The Bounty Hunters

19

The alcalde, Hilario Esteban, stood beneath the veranda of Lamas Duro's house, and with the Burnside.54 cradled in his arm he looked out over the dark stillness of the square. Far across loomed the dim outline of Santo Tomas and creeping in a wide circle toward him on the two sides were the low, shadowed adobe fronts of the buildings that faced the square. There were no horses in front of Las Quince Letras.

This is the first time in six months that the cantina has been empty, Hilario thought. The time before was the day everyone remained in their houses. The day the rurales came.

But it was just the one day that there was no business, his thoughts continued, for the rurales were inside the cantina as soon as their camp was erected. And soon after, within three days, the people were beginning to go there again; quietly at first, once in a while, then soon with the same frequency as before…having adjusted themselves to our new neighbors.

A man can adjust himself to anything.

Still, there is a limit. He thought, now we have reached the limit. We could go on pretending that Lamas Duro is not here, but in doing so we would also be pretending that such a thing as honor still remained. If a man must make excuses for himself, continually argue with himself that he is a man, then he is better off dead. And then he thought: Why do I think about this one man when our worst enemy now surrounds the village? He shook his head faintly. No, Lamas Duro is more the Anti-Christ than Soldado Viejo. He whispered, half aloud, "Saint Francis, help us."

Now and then his eyes would go up the stair-ways that came down from both ends of the veranda above him, angling toward the center where he stood.

He would look up as the sound came from the room: walking, a squeaking board, and sometimes he thought he heard talking; but he told himself, if so Lamas Duro was talking to himself to keep his spirits up.

And finally it occurred to Hilario: Why not talk to him now? Waiting until Soldado left would be reasonable if you were occupied elsewhere, but here you stand. Go up and talk to him…no, tell him…and get it over with.

He started up the stairs on the left. Halfway up he stopped, holding himself still. The door above had opened. Slowly, with a long, low squeak. He heard footsteps on the veranda now. Three steps, then silence. Now three more, moving to the other side of the veranda.

Hilario turned slowly, crouching, and eased down until he was sitting on the steps. He raised the Burnside carefully and pointed it toward the opposite stairway. Cocking it will make a noise, he thought, hearing and feeling his heart beating through his body. So don't cock it until you are ready to fire…if firing is necessary. But, Saint Francis, don't make it necessary. Make Senor Duro go back inside.

He heard the footsteps again, at the top of the stairs now. Then they were coming down. Hilario held himself tense, squinting in the darkness, and now he could see the dim outline of a man. He waited, holding his breath, watching the figure reach the bottom. Then another sound, above…another man was on the stairs!

Two of them…how can that be!

His eyes fought the darkness, studying the second dim shape almost at the bottom of the stairs now. That one is Duro! I know it is!

Hilario Esteban rose suddenly, bringing up the Burnside, pulling back the hammer. "Senor Duro-stand where you are!"

And with the suddenness of this the first man was running. Hilario ignored him. Duro stood at the bottom of the stairs looking across and up at him.

"Who is it!"

"Hilario Esteban!"

He could hear the sound of the other man on the hard-packed square and suddenly the shadowy form of Duro was not in front of him, but running, sprinting into the open darkness of the square.

"Senor Duro!"

Quick, rapid-sharp boot steps in the openness…

"Senor Duro! Halt!"

A dim form growing dimmer…fifty, sixty, seventy feet…

The Burnside came up, cheek level. "Senor Duro!…"

Eighty…

"Saint Francis help me!" And with it the heavy dull explosion of the Burnside.

Lamas Duro took six more strides, though he was not conscious of them…for he was dead the instant the heavy ball slammed into his back.

"Here he comes," Madora said.

"He's half animal," Flynn whispered, belly-down next to Madora in a shallow gully, watching the dim form creeping noiselessly toward them through the brush.

"He's all animal," Madora grunted and rolled to his side to face Three-cents as the Coyotero dropped into the gully with them. They were returning the same way Madora and the Coyotero had come-Three-cents going ahead to see that the way was clear, then either signaling them on or crawling back to get them if he considered an audible animal-sound signal dangerous. This way, if they ran into Soldado's Apaches, Three-cents would meet them first, and there was the chance they would think him one of their own. Even recognizing him as not a Mimbreno would take time and Three-cents would have his chance to act.

In his own language, but with a word here and there of Spanish, he informed them that Mimbres were just ahead.

"There are three," he told them. "They stand listening. Then two will move in opposite directions, but always one remains in the same place."

"Like army pickets," Flynn whispered.

Madora muttered, "They've been doing it for five hundred years." They were silent then, thinking, but finally Madora said, "Well, let's go take him."

"Who's doing the honors?"

"Whoever sees him first."

They crawled out of the gully one at a time, Three-cents leading, and kept to the brush patches as they went over the flat ground. Just ahead now they could make out the dense blackness of trees, a soft crooked line against the night sky, and when Three-cents glanced back at them they knew that there the Mimbre waited.

They moved up on both sides of the Coyotero and he said, with his mouth close to the ground, "Thirty paces into the trees he stands. The two come out to the edge before going opposite ways." They were silent again, watching, and then Three-cents muttered, "There," pushing his arm out in front of him on the ground.

It was visible for a moment, like an off-white speck of shadow and then gone.

"He's sure of himself," Madora grunted, "wearing a white breechclout at night." They waited several minutes, giving the two Mimbre vedettes time to move off, out of hearing; then they crawled toward the trees.

Pines. The scent was heavy. Flynn could feel the needles in the sand beneath his hands and knees, and now a branch brushed his face. He had not brought the Springfield. It would be in the way. But he could feel his pistol under his left arm and a clasp knife was in his pocket.

Watch Three-cents now, Flynn thought. He'll call it. They waited for the Mimbre to move, to cause a sound that would tell where he was, but no sound came and as the minutes passed they knew they would have to bring the Mimbre to them.

Three-cents rose silently and moved off from them a dozen steps before sinking down, huddling close among pine branches. A low moan came from him then, in the stillness a long low gasp of pain.

Flynn waited. Come on. That's one of your brothers in trouble. Come on and find him. Still there was no sound, but at that moment he felt the movement; he sensed it and from the corner of his eye there he was, the Mimbre, crouched low, moving toward Three-cents. Wait. Nothing sudden. Let him get past you. Joe's seen him too. Joe probably smelled him.

The Mimbre stopped. In the moaning tone, a word in the Mimbreno dialect came from Three-cents. And in the corner of Flynn's eye the Mimbre moved again. All right, get him.

But as he rose, Madora was suddenly, silently behind the Mimbre and the next moment his arms were around him, forearm viselike against the throat and hand clamped over the mouth, dragging the warrior to the ground with him. Three-cents stood over them. Without hesitating he pushed his knife into the Mimbre's chest.

They went on, carrying the Apache, for he could not be left there for the others to find. When it's light, Flynn thought, they'll read the signs. That will make it harder to get back. But what might happen after sunup was something to think of then. They moved on through the darkness.

Three-cents signaled when they neared the place where the others were. A soft low whistle…silence…then an answering whistle and within a minute there were Coyotero scouts all around them.

"Where is he?" Flynn said to Madora. Here was another pine stand and in the darkness he could see only the Coyoteros standing close by.

Madora pointed. "He was right over there before."

"You'd think three men walking in at night would interest him."

"He's got enough troubles without looking for more."

"Joe, there's another problem now we didn't count on before." He indicated the dead Mimbre. "Tonight they'll miss him; tomorrow they'll be getting in each other's way looking for him."

Madora nodded. "I agree."

"So," Flynn went on, "if we're going back to the village, it's got to be tonight or not at all."

"But," Madora said, "you got to convince Deneen crawling through their line's the thing to do-anytime."

"I'll convince him," Flynn said, and looked at the Mimbre again. "We'd better get rid of him."

"We'll bury him."

"When we go back it should be in two or three groups. What do you think?"

Madora nodded. "I'll work it out with Three-cents, you go talk to Horse's-ass."

Colonel Deneen was lying down, head on his saddle bag and a blanket covering him as Flynn entered the small clearing Deneen had reserved for himself; but in one abrupt movement the blanket was thrown back and he was sitting up, pointing a pistol at Flynn.

"Who is it?"

"Flynn." He started to explain, "Madora brought me out…" but he stopped. God, he should know that much.

"Well, goddamn it, sit down! I don't care for you standing there looming over me!"

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't frighten me, I assure you. Where's Bowers?"

"Soyopa."

"Why didn't he come?"

"It wasn't necessary."

Sitting down, Flynn studied the man, trying to see the face clearly in the darkness. The face had changed, but he could not make out details other than it being in need of a shave, perhaps drawn. Bluntly now, Flynn asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided."

"It's less than four hours to daylight."

"So?"

"We killed a Mimbre on the way out. As soon as it's light they'll be looking for him."

"So?"

"So we'll have to start back to the village now while it's still dark," Flynn said patiently.

"And since I happen to command, and don't choose to go to the village, what then?"

"It would be better if you went."

"Are you threatening me, Flynn?"

God, he's sitting on the edge of his nerves! "Of course I'm not threatening. I'm reminding you that with the sun something's bound to happen. It would be too late then to get back to the village and those people might need all the help they can get."

Abruptly then, in a tone intended to sound calm, natural, Deneen said, "I suppose you were surprised to find me here."

Flynn nodded. "Somewhat."

"The general decided I had better look into this myself, since it has possibilities of an extensive border campaign. It's been my argument right along, one push from both sides of the border will squeeze every Apache man, woman and child out of the hills right where we want them." As he said this, his voice sounded natural.

He's been rehearsing this one, Flynn thought.

Deneen went on, "I'm contacting the local rurale officer first…at my own time. Do you know him?"

Flynn nodded.

"There in that village?"

Flynn nodded again.

"Well goddamn it speak up! What's his authority!"

"Do you really want to know?"

"What!"

Flynn's voice was calm. "Look, there are only a few hours until light. I think it would be wise if we started back right now instead of sitting here playing games. I know why you're here. Everyone does, and you know it. And I'll tell you this…I don't give a good damn what happened between you and the general. That's past history, to me it's as dead as what happened that night at Chancellorsville. You've made that one live on even when I was trying to forget it, and now you throw this border campaign nonsense in my face and expect me to swallow it, pretending you're on a secret mission…like I've been doing with Bowers for the past week-trying to act like this is an honest-to-God assignment; half wanting to help him keep his faith in the army, half wanting to tell him what a real son of a bitch you really are, but not having the heart because to him a colonel, even you, is a rank that takes time, guts and a military mind." Flynn stopped, but abruptly he added, "Why did you send him?"

Deneen stared with the rage plain in his face, even in the darkness, and he was not able to speak.

"Maybe I can answer it myself," Flynn said, watching Deneen closely. He started out slowly, "Bowers' father, the brigadier, was there. Maybe he saw you do it…or he was in the medical tent after and could tell gunshot from shrapnel and had time to figure where a doctor there wouldn't. Either way, you were aware of his knowing. Perhaps you'd forgotten it over the years, but when the boy showed up at Whipple there it was again and you took it for granted the brigadier had told his boy about the cowardly act of a Captain Deneen one night at Chancellorsville. If Bowers knows about it, he's not saying, but the chances are remote that he even does, because his father wasn't the kind of man to let it get beyond him. But maybe he should have told…and had you drummed out of the service. No, you should have resigned yourself. But instead you stuck it out, because after the war there wouldn't be any more Chancellorsvilles…and now some men have paid with their lives because you're a rotten officer and not honest enough to admit it…because two men you think know about a mistake you once made, you conclude the only thing to do is get rid of them before everybody knows." Flynn paused. "Your big mistake was pointing that pistol at your foot-you were about five feet too low."

"Is that all you have to say, Flynn?" Deneen kept his voice calm.

"One other thing."

"What is that?"

"You're going to the village."

"At the point of a gun?" Deneen half smiled. "I think not. And we'll stay as long as I choose to."

"If you do, you'll stay alone."

"Madora is under my command. If I stay, he'll stay…and with all of his men!"

Turning to go, Flynn said quietly, "Ask him."