What if Mr. Martz wanted information from you?”

“All right.”

“Don’t do anything!” Karla turned from him. She picked up her reins, mounted and rode into the trees without looking back.

Pryde, sitting next to the Mexican at the edge of the pool, watched Bowen come back toward them. He saw him hand the bundle of letters to Salvaje who took them but said nothing.

“Corey, you know that girl very long?”

Bowen looked down at Pryde. “I guess long enough.”

The Mexican shook his head, grinning. “Too bad we couldn’t hear.”

When they returned with the team horses, Bowen watched Salvaje ride over to Renda and hand him the mail. They spoke for less than a minute and, watching Salvaje ride off, Bowen was sure he had not told Renda about it. They had not talked long enough.

His spirits rose. He ate his jerky and pan bread, drank the lukewarm coffee and thought about Karla Demery: picturing her, going over and over again in his mind what she had said; then projecting from there: seeing her again, this time telling him the lawyer had found something, something, whatever it was, that proved his innocence; then later, on an evening, Karla and the lawyer-Martz?-riding into the convict camp, the lawyer handing Renda a signed release and Renda standing, taking it, reading it with his mouth open.

Hit him then, Bowen thought.

No, you can’t have everything.

And don’t count on it, he thought then. What is the something the lawyer finds? The odds are against your getting out of here. Even with an A-1 Prescott Hatch & Hodges lawyer…and Karla Demery.

But even as he told himself this, his hopes were up and he went back to work almost eagerly-and with something of a feeling that he should be working harder since Karla and the lawyer were doing so much to get him out.

Pryde said nothing more to him about the girl. But after they had pulled out the first pinyon stump and the Mexican was dragging it off to the fire, Chick Miller said, “I hear you got a sweetheart.” He looked at Bowen slyly, one eye almost closed beneath the cocked brim of his straw hat.

“Is that what you hear, Chick?”

“From a little bird,” Chick said, grinning.

“From a little Mex bird,” Pryde said.

Chick looked at him as if surprised. “What, it’s supposed to be a secret? You can’t stand talking close to a girl in broad daylight and expect it to be a secret.”

“She was giving me the mail,” Bowen said.

“To you, not to the Indian.”

“Maybe she’s the kind,” Pryde said, “who figures you can’t trust a ’Pache.”

“Sure,” Chick nodded, grinning again. “Corey, you must’ve known her before.”

“She was giving me the mail,” Bowen said again.

Chick winked at him. “I’d let her give me the mail anytime.”

“Be careful now.”

“I didn’t mean any offense.”

They moved on to the next stump and when the Mexican returned Pryde said, “You talk a hell of a lot.”

“Me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I told that the girl spoke to Bowen,” the Mexican said. “What about it?”

“He didn’t tell me what was said.” Chick shook his head. “Not one word.”

“Because I didn’t hear,” the Mexican said. “I didn’t hear anything they were saying.”

“Let’s drop it there,” Bowen said. He looked from Pryde to Chick to the Mexican. “All right?”

“Well,” Chick said, “if it’s something you’re ashamed of. Though she doesn’t look like a girl you’d be ashamed to be seen talking to.”

Over Chick’s shoulder, Pryde saw Brazil coming toward them. He had left his horse close to the canyon wall, although there was no shade there now with the sun directly overhead, and was walking toward them, carrying the Winchester under his arm.

“You better shut your mouth,” Pryde told Chick.

Chick turned on him unexpectedly. “Who in hell you think you are? You’re no better than anybody else! You think-”

“You better shut up.” Pryde saw Brazil coming up behind Chick.

“Why, because you say so?” Chick placed his hands on his hips defiantly. “I don’t have to take anything from you or anybody like you! It’s enough to have to stomach Renda and Brazil telling you what to do!” Chick paused. “One more year and I’m out of here and they’re going to pay. Sure as there’s a God upstairs they’re going to pay for every last dirty thing they’ve done to me.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Chick did not move. Pryde saw the shocked surprise, then fear come over his face-his eyes wide and his mouth open as if to cry out. Then, with an effort, with a lip-biting jaw-tensed effort, his expression slowly changed and his face was almost relaxed as he turned to Brazil.

“What’re you going to do to me?”

“What do you think?” Brazil asked mildly.

“I don’t want to get hit.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“Listen”-Chick swallowed and the fear was in his eyes again-“I was just talking. You know how you get mad and say funny things-”

“I didn’t think it was funny.”

“Not funny. You know, you say things you don’t mean.”

“The first thing that comes into your mind.”

“That’s right. No! Wild, crazy things that you don’t mean, but just so you’ll be saying something.”

“Like making me pay.”

Chick tried to smile. “That’s right. How could I make you pay? See what I mean, that’s just crazy talk that came in my head.”

Brazil raised the Winchester, holding it across his chest. “And you don’t think I ought to hit you?”

Chick swallowed again. He started to back away. “Beating me wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t at that,” Brazil said. He lowered the Winchester so that the stock was beneath his right arm. His right hand gripped through the lever. He moved toward Chick who half turned and began edging away.

“What are you going to do?”

“Run down and tell Renda to come here,” Brazil said.

“You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t say it ’less I did.”

“You’re not going to do anything to me?”

“Go on.”

Chick edged away, still half turned looking at Brazil. He glanced up canyon to locate Renda, looked back at Brazil once more then turned, his quick short steps developing into a run. He had gone no more than thirty feet when Brazil fired. Chick stumbled as if trying to turn and Brazil fired again, the stock of the Winchester still under his arm and held just above his waist. He levered another shell into the chamber before his gaze returned from Chick Miller to the three men near him. His eyes moved slowly from Bowen to Pryde to the Mexican.

“He tried to run,” Brazil said. “You saw him. He tried to run away.”