The Bounty Hunters

17

Curt Lazair reined in, holding his mount within the shadow of Santo Tomas' east wall, and from there watched the rurale patrol swing into the square, seeing most of the horsemen riding out again by way of the street that led to their camp. He saw Bowers then, dismounting with those who had remained, in front of Las Quince Letras.

Flies buzzed at the canvas bag that hung from Lazair's saddle horn. He waved his hand at them idly and, still watching the men in front of the mescal shop, he sniffed as the rancid odor of the scalps rose from the bag. He did this instinctively, as an animal sniffs the air, still, he was not fully aware that he had done so. There was a question in his mind and the answer to it could be a hell of a lot more dangerous than the smell of day-old scalps. And now, suddenly, he thought he was looking at the answerA rurale patrol…been out in the hills…that shavetail with them…he knew where the camp was, because he'd been there. That must be it!

Lazair had been thinking about it all the way in…calmly at first, because that was the best way to go about things like this; go over it slow and everything will fall into place…then he had found Sid's body-not all of it because the buzzards had found Sid first-and the calm thinking ended then and there.

Two dead, one wounded. And not even the wounded man-who was shot clean through a lung and wouldn't last another day-or the man who had brought him in, the only one of the four who was still healthy, had seen who had done the shooting. That didn't happen every day: three men shot up and not even knowing who did it.

But now it was plain to Lazair. Bowers and the rurale patrol…it couldn't be anyone else!

He crossed the square along the east side, following the adobe fronts around to Duro's house. The rurale guard sat leaning against the door to the arsenal. He was asleep and did not look up even as Lazair rode up close to him and dismounted.

Lamas Duro jumped with the abrupt sound of the door opening. Sitting behind the desk he stiffened, looking up with startled wide-eyed surprise, and a roll of silver coins spilled from his fingers to the desktop. The coins scattered, rolling into silver pesos already stacked in neat columns on the desk, ten coins to a column, 100 pesos in each.

Lazair stood in the doorway, confidently, defiantly, the way a man stands who has two Colts strapped to his thighs. One hand rested idly on the handle of the right pistol; the fingers of the other hand were curled in the drawstring of the canvas sack. His eyes held on Duro, coming to conclusions then and there, seeing the money, the look on Duro's face, the way he was dressed-ready to travel-jacket, scarf, gun belt and the Chihuahua hat at one end of the desk.

"Where're you going?"

It was still on Duro's face, the shock of seeing Lazair suddenly in front of him, but now he tried to smile. "It's time for a patrol."

"Your sergeant just come off one."

"This is a different kind." Duro smiled. "I am going to ride out alone. Perhaps one man can find out more than twenty."

"About what?"

"Apaches."

Lazair was silent, his eyes remaining on Duro. Suddenly, "You've had enough, so now you think it's time to haul out."

"What are you talking about?"

"You should have waited for a report before you started counting your money."

"I was just putting aside the amount owed to you from the last time," Duro explained.

"Not when you never expected to see me again you weren't." Lazair moved toward the desk, his hand still on the pistol butt. "That boy-cavalry-soldier told you where we lived…so you got it in your head: Hit 'em…sometime after it's dark and it will save passing out muchos pesos." Lazair said again, "You should have made sure before counting your money."

"That makes no sense," Duro said slowly and now the question furrowing his forehead was genuine. "Who hit your camp?"

Lazair smiled faintly. "You're getting better." He said then, "Your sergeant'll be coming in pretty soon…he's over to the cantina now. When he gets enough brave juice in him he'll come and tell you how they got only two for sure 'cause somebody couldn't hold his nerves and started shooting before they found out hardly nobody was home."

"I don't follow you," Duro said, still frowning. "Got two of what?"

"Two of my boys!"

Duro's features relaxed with amazement. "No!" and then the smile began forming slowly, curling the corners of his mouth. "Santana did that!" The smile widening, "I can't believe it. He wouldn't have the nerve."

"He got it somewhere," Lazair said. "My men followed and he ambushed them."

Duro shook his head slowly, considering this. "No…it could not have been Santana."

"You know goddamn well it was!"

"I swear I know nothing of this!"

"Who else is there?"

"Apaches."

"They'd a been messier."

Duro was silent, his eyes roaming the room slowly, but picturing other things. He said suddenly, bringing his palm down slapping the desk. "The other American! He's not been here for two days!"

"One man couldn't have raised all that hell."

"Maybe we don't know him," Duro said thoughtfully.

Lazair half smiled. "But I know you…and I've got eyes…counting your money…all dressed up for a trip…"

"Listen…I swear on the grave of my mother I know nothing of this! I am counting this now to pay you what is owed…putting it aside to have it ready for you…you come at odd times, so I considered: The next time he comes it will be ready-" Duro hesitated and smiled at Lazair confidently. "Look…this is silly what you've been thinking. Let's have a drink now, together, and then I'll finish counting this."

He nodded to the sack in Lazair's hand. "You have more. Good. I'll pay you for those too; and then the account will be up to date. How many do you have there? No-wait until after we have a drink. This is a feast day, we should have a drink together." He looked suddenly in the direction of the square then back to Lazair. "Was that a shot?"

Lazair did not move. "That one was off somewhere. It's the one that rings in your ear for half a second that you worry about. Then it's all over." He said it with his hand on the gun butt and the meaning was clear.

"Everyone talks of death today," Duro said, and made himself laugh. "But look, even with the talking of death there is an equal amount of drinking." He said then, winking, "You know you can frighten the devil only so long. When there is no more mescal he comes and inserts a demon in your head. Now the demon hates this confinement and he runs from one side to the other butting at the sensitive walls of one's head." He raised a hand to his forehead and the fingers spread over the shape of it delicately. "Senor," he said, smiling through a frown which was meant to indicate a headache, "would you kindly consent to a glass of something?"

Lazair did not smile. He looked at Duro silently and his contempt for the rurale lieutenant was in his eyes, in the features that did not move, and grimly evident in the hard line of his mouth. "Get your drink," he said curtly. Duro started from the desk and Lazair added, "I'm right behind you."

He stood in the doorway to the sleeping room and watched Duro take a fresh bottle of mescal from the cupboard next to the bed, then stepped aside as Duro passed him, going to the desk again. Duro sat down and as he opened the desk drawer, Lazair said, "If you're smart you'll just come out with glasses."

Duro looked up. "Of course."

They drank in silence, Duro filling the glasses quickly as they were emptied; Lazair watching him, in no hurry, wondering what Duro would do, willing to take all the time necessary to find out.

Duro looked up suddenly. "Did you hear it? Another one!"

Lazair was half sitting with his left hip on the edge of the desk, resting the mescal glass on his thigh. He looked down at Duro calmly. "You hear all kinds of noises during a fiesta."

But with the sudden bursts of gunfire that followed, Lazair came off the desk. He moved to the door quickly, still holding his drink, still half watching Duro, and as the rurale lieutenant started to rise, Lazair snapped, "Stay where you are!"

He opened the door and the sound of a running horse rose from the square. He saw the rider, one of his men, reaching a side street and the rurales in front of the cantina firing after him.

The glass flew out of Lazair's hand shattering against the desk and in that instant a pistol was in his right hand pointed at Duro. "You didn't know!"

He wanted to pull the trigger. It rushed to his mind, but a judgment was already there; it had prevented him from killing Duro before and now it was there again with its cold reason making him slow down, making him grip the pistol tighter. If he killed Duro he would be through. Not just in this part of Sonora, but everywhere in Mexico. He'd have to go back to the States, where he was wanted, and spend the rest of his life on the dodge. He'd have to take his chances in the States because if he were caught he'd be better off than if he were pulled in by the Mexican authorities. That's what stopped him. Don't throw away a good thing: a safe place to live and a profitable business just because of one man. But it occurred to Lazair then, at that moment, that Duro was through. The only thing was, this wasn't the time or the place.

More calmly he said to Duro, "You didn't know, eh…?"

"I swear to Almighty God I didn't! What happened out there?" Duro was rising again.

"Stay put!" Lazair snapped. He looked at Duro and then out again. He kept his eyes on the front of the mescal shop and when Santana and two rurales came out, shouting, mounting their horses, Lazair pulled the door quickly, almost closed, and watched them through an inch opening. They came toward the house, shouting something. When they were directly below, Lazair could not see them, but he heard Duro's name and suddenly they were riding away-four of them now, the last one, the rurale who had been on guard, on Lazair's mount.

Lazair looked at Duro and his gaze held steadily. "Something's going on. Santana and the two with him had a jug of mescal in each hand. They stopped here then rode off toward the rurale camp."

"They always drink after a patrol," Duro said.

"They were hollering something about you."

"What?"

"I couldn't make it out."

"Perhaps calling out to me."

"Does he do that often?"

Duro hesitated. "No…"

"Something's going on," Lazair said again. He waited, watching the square, feeling a tension that he could not understand. After a few minutes it occurred to him to run over to the mescal shop to see what had happened, then keep going to camp and move it someplace else before doing anything. There would be time enough to pay back Duro.

Looking out over the square he saw them as soon as they appeared from the side street and started across the openness. He was not sure how many there were at first, because they seemed to be all wearing peon clothes with so much white blending together, from this distance a crowd of white cotton with darker spots that were faces and straw sombreros. Then he realized there were not as many as he thought. Perhaps ten altogether. And-the two cavalrymen! He squinted, watching them come closer, making sure, and when he was certain they were coming here he glanced at Duro.

"Come here…you've got company."

Duro rose, hesitantly now. "Who? I don't hear anyone."

"You will."

"Who is it?"

"See for yourself."

Lazair opened the door, taking Duro's arm, and pushed him suddenly out to the veranda. He closed the door again, seeing Duro, seeing Duro's eyes as he turned. Lazair pushed his pistol threateningly through the door opening and Duro turned back toward the square.

Hilario pointed with the Burnside. "There he is."

Bowers said curiously, "Was that someone behind him?"

"It looked like it," Flynn said. He looked up, watching Duro, noticing the man's hesitancy, his reluctance to stand at the rail and look down at them.

"He seems afraid," Hilario whispered.

"He should be," Flynn said. "If he heard Santana."

Watching Duro, Hilario said, "If I were to raise this barrel two inches, and pull the trigger, it would be accomplished."

Flynn said, "You know better than that."

"I wish I did not," Hilario answered. And now he called out, "Senor Duro, we would speak with you."

They heard Duro's voice faintly. "Come back another time."

"This will not keep," Hilario called. "Already too much time has passed."

Duro hesitated. Then rested his hands firmly on the railing and looking down now he seemed suddenly more sure of himself, as if the mescal he had drunk was now making his head lighter, his senses keener. He said, "Listen, alcalde, when I want to speak to you, I'll send rurales. You'll come at that time and at no other. Now go home…and take your friends with you." He started to turn.

"Duro!" Flynn called the name sharply and the rurale lieutenant turned back again. "We'd like to speak to you."

Duro looked down at them coldly. To Flynn he said, "I have invited you before to come to my house, thinking you would come as a gentleman…but when you accompany animals, then perhaps you should be treated as one."

Flynn could feel the sudden heat on his face, but he restrained the impulse to raise his voice and he said mildly, "What happened to your manners?"

"There's no need for them since you are neglecting to use your own."

Flynn smiled to himself. Now it comes out: the real Duro. But why the change of face all of a sudden? Maybe Santana scared him into reality. He's so busy thinking what he's going to do next, there's no time for the polite front. He heard Bowers saying, in a low voice, "He doesn't want us to come up there."

Flynn called up, "Hilario Esteban has something to say. He'll do all the talking."

"Then why are you here," Duro returned, "if this doesn't concern you? And if I choose not to speak to him at this time, that doesn't concern you either." Flynn felt his patience ebbing; but he would try it once more. He began, "Lieutenant…" but that was allThe gunfire came suddenly, a scattering of rifle shots off beyond Duro's house. Flynn looked at the others; they were standing still, wondering; then some were moving hurriedly to the head of the street that led to the rurale camp. Now, from the other direction, came faintly screams and shouts and a few people were reaching the square coming from the streets on both sides of the church, some of the people who had been celebrating the fiesta at the cemetery. They were calling something. The sound of horses now from the street siding Duro's house and a half-dozen rurales were galloping into the square. Their cries were shrill, unintelligible with the sharp clatter of the hoofs…then one word was clear…and it was a shriek that hung hot in the air like a knife blade raised in the sunlight-