The Bounty Hunters

12

A breeze moved over the square, raising dust swirls about the stone obelisk.

Two rurales lounged asleep in the shade of Duro's headquarters, and in front of Las Quince Letras a row of horses stood at the tie rack-a dun swished its tail lazily and the flanks of a big chestnut quivered to shake off flies. A dog yelped somewhere beyond the adobe fronts. And a woman, a black mantilla covering her head and shoulders, passed without sound into the shadowed doorway of Santo Tomas de Aquin. In the heat of the afternoon it was best to remain within.

From the doorway that opened onto the balcony, Lamas Duro watched the man leave the mescal shop and cross the square to the adobe whose sign read Comida. He walked leisurely, carrying a bottle of something.

"One of the American filth," Duro said half aloud.

As the figure passed from view he saw two riders then enter the square from the street that bordered the church, and as they passed the mescal shop Duro moved back into the room, buttoning his shirt. He smoothed his hair with his fingers as his eyes went on the desk to see the mescal bottle and glass. Hastily now he gathered them up, finishing the inch of colorless sweet liquid in the glass, and disappeared into the bedroom. He was back in a moment and arranged the papers on his desk in a semblance of order before returning to the doorway. The two riders were almost directly below.

He stepped out onto the balcony and called down, "Senores, please come up!" his smile as white as his shirt.

The taste of mescal was sour in his mouth and he lighted a cigar as he listened to the double tread on the stairs. Then they were on the balcony and he stepped aside allowing them to enter the room first.

"You do me an honor, Senor Flin and Lieutenant Bowers."

Bowers looked at him quickly.

Duro smiled. "This is a small pueblo, Lieutenant. The news does not have far to travel. Perhaps the alcalde tells a close friend…or someone overheard you speaking. He tells a friend. It enters Las Quince Letras and pop…it is out."

"Our identity was not intended to be kept secret," Bowers said.

"Of course not." Duro smiled. "But I wouldn't blame you if you did intend it so. Sometimes there is a problem in crossing into another country to perform a mission of a government nature. Often such matters must be handled with discretion. Of course, here you have nothing to fear. As a representative of Porfirio Diaz, I am at your command."

"That's very kind of you," Bowers said woodenly.

"Not at all." Duro held up his hand as if he would not think of accepting gratitude. "I know His Excellency, Porfirio, would have instructed that I aid your mission in every way…had he been informed of it. After all, the menace of the Apaches is a reason for the existence of our rurales. Actually then, you are giving assistance to us. Though I cannot say I envy your task." He said this as one soldier to another.

Bowers said, "But as a military man you know one cannot question his orders."

"Certainly." Duro bowed.

Flynn's eyes went over the room and returned to the rurale. "Have you ever made contact with Soldado Viejo?"

Duro shook his head. "Not with that elusive one. A few times, though, we have taken others of his tribe. The day you arrived we executed one." He sighed. "Sometimes such an act seems without heart but," his eyes shifted to Bowers, "one cannot question his orders."

Flynn crooked a knuckle to stroke his mustache idly. "I suppose not," he said. "You don't have to pay out much bounty money then."

"Occasionally." Duro shrugged.

"We were talking to a man named Lazair this morning-"

"Oh-"

"He was telling us about the fifteen scalps he brought in the other day."

"Fifteen!"

"Isn't that right?"

"I don't recall the exact number."

"That was a good haul."

"Yes, but it does not happen often."

Flynn eyed him steadily. "I was wondering how often it does happen. This Lazair must be pretty good to take that many at one time. He only has about a dozen men."

"I suppose," Duro said, "he knows many tricks in the tracking of Indians."

"I suppose," Flynn said.

"Would you care for a drink?" Duro said now, looking from one to the other.

Flynn said, "Fine," and Bowers nodded.

Duro went into the next room and returned with the bottle of mescal and three tumblers. "I have this for special guests," he said confidingly.

Flynn watched him place the glasses on his desk and pour mescal into them. "He had a Mimbre brave in his camp," he said.

Duro looked up. "This Lazair?"

Flynn nodded. "He'll be bringing you the scalp pretty soon."

"Oh…he was dead."

"He was after a while."

Duro shrugged. "Lazair is a businessman. A live Apache is worth nothing to him."

Bowers said quietly, "You get the feeling a live anything is worth nothing to him."

"Except perhaps a woman," Flynn added.

Duro handed them each a glass and said offhandedly, "He has a woman with him?"

"Didn't you know that?" Flynn asked.

"I have never visited his camp."

They sipped at the mescal, saying nothing. It was not a tension, but an uneasiness. After a moment Flynn said, "How do his men get on in the village?"

Duro shrugged. "As well as can be expected. They are, of course, sometimes primitive in their ways. As men would have to be who live as they do, by fighting Indians. But I have asked our people to treat them with courtesy since they are rendering our government a service." He sighed. "But sometimes they eye our women too covetously and with this my men are prone to raise objections."

"In other words," Flynn said, "they don't get along."

"Not all of the time, no."

"Lieutenant," Bowers said, "one of the reasons we came…I wonder if I could talk you into selling me a gun from your stores. I lost both of mine yesterday. That's if you have any extras."

"I could not possibly sell you one," Duro said stiffly, then smiled. "But I would be honored if you would select any gun you wish, as a gift."

They finished their drinks and descended to the equipment room. Bowers chose a Merrill carbine, and then a.44 Remington handgun which Duro insisted that he take. And though again he offered to pay for the arms, Lieutenant Lamas Duro would have none of this.

Flynn said, "Let us buy you a drink now."

But Duro refused painfully. "I'm sorry…a volume of paperwork awaits me. You would not believe that only thirty men can do so much to expand the records." He bowed. "Perhaps another time."

They walked off toward Las Quince Letras, leading their horses, as Duro mounted the stairs.

"Well," Bowers said wearily, "what does he know?"

"One thing I'm willing to bet on," Flynn answered, "-the difference between a Mimbre and a Mexican scalp."

From the sunlight they entered the dimness of Las Quince Letras, Flynn half expecting to see Frank Rellis, half hoping and ready, but Rellis was not there though four Americans were toward the other end of the bar at a front table. Three girls were with them. They looked up as Flynn and Bowers moved to the bar. Here and there were men of the village, older men, sipping their wine or mescal slowly to make it last and they looked up only for a moment.

"Those four weren't at Lazair's camp," Bowers said. The men with the girls at their table were still looking toward them.

"No, I didn't see them," Flynn said. He held up two fingers to the mustached Mexican behind the bar and said, "Mescal." Then to Bowers, "Let's sit down."

They brought bottle and glasses with them to a table. Bowers poured the mescal and pushed a glass toward the cavalry scout. His eyes held on the sandy mustache, waiting for Flynn to say something. Bowers was in charge-that's what the orders read-but it wasn't that simple. Just putting a man in charge doesn't make it so. Bowers was realizing this.

He said finally, "Now what?"

Flynn was making a cigarette. He lighted it and blew smoke and through the smoke said, "I'm going back to Lazair's camp."

"When?"

"As soon as I see Hilario."

"Alone?"

"I think it would be better." Looking at Bowers he added, "If there are no objections."

"Of course not."

Flynn leaned closer. "Have you been figuring this?"

"How does it stand?"

"I know which is the worst now. I think Soldado is in second place, then the rurales."

Flynn added, "None very pleasant, and all of them hating each other. What does that suggest?"

"The obvious. Get them against each other."

"You want to work on it?"

"I'm not sure about going about it."

"Santana, Duro's sergeant, I think he's the one to start on. Tell him about all the Mexican girls in Lazair's camp. Concentrate on Santana. Make up whatever you like; whatever he wants to believe; something that would take time to prove."

"And Duro?"

Flynn said thoughtfully, "And Duro-He's in with Lazair, that stands to reason since he's paying for scalps he knows damn well aren't Apache. Santana against Duro…that makes sense…if you can work it."

Abruptly, seriously, Bowers said, "Why was I sent on this?"

"Somebody had to go."

"You told Deneen he should have picked a man with more experience."

"I shouldn't have said that."

"Why did he pick me?"

"I don't know. How well does he know you?"

"I met Deneen in Contention for the first time."

"Your dad was division commander over both of us in the war. Maybe you knew, Deneen was a captain then. I've known him off and on for thirteen years."

"Well?"

Flynn shrugged. "Maybe he admired your father so, he knew you'd make a good soldier."

Bowers glanced up from his mescal, but said nothing.

"Look, what difference does it make?" Flynn said. "We're here now."

"He dislikes you," Bowers said, glancing at him again. "That's apparent."

"You can't like everybody."

"It's more than that."

"Why not just think about the job you have to do?"

"All right."

Flynn finished the mescal in his glass and rose. "I'm going to see Hilario now. Look for me the day after tomorrow. But if I don't come then, wait a few more days before you do anything."

"You don't want me to go with you?"

"If it doesn't work with one, it wouldn't work with two."

"You make it sound like taking a walk in the park."

The corners of Flynn's eyes creased as he smiled; then the eyes were serious. "Look, I'd like to help you…but there isn't any pattern to these things. You can't open Cooke's Cavalry Tactics and get the answer. Much of this is patience. But having time to think, you end up worrying about what you're going to do first, then about why you were sent and you even worry whether or not Apaches become afraid." Flynn smiled. "I meant that as no offense."

Bowers said, "That's all right."

Flynn sat down again. "Let's get it out in plain sight. You know Deneen doesn't have one ounce of authority to send us down here?"

"He's Department Adjutant. I'd say that was enough."

"In Arizona. This is Mexico, somebody else's country. Remember, the orders said the army would not recognize us as lawful agents if we were held for any reason."

"He explained that to me in Contention," Bowers said. "He said so far it was a verbal agreement with Mexico. We can cross their border so many miles and they can enter the United States, if it means running down hostiles. He said he had to put that not responsible business in the orders as a formality. The agreement was supposed to be in writing soon, he said probably before we'd get here."

"But Duro said if his government had known about it…" Flynn said. "That doesn't sound like an agreement."

"Then why are we here?" Bowers said.

Flynn hesitated. "You're here because you're obeying an order." He added, "Because you're not in a position to question authority." Now go easy, he thought, and said, "I'm here because I want to be. It's that simple."

"Yet you say neither of us have any business being here." He wanted to ask Flynn what was between him and Deneen, but it wouldn't be in order.

Flynn smiled again. "All right, but what would you be doing if you weren't here? Parade drills…patrols that never find anything…mail-run escort-"

Bowers nodded.

"So…why don't we do the world a good turn and kick Soldado's Apache tail back to San Carlos. And if problems come along we'll meet them one at a time and not worry about everything at once. Right?"

Bowers nodded, thoughtfully. "All right." He watched Flynn rise and move to the door, then nodded as Flynn did. The screen banged.

He took a sip of the mescal and putting the glass down he saw the four Americans watching him.

The street of the house of Hilario Esteban was quiet. There were sounds from other streets, but here was only sun glare on sand-colored adobe and a thin shadow line close to the houses extending down both sides of the street. The bullfight poster near the deserted home of Anastacio Esteban was hanging in small shreds now and only a few words were readable.

A small boy ran out of the house next to Hilario's.

"I will hold your horse!"

Flynn swung down and handed him the reins. "Carefully."

"With happiness," the boy smiled.

It was a woman who opened the door to his knock. Stooped, beyond middle age, a black scarf covered her shoulders and her dress beneath that was black. Hilario appeared behind her and his eyes brightened.

"David!"

"How does it go?"

"Well," the alcalde answered. He motioned the woman and Flynn past him into the room.

The woman moved to the fireplace and sat on the floor there. She began stirring a bowl of atole and did not look at Flynn. With her head down, her figure was that of a child who weighed less than ninety pounds.

Hilario indicated the woman and said, "La Mosca. She is a herb woman, but now she prepares atole for me out of kindness. If there were a wound on my body, La Mosca would apply to it seeds of the guadalupana vine each marked with the image of the Virgin and soaked in mescal…or a brew of pulverized rattlesnake flesh if I were afflicted with the disease which the gachupines introduced to the women of our land…but she can do nothing for me now."

"Listen, Hilario," Flynn said. "I have not much time. I've come to tell you that your daughter is alive. I saw her."

He heard the soft rough sound that cloth makes and La Mosca, the curandera, was next to him.

"I have felt this," she said, "and have already told our alcalde of it."

Flynn said, "All right. Then I'm confirming what you have already told."

Hilario's voice was barely above a whisper, breathing the words in disbelief. "Is it true? Where?"

"If I told you that, you would go there hastily-"

"With all certainty!"

"And that would not be wise." He touched the old man's arm. "Look. I am going there now, with a plan. It is a matter of trusting me. If I told you where I was going perhaps others would find out-"

"Not from me."

"Perhaps not. But this not telling you is an additional safeguard."

The curandera said then, "She is being held by a man."

Hilario looked at her. "This comes to you?"

La Mosca nodded. "The man is not Indian. That I also know."

She can figure that out without looking into the future, Flynn thought.

"Is this true, David?"

"My companion, the one I came with, will remain here. He knows about this and will help you if for a reason I cannot come back."

Quietly Hilario said, "All right."

La Mosca said now, "You will come back." Her wrinkled face looked up at Flynn. "This comes to me now. You will return by the beginning of Dia de los Muertos-the festival of the dead-and you will bring with you the daughter of this man."