He eased himself up over the rocks, crawled, lay flat to listen, then crawled again to the pass opening and rose, looking up to the ledge where the guard had been that morning.
He’s not there. Flynn’s gaze came back to the define which was totally dark as far as he could see—or maybe he’s in there using an overhang for shelter. But maybe there isn’t any guard—and if there isn’t, then you know Lazair’s gone. That’s the way it would be—nobody bothering to take watch if Lazair wasn’t there to make him.
But you have to be sure.
He moved in a little farther, listening. Then went the rest of the way through without hesitating, crouched low to one wall, and at the other end he went down into the wet grass, feeling it cold against his hands and face, and looked out at the camp.
Across the open area he could make out the horses. They had drifted into the aspens, and now he heard one of them whinny, a faint shrill sound in the darkness.
The rain made a splattering sound against the tents. The ties of one had unfastened and the flaps billowed and then popped as the wind rose to sweep stinging into the camp. Three of the tents were deserted. The fourth stood ghostlike in the darkness—a lantern inside illuminating the pale, wet canvas outline.
No light showed from the cave entrance.
A man’s voice came from the lighted tent. The sound of a word, then laughter, faint sounds far away.
Flynn raised himself slowly and edged along the rock outcroppings that rimmed the pocket. Nearing the cave, a vertical crack of light now showed along one edge of the blanket that covered the entrance. And then he was up the slight rise under the shelter.
Now, very quietly, he thought. Take all the time you want because you’ll do this just once. He put his hands into his coat and dried them against his shirt. He wiped his face with a bandana then drew his pistol and wiped it carefully.
The voice sound came from the tent again and Flynn could feel it inside of him tightening his chest. He pictured the men in the tent. He pictured four of them for some reason. I could go down there and empty this into the canvas and get all of them, he thought. Then: Don’t be foolish. Come on now.
Cocking the pistol he brushed aside the blanket covering and the next moment was inside the cave—in high, room-size dimness, a line with clothes hanging from it, bedding along one wall, and in a corner, crouched beside the coal-oil lamp turned low, was Nita Esteban.
Flynn put one finger to his mouth. Then, “Don’t speak out loud,” he said softly.
The girl looked up at him, her body tensed. She was kneeling on a blanket, sitting back on her feet. Her hands held the blanket tightly and no part of her body moved.
Close to her, Flynn dropped to one knee. “Nita.” He put his hand on her shoulder and took it away feeling her body shudder. “I’m not one of them.” He touched her again, gently. “Do you remember, six months ago I came through Soyopa and stayed at the house of your uncle. I was a friend of his, David Flin.”
Her eyes held his—searching, deep black eyes that were not sure. And then they were sure. Then they remembered and the dark eyes in the drawn face were suddenly glistening with tears. Flynn brought her to him gently and heard and felt the muffled sob against his chest. Her shoulders quivered and he held her close to him, awkwardly with one hand because the pistol was there, now moving the other hand up to stroke her hair, with much the same feeling you stroke a child’s head.
Lowering his face he said to her ear, “How many are there?”
The sobbing stopped. “Most of them left during the afternoon. There would not be many now. One of them came here not long ago. I thought you were he when you entered.”
“There is a light in only one tent.”
“They are the only ones,” she said. “Perhaps three, or four or five. The one who was here came for a bottle of something to drink.” She hesitated. “He said I should go with him, but I refused and he said that when he came back I would be sorry.”
Flynn rose, bringing her up with him. She wore a skirt to her ankles and a man’s shirt buttoned high and the shirttail hanging to where her knees would be.
“Lazair keeps his clothes here, doesn’t he?”
She nodded, but did not look at his face.
“Put another shirt on.”
He moved to the blanket covering as she did this and stood listening. There it was again; one of them laughing. Then another sound—close!
He had time to warn the girl only with his eyes. She saw him flatten against the wall. A leather coat was hanging there from a nail and he drew the coat in front of him, though he still could be seen.
Then the blanket cover was whipped back and a man stood in the entrance, weaving, his eyes narrowing on Nita Esteban, then smiling.
“You must a been coming to see us. Nowhere else you could go.” Mescal was in his voice and in the half-open eyes. He had come from the tent bareheaded and now his hair was shining, plastered close to his skull. He had brought no hat, but he was armed. He chuckled and turned to the wall where Lazair’s gear was, where the mescal was kept.
He was about to say something more to the girl but the words caught in his mouth. He could see Flynn, and the pistol pointed toward him.
The man wheeled. In split-second surprise he wheeled toward the cave entrance.
Flynn held back, then there was no choice and he felt the .44 jerk with the exploding sound.
The scalp hunter stumbled, rolling to his side. His hand waved, slapped against his holster…the glint of metal coming up with the hand…then a second report, ear-splitting in the closeness, and the man fell back and did not move.
They were over him, past him, almost the same moment. Flynn holding the girl’s arm, brushing aside the blanket, then out into darkness running for the scattered rimrocks. And as they reached cover the other men were coming out of the tent, furiously at first—the canvas shaking, something kicked over, glass breaking, curses—then the light was extinguished and the men were outside. Now they made no sound. Now it was realization of what they had to do and they approached toward the cave slowly, fanning out, as Flynn and the girl crept to the defile and made their way through the blind narrowness of it.
There were four of them—it went through Flynn’s mind—now only three, but you can count on them coming, coming quick!
His hand was tight clutching Nita’s arm and he ran with her through the swishing wet wound of the sabaneta grass, holding himself to run at the girl’s speed.
There was his mount, where he had left it. Hide glistening wet, skittering nervously at the abruptness of their coming into the trees. Flynn mounted, now reached for the girl and swung her up behind him and felt her arms holding as he wheeled the horse off through the trees. They descended, following the trail in his memory, crossed a flat stretch on the dead run then climbed again into timber before stopping to listen.
At first it was only the sound of Nita’s breathing, then far off, faintly, he could hear the horses.
They’re close, he thought, straining to listen, now conscious of his own breathing. They’ve figured it out. Somebody from Soyopa since it was not Apaches. So they’re running hard in the direction of Soyopa. If they don’t overtake someone they’ll double back and in the morning spread out and start looking.
The sound of running horses was louder now. They had reached the flat stretch below them. Still mounted, unmoving, with the girl’s arms tightening about him, they heard the horses pass, carrying their sound with them into the distance again. The girl’s arms relaxed.
“We’ll have to wait until it’s light,” Flynn said. “In the darkness we could run into them.” He looked over his shoulder and saw her head nod.
Higher up in the timber they dismounted. Flynn kindled a low burning fire, without worrying about it being seen. A brush rimmed pocket shielded them on three sides. The fire might be visible from the fourth, but a man would have to be standing less than twenty feet away to see it and if he were that close, fire or no fire he’d know th
ey were there.
They sat close over the mesquite twig fire letting their clothes dry on them. The girl’s were not so wet, but Flynn’s were stuck cold to his body and it was some time before the fire warmth penetrated enough for him to feel it on his body.
Later on, they lay close to each other to sleep.
“Nita.”
The girl’s face turned to his and was only a few inches away.
He said in Spanish, softly, “I offer my sorrow for what has happened, though the words do little good.”
“There is nothing one can say,” the girl answered.
“Your father is well.”
“Will you take me to him?”
“Of course. When it is light. When we can go without the fear of coming onto those without seeing them.”
She’s calm, Flynn thought. Even after all she’s been through she has control of herself and can speak without her voice giving it away. She’s a woman of Mexico, used to the sight of death—but that’s a lot of nonsense. No, it’s not callousness. It’s faith. God is God and He lets things happen and that’s all there is to it. But He has reasons, and His reasons for something happening would be more important than a man’s reason for questioning whatever it might be. That’s how she has probably looked at it and it has taken some of the sting out. Not all, some.
Flynn said now, “I have thought of you often since the time in Soyopa.”
Nita had closed her eyes. Now she opened them. “I remember you well. At first I did not, because in my mind I was expecting the other, but now I do.”
He said abruptly, though gently, “Did Lazair cause you pain?”
“With his eyes,” the girl answered. “He did not molest me because he wanted me to consent. He would touch me, but that was all.”
Flynn said, “I’m sorry,” quietly, almost with embarrassment.
And then, as if they had been speaking of it before, the girl began: “The firing came suddenly from above, from both sides of the road and I saw my Uncle Anastacio fall from his horse. Others fell. There was screaming then and the mules began to go faster, but the wagons became entangled because the road was narrow and as this happened the men came down from the slopes firing their guns. One of them pulled me from the wagon and on the ground, beneath it, he tore open my dress and began to touch me, but the one called Lazair appeared and ordered him away. He took me up the slope to his horse and from there we watched what took place after”—she paused—“the scalping of those who had been killed, and some who had not been killed. Then he rode down the slope, holding me in front of him on the saddle, and ordered the men to cut loose the mules and burn the wagons. But after only two of them were burning he said to not bother with the others as it was time to go. Then four men rode through dragging sapplings to obliterate the signs that were there. Then I saw one of my cousins being carried on another horse. She tore herself from the man who carried her and ran back toward the burning wagons, and the man shot her as she ran. One of those with the saplings dismounted and was drawing his knife as Lazair turned and rode off with me.”
Nita said no more. She lay facing him, but her eyes were closed and her soft, shadowed features seemed relaxed now. Flynn put his arm around her gently. Through the night they lay close together and neither spoke again.
With first light they were moving down through the timber, through the gray mist that clung to the trees, left behind by night. Flynn carried the Springfield, leading the horse. Nita was mounted. Moving, winding slowly with the squeaking of straining leather and the crisp cracking rustling of hoofs in dried leaves.
Then they were crossing sand that muffled the hoofs; through mesquite and catclaw that tangled both sides of a draw, and there was ocotillo that yesterday had been thorned stalks but now blazed scarlet with the rain. The sky told there would be more rain and Flynn could smell it coming on the sultry wind.
The draw began to slope, gradually at its beginning, cutting between sweeping slopes, and as they followed the rise it narrowed, curving high up into the hills. In timber again, in the shadowy silence of it, they looked back down the way they had come. Far below, three riders were entering the draw.
They’ve found the tracks, Flynn thought. And now they know there are only two of us. One man and one woman. They probably aren’t very worried and are thinking now it’s getting interesting. He pictured them grinning at each other.
The girl had been watching them and now she looked at Flynn, asking the question with her eyes.
He said, “We can’t run, because they can move faster. They would overtake us. The only thing to do is show them that we are aware of them and try to make them go slower.” And he added, in his mind: Or stop them from going at all.
He moved the girl deeper into the trees then crept out among the rocks that overhung the steep-falling slope here. Dropping to his stomach he pushed the Springfield out between the rocks and looked down the barrel.
There they were, closer now, out of sight passing through jack-pines, then reappearing. From his pocket Flynn brought out two brass cartridges and put them on the ground, on the spot where his hand would drop after swinging open the breech.
Five hundred yards, he thought. Take your time, they’ll get closer. His eyes moved ahead of them, up the draw to where it narrowed and began to curve. But you’ll have to hit them before they reach there. They’d have cover then and be able to sneak up through the brush if you miss with your first shot. So you’ll fire from three hundred yards. It’s a good thing it’s downhill. They make them short in the barrel for shooting from horseback, but for long range you might just as well spit.
Now it was four hundred yards. They were single-file, taking their time.
Hit the first one. First things first. Let them get up to that open spot, so they won’t be able to break for cover. But you won’t get them all. You know that.
Close over the barrel he watched them come. The Springfield was cocked. His finger fondled the trigger lightly, feeling the spring tightness of it. The front sight covered the first rider. A little closer now, he thought.
All right.
His trigger hand tightened, squeezed closed. The shot rang, ripping thin air, echoing down canyon. The first horse was down. The man was on the ground. But now he was up, running. The second rider made a tight circle and leaned to help him up as the third one streaked away. He swung up behind the cantle and they were moving down the draw as Flynn fired again. The man went back, rolling off the horse’s rump.
He threw open the breech and shoved in the third cartridge and fired as he lowered his head. The second horse went down. The rider hit and rolled and scrambled for cover. The third rider was out of range now.
Flynn looked back to the man he had hit. He was lying facedown. The other one was crawling toward him now. He knelt next to him and stayed there and Flynn thought: He must be alive.
Flynn had inserted another cartridge. He lowered his head, looking down the barrel at the man’s back; then looked up again. He’s got enough troubles now, Flynn thought, and backed away from the rocks.
They moved on through what was left of the morning, riding double now, running the horse when they would reach level stretches; but most of the time their travel was slow, following the maze of canyons and sweeping climbing draws that gouged the foothills, lacing in all directions. They bore a general direction west toward Soyopa, keeping the looming gray mass of the Sierra Madre behind them, the Mother Mountain that towered into the overcast sky losing her crested shapes gray against gray.
It was after noon, shortly after, when they stopped again, having come down into a ravine thick with aspen to a stream that was running with yesterday’s rain.
When she had finished drinking, Nita Esteban sat on the grassy bank watching Flynn water the horse.
“We might reach Soyopa by nightfall,” he said, looking toward her. Flynn spoke in Spanish. She had leaned back, resting on her arm. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”
“Knowing that we are going
home takes much of the tiredness out of this.”
She smiled then and Flynn thought, watching her: Now she’s a girl again. This is the first time she’s smiled. Before she was a woman. In her eyes the worn look of a woman who has seen an entire lifetime turn rotten. But now she’s a girl again because she can look forward to something. Home.
“But from now on we’ll have to use more caution.”
She looked at him with surprise. “Those others are far behind.”
“Two of them are. Perhaps all three, but we have no assurance of that. The third one is still mounted. He might have remained with his companions. He could be following us…or he might have circled to cut us off.” He added gently, “I tell you this so you won’t relax your guard entirely.”
They moved on and it stayed in Flynn’s mind now and he hoped the girl was thinking about it, being ready. The Springfield was across his lap and his gaze edged inching up over the brush on both sides of the ravine. The sides were steep and high up were pines. But being ready didn’t lessen the shock when it came.
The shot broke the stillness, coming from nowhere. It ricocheted off rock above their heads, whining into the air. The second shot hit lower, but they were off the horse then, Flynn pushing the girl, running crouched, jerking the horse after them. Two shots followed them to cover and then stillness again.
Why didn’t he wait, Flynn thought. Maybe he’s jumpy. Or else that was his best shot and he took it. If it was he couldn’t be closer than a hundred yards. He leaned close to Nita.
“He fired from the left slope, high up.”
She waited for him to say more, her eyes wide, the pupils dilated an intense black.
“He has us…until we find him.” He said then, “Do you know how to fire this?” handing her the Springfield.
“Once I did, but it was long ago.”
He pointed it out in front of her and cocked it. “All you do is pull the trigger now. But don’t fire unless he is close…if he should come. Keep it low; then if he should come onto you, wait until he is from here to there”—he pointed out just beyond the rocks—“then fire.”
The Bounty Hunters Page 12
