The Bounty Hunters

by Elmore Leonard

  “That’s up to Soldado,” Flynn said. “Probably nothing will happen tonight, but in the morning something might.” Bowers looked at him curiously and he added, “That rider of Lazair’s that Santana chased out of town…he’s on his way to their camp now, if Soldado didn’t spot him. By morning he should be rushing back here with the rest of them, yelling for rurales, but they’ll find Apaches instead.”

  Bowers’ face brightened. “Then that’s our chance!”

  Flynn shook his head. “Soldado will know about them before they know about him.”

  They separated soon after this, stringing out in the backyards of the adobes, watching the brush and the trees and the shadows that crept toward them as the sun began to fade. Then there were the evening sounds which seemed quieter than day sounds, and the smell of wood fires. Mesquite burning. Bowers was in the next yard, a hundred feet from Flynn, Hilario was beyond him, in his own yard. And now it was getting dark quickly.

  There was Nita, coming out of the back door, moving across the yard toward her father. She was carrying something and Flynn thought: Probably atole. We eat and Soldado eats, but that’s all we have in common with him. He watched Nita go to Bowers next and as she came closer he could see her face more clearly. Then she was approaching him with the atole—the flour gruel—carrying it in a tin pot, her other hand carrying pottery bowls, and he felt an excitement inside of him. And telling himself it was silly, repeating it quickly as she drew closer, did not make it go away.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He shook his head. “No. But it would be best to eat something.”

  “There was not time to prepare anything better than this.” She kept her eyes down most of the time, but when she did look at Flynn, when their eyes met, they would hold and there was no other living soul on the earth.

  “I don’t mind atole, I’ve had it many times before.”

  He said, unexpectedly then, “If it were darker, I think I would kiss you.”

  Her eyes rose to his. “If it were darker, I think I would let you.” They looked at each other in silence, then she rose and moved toward the next yard with the pot of atole.

  Later, after it had been dark almost an hour, a man came to him. It was Ramón who had been in Hilario’s house with the others.

  “We think they are approaching.”

  “Where?”

  “Directly out from my yard”—he waved his arm in the darkness—“which is the other side of Hilario’s. Before it was dark we saw this Apache who seemed to be showing himself purposely, making strange signs, as if tempting us to come out. Then for a while he was gone. Then, after the darkness came, we heard faint sounds. They have stopped now, but you’d better come.”

  Hilario and Bowers were there, crouched behind the low stone wall.

  Ramón asked in a whisper that was nervously harsh, “Has anything occurred?”

  Bowers nodded to them. Hilario looked up and said quickly, “He is close now, but out of sight. A moment ago there was a sound, it seemed a hiss, but I’m sure it was a word.”

  Flynn said, “Si-kisn?”

  “Yes, that was it!” Hilario whispered excitedly.

  “He was telling you,” Flynn said, “that he’s a brother, a friend.”

  “It is a ruse,” Hilario whispered.

  “Perhaps,” Flynn said. “But when an Apache fights at night, it is because he has no other choice. Soldado has time. He has more of it than we have.”

  Bowers said, “And maybe he’s planning on your thinking that way.”

  He’s learning fast, Flynn thought, and said, “You never know them so well you don’t have to take chances.” He knelt close to the wall now and cupping his hands to his mouth he called in a low, drawn-out hiss, “Si-kisnnnn.”

  There was dead silence. Then the word came back from not far away. Again silence, and suddenly the dim shape of an Apache was standing across the wall from them. He said, “Flín?”

  Flynn rose, and hesitated so there would be no surprise in his voice that would make him speak out loud. Then he said, “Three-cents.” He glanced at Bowers and at Hilario. “This is Three-cents, Joe Madora’s head Coyotero tracker.”

  Bowers said, “What!” and clamped his mouth shut because the word was sharp in the stillness.

  “Come over,” Flynn said to the Coyotero.

  “There is another with me,” Three-cents said in Spanish, and almost as he said it, he was gone.

  “I thought they made army trackers wash,” Bowers whispered. “He’s filthy.”

  “The dirt’s on purpose,” Flynn said. “He wiped saliva on his body and then sand on top of that. That’s why we didn’t see him.”

  A moment later, Three-cents was back and behind him another figure was coming, crouched low. Then he rose, and as he spoke, even before he spoke, Flynn was smiling.

  The words came as a hoarse whisper—“David, you son of a bitch, I’ve got to pull you out of another one.”

  “Joe!” Flynn whispered, and grabbed the man’s arm to help him over the wall.

  “Let go! You’ll rip open the hole!”

  “How is it?”

  “I’m standing in front of you.”

  “I never expected to see you again, Joe.”

  “That’s why I can’t figure they sent a shortsighted bastard like you on this trip.” Madora looked at Bowers then. “How you doin’, Red?”

  Self-consciously, Bowers said, “All right.”

  Madora turned from him abruptly. “David, I’m hungrier ’n a bastard. What’ve you got?”

  Hilario said, “Nita will bring something.”

  But Flynn said, “We’ll go in and get it. Joe, you and your boy come along and I’ll fix you up.”

  When they were near the house, Madora said, “Those boys were dyin’ for news. They won’t take kindly to you rushin’ me away.”

  Flynn ignored this, saying quickly, “Where’s Deneen?”

  “He’s out there.”

  Flynn relaxed somewhat. “I had a hunch he was. With how many?”

  “Counting Coyoteros?”

  Flynn nodded. “Yes.”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten! How many are scouts?”

  “Ten.”

  “No…” Flynn groaned, but there was a humor to this and it struck Flynn and he could not help but smile now. “All right. What happened?”

  “About the time Deneen got back to Whipple from his tour, the genral’d found out what he’d done.” They had entered the adobe and now, close to the firelight, Madora was smiling. “That was something. The genral dressed hell out of him and the first thing you know Deneen’s got a Mexico assignment of his own.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Hell, it’s all over. Some of it was overheard firsthand…a friend of mine. Anyway, your pal was relieved of his adjutant’s job and the genral kicks his tail down to Sonora to find a Lieutenant Duro of the rurales…cuz the genral says, All right, goddamn it, if we’re going to do it, then we’re going to do it right. Get your ass down to Mexico and get some permission and if you don’t get it, don’t come back.” Madora added, “Now some say genrals don’t talk like that, but my friend says it’s gospel.”

  “But why only ten men?”

  “We ain’t a war party. The genral told him no soldiers, else it’d be considered invasion of a foreign country, but he said you can take all the trackers you want cuz for cry-sake there’s enough goddamn Apaches down there now that nobody’s going to notice a few goddamn more.”

  “I never heard the general talk like that.”

  “What’s that, atole? That’s the only thing that’s almost not better than nothing.”

  “Where’s Deneen now?”

  “About a mile off.”

  “Apaches spot you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “I’d better go talk to him.”

  “Somebody better. He like to wet his pants when Three-cents come in and told about Soldado.” Madora looked at Flynn quickly,
seriously. “This is the first time I’ve seen him in a tight spot. He can’t take it, can he?”

  “Why ask me?” Flynn said.

  “Because you were in the war with him where there were lots of tight spots.” Madora paused and half smiled. “That’s what’s between you two. You caught him in a jackpot cryin’ for his mama.”

  “You don’t get to be colonel that way.”

  “That’s what everybody thinks.”

  “But that isn’t what’s bothering us here and now.”

  “You want to see Deneen. All right, I’ll take you to him.”

  “Maybe he’ll come in,” Flynn suggested. “It would be safer for him here.”

  “He won’t move.”

  “All right, then we’ll go out.”

  “In one minute.” Madora took heaping spoons of the atole, scraping the plate clean. Three-cents had been eating as they spoke and now they went outside, back to the low wall. Bowers was alone.

  “Where’s Hilario?” Flynn asked.

  “He went to relieve the man watching Duro’s house. Dave, what is it?”

  “Deneen is here, but with only a few trackers. He was on his way to talk to Duro about a border campaign when they ran into the Apaches.”

  “He’s fighting them?”

  “No, holed up. I’m going out and talk to him. When I get back I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “What if you don’t get through?”

  Flynn smiled. “If this old man can do it, anybody can.”

  Madora said mildly, “David, when they passed out proper respect you must’ve been scratchin’ your butt with both hands.”

  Bowers watched them go over the wall and fade into the darkness. He asked himself: Could you do that? Sure, if you’ve been doing it as long as they have. What about the first couple of times? He was squinting into the darkness, expecting a sound. You either get used to it, or you don’t get used to it. That’s the way to look at things like that. He knew this was easy to say and he told himself: Who said anything about getting used to it being easy!

  He had thought before that this was not an assignment for a soldier, but now he knew conclusively that he had been wrong. And thinking of soldiers, oddly, he thought of Santana and how Santana considered himself one and boasted that if ever his rurales got the Apaches in open country, then he’d see some soldiering; that’s what Santana had intimated.

  After this he thought of many things, faraway things, but slowly his thoughts came back to the present. Now…and then the morning, a few hours away. What would happen then? Flynn said Lazair’s men might come back in the morning, he thought.

  That’s how it started in his mind, the plan. Just from remembering something Flynn had said, and in the next few minutes the plan began to develop, began to grow into something that might work.

  A man crouched next to him in the darkness, startling him.

  “What passes?” the man said. “Hilario Esteban relieved me and told me to come here.”

  Bowers nodded, “It is still quiet,” and then quickly, unexpectedly, he asked, “Have you seen the rurale, Santana?”

  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 Tomás 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 Señor 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. “Señor 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.

  “Señor Duro!”

  Quick, rapid-sharp boot steps in the openness…

  “Señor Duro! Halt!”

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

  The Burnside came up, cheek level. “Señor 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 Mimbreño 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.