The Bounty Hunters Read online

  One of the rurales awakened at the sound of the horses, but the other remained asleep, propped against the door. He opened his eyes to see the two Americans astride the horses, looking down at him and he nudged his companion awake as he heard one of the Americans ask, “This is the house of the alcalde, isn’t it?”

  The rurale nodded, but did not rise.

  Flynn swung down then and approached the door. “What are you, the guard of honor?”

  The rurale grinned at his companion and then toward Flynn. “More the guard of dishonor,” he said.

  “Where is the alcalde?”

  “Within.”

  “Would you move, so I can knock on the door?”

  “No one enters,” the rurale said, rising. He held his rifle diagonally across his chest. His companion rose then. “Nor does the alcalde leave.”

  Flynn felt a sudden anger, but he waited until it passed. “Why?” he said.

  “Because the teniente orders it!” the rurale said angrily.

  “What did the alcalde do?”

  The rurale smiled lazily at Flynn. “You ask many questions.” He glanced at his companion who moved up next to him. “He asks many questions, doesn’t he?” Then to Flynn he said, “Are you another of the great hunters of Apaches? Soyopa is honored.” He bowed mockingly. His companion grinned, but he moved uneasily.

  Flynn studied the two rurales. Crossed bandoleers over the gray uniforms that were worn slovenly. Shirts open at the throat and wide-brimmed sombreros off their foreheads. The one stood with his hip cocked and fingered his rifle eagerly. The other was not so sure of himself; it was apparent.

  “I’m going to ask you one more question,” Flynn said. He unbuttoned his coat and opened it enough to show the butt of his pistol. “Are you going to get out of the way?”

  For a moment the rurale only stared. Then his elbow touched his companion’s arm. “Perhaps this is something for the teniente. Bring him!” He glanced after his companion as he moved off hurriedly, then back to Flynn. “Man,” he said, “your pistol is not as large as you think it is.”

  Hilario Esteban saw the rurale pass the window, beginning to run. He looked out now, frowning, as he heard someone speak, then his entire face wrinkled into a smile.

  “Señor Flín!”

  The rurale was startled. He brought the rifle around abruptly. Flynn’s head turned, but there was another movement close to his chest. And abruptly the rurale’s eyes widened and his face muscles went slack. First he felt the barrel press into his side, then the click of the hammer.

  Close to his ear, Flynn said, “You’re all through, soldier. Drop the rifle and go sit down.”

  Hilario disappeared from the window, but the door opened almost immediately and he was standing before them. “Davíd!” His face beaming. “What a day this is! When did you arrive?” He saw the pistol then and the smile left his face.

  “It’s all right, Hilario,” Flynn said. “He didn’t know we were friends.” He glanced at Bowers, who was holding their horses. “Hilario Esteban, this is Lieutenant Bowers.”

  Bowers said something in a low voice and he looked at Hilario embarrassedly.

  Flynn looked at Bowers curiously. Then it came to him. You forgot! he thought. How in hell could you forget! As they rode in he had been ready. Preparing himself all morning as he listened to the creaking of the wagon wheels. Now he felt suddenly self-conscious, as if Hilario was already reading it in his face.

  He heard Bowers say quietly, “Why don’t you two go inside and talk things over.”

  Flynn wanted to tell him now, quickly, with Bowers there, but the presence of the rurale bothered him oddly. “Maybe we’d better,” he said.

  Hilario stepped back to let Flynn enter first, his gaze following the scout with a frowning, puzzled expression. Bowers had not moved his position, but now he lifted his pistol and turned it on the rurale as the two men passed into the room.

  Once, Flynn rode into Fort Thomas with four men straggling behind him. Four returning out of twelve…and one of the eight dead was the patrol officer; so Flynn made the report. “Major”—it had not been Deneen then—“there are eight men back there in a draw, being hacked to pieces right now, because a wet-nosed lieutenant wanted to see how fast he could make a brevet.” He told it bluntly because he was angry. The major knew he was sorry—sorry for the men, and sorry because the lieutenant wasn’t there to learn a lesson. And after that, young officers fresh from the Point listened to him before entering quiet, peaceful-appearing draws. The major saw to that.

  Another time he listened to an officer tell a woman that her husband did not return with the patrol. He listened to the man hesitate and falter and say “I’m sorry…” more than a dozen times. But none of the I’m-sorrys did any good. The woman went on crying with her shoulders quivering and her mouth twisted pathetically. The two children in the next room cried because they had never heard their mother do this before.

  Another time. Another soldier’s wife. She waited until they left before breaking down. While he and the major were there, she cried only within, but only a little, because she was still telling herself that it could not be true.

  Flynn started at the beginning, telling Hilario about missing the family in Contention. He told him everything, each detail, speaking the words quietly without hesitating. And he watched Hilario’s face change—from a smile at first to a dumb stare, an expression that meant nothing. He listed those they had brought back in the wagon, painfully aware of what his words were doing to the old man; but there was no other way. He told him that it had been Apaches—because there was no sense in going into the other now—and there was a chance Nita was still alive. He didn’t say maybe it would be better if she were dead. And finally, when he had finished, he said the inevitable, “I’m sorry”—for what it was worth. He thought it might be easier to tell a man, but it was the same.

  Hilario did not cry. He sat staring with nothing in his eyes, telling himself that it was not true. Picturing them alive, because he didn’t know how to picture them dead.

  Flynn stood near the window, waiting for the old man to speak. He wanted to say again that he was sorry and he tried to think of other ways to say it; but all the words were without substance, and probably the old man would not even hear them. He looked across to the poster which advertised the bullfight in Hermosillo.

  PLAZA DE TOROS HERMOSILLO Mañana a las 4

  Tres Grandes Toreros en Competencia

  VIRAMONTES (Español) vs. Juan Toyas y Sinaloa (Mexicanos)

  Seis Hermosos Toros De la Famosa Ganadería de don Feliz Montoya Precios de Entrada

  From there down, the poster was torn from the wall.

  Flynn felt the old man next to him then.

  “The part that is not there,” the old man said, “tells that it would cost three pesos to sit in the shade and one peso to sit on the side of the sun.”

  “I was looking at it…”

  “I hope they were able to sit in the shade.” He considered this silently. Then he said, “Where are they now?”

  “We left the wagon back of the church, by the graves. There’s a boy watching it.” Flynn hesitated. He continued in Spanish, softly, “I think we should bury them soon, Hilario.”

  Hilario nodded, dazedly. “Yes. I will get the priest on the way.”

  “Flynn!”

  He went to the door quickly. Bowers glanced at him, then beckoned up the street where it led into the square. “You better get out of here!”

  “Are they coming?”

  “The whole Mexican Army!”

  7

  A dozen horsemen swung onto the square from the street siding Duro’s headquarters and crossed the open area, separating at the four-sided stone shaft, bunching again to enter the narrow street with a cloud of dust billowing after them.

  They swung down, all of them except Sergeant Santana, and spaced out in a ragged line along the front of the house, eager for something to happen. Just the two Americans coul
d not offer much resistance.

  From the saddle, Santana glared at the rurale who had been on guard. “Pick up your rifle!”

  “I was overpowered…”

  “Pick up your rifle!”

  Flynn felt the anger return, thinking of Hilario, and now these grinning animals to make a difficult situation worse. And even though he knew they couldn’t be aware of Hilario’s sorrow, still their presence grated against his nerves and polite explanation wouldn’t do. The rifle was in the road a few feet from the door stoop. Flynn moved to it now and placed his boot on the barrel before the rurale could reach it.

  “You can order your man wherever you like,” he said to Santana, “but if he stays here he doesn’t need the rifle.”

  “Your position is not the best for suggesting orders,” Santana said, half-smiling. “What is this supposed to be, an exhibition of Señor Lazair’s influence? If it is, go and tell him that I am not the teniente. I order my men with my own mind.”

  Flynn looked at him curiously. “I don’t know this Lazair,” he said.

  “Come now, why else would you be here? The teniente proves to the alcalde that he is governing body of Soyopa, then the hunter of Indians must prove that his power overbears the office of the teniente.”

  “Your words are nothing.”

  “Tell your leader,” Santana said, “and he will explain it to you.”

  “Soldier, I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. If you want to order your men, order them some place else.”

  Santana moved his sombrero back from his forehead and looked at Flynn with amazement. “God in Heaven—how this one talks!”

  From the doorway where he had been standing, Hilario moved to Flynn’s side. “Señor Santana, these men do not belong to Lazair. This one I have known before, and the other is his good friend. They have come to see me.”

  “Many days on horseback just to see the poor alcalde of Soyopa?”

  “They have come to tell me of the death of my family,” Hilario said quietly.

  Santana hesitated. “Your family?”

  “They were killed by the Apaches as they returned home.” Hilario’s lips moved stiffly as he spoke the words and tried to picture what had taken place. He added, “These friends have brought them home to be buried.”

  “Your entire family—brothers, sisters, children?”

  “I have not yet made a count.”

  Santana was silent for a long moment. Finally he shrugged—what can one do?—and said wearily, “Tend to your dead, old man.”

  He guided his horse to a turn and his rurales swung into their saddles on the signal. Let the old man alone, he thought. Along with his dead. They will guard him for the time. He pressed his heels into the horse’s sides and looked up toward the square, then reined in abruptly. Lieutenant Duro was entering the street.

  He approached slowly, holding his mount to a walk, and passed through the rurales, making them pull their horses out of the way. He dismounted with the same slow deliberateness.

  “Leaving?” he said to Santana.

  “There is nothing to be done here.”

  “Am I the last to know when my orders are disobeyed?”

  Santana dismounted reluctantly. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

  “From what!”

  “Your own affairs.”

  “Perhaps I should judge that.” He looked at Flynn and then to Bowers. “What do you want here!”

  “We’ve already done all the explaining we’re going to do,” Flynn said shortly.

  “Hilario Esteban’s family has been killed by the Apaches,” Santana said bluntly. “These came to tell him of it.”

  “Oh….” Duro’s expression eased. Instinctively he said, “May I express my deep sympathy.” To Flynn he said, “Did it occur near here?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. About ten hours ride in the wagon.”

  “Oh…. You were on your way to Soyopa?” And when Flynn nodded, Duro said, “Perhaps on business?”

  Flynn said, “You might say that.” The lieutenant irritated him strangely. All of a sudden he was too friendly.

  “We hope your stay in Soyopa will be a pleasant one,” Lieutenant Duro said. He had already forgotten about the alcalde’s family. Here was something to wonder about. Two more bounty hunters? Perhaps. And perhaps not. “We are at your service, señor…?”

  “Flynn. My friend’s name is Bowers.”

  “It is a pleasure,” Duro said, bowing slightly. “Perhaps you would find the time to dine with me later in the day.”

  Flynn glanced at Hilario. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Certainly…another time. And Hilario, if there is anything my men can do to assist you…”

  The old man looked at the lieutenant with disbelief.

  The man at the corner flicked his cigarette into the street and turned away, walking back down the row of adobe building fronts to the mescal shop. It was in the middle of the block on this, the west side of the square. A sign above the door said, Las Quince Letras—red lettering crudely done and fading as the adobe sand wore away. The man opened the screen door and put his head inside.

  “Warren!”

  He heard the horses behind him then and let the door swing closed and turned to see the rurales crossing the square at a trot. He watched Duro dismount in front of his headquarters and climb the stairs as his rurales passed down the side street. They would be returning to their garrison of tents on the south side of the village. Duro kept only two men with him on guard duty.

  The one called Warren came out of the mescal shop adjusting his hat, squinting in the direction the rurales had gone. “They going home?”

  The two men were the Americans who had witnessed the execution that morning. Now the one who had been on the corner, whose name was Lew Embree, said, “They let them go. They’re not even guarding the old man any more.”

  “Who do you suppose they are?”

  “I don’t know,” Lew said.

  “Maybe we ought to tell Lazair,” Warren said.

  They looked up as Flynn and Bowers and Hilario Esteban came out of the street and crossed to the church, following the church yard back to the house in which the priest lived. The cemetery was just beyond. The two men watched them pass out of sight.

  Warren said, “All of a sudden the old man can go where he wants.” He tried to understand this. “Maybe Duro feels sorry for him.”

  “Or else he’s tiptoeing till he finds out what’s going on,” Lew Embree said. “That younger one’s got army written all over him, but that doesn’t mean anything. He might of just gotten out.” He shrugged. “We’ll let Lazair figure it out.”

  They rode out of Soyopa by the south road, passing the rurales’ camp area, and went on in the same direction for almost three miles before beginning a gradual swing to the east. Hours later, toward evening, they were traveling northeast and now began a winding, gradual climb into timber, scrub oak at first then cedar and sycamores and finally, when they were up high, pines. They crossed a meadow of coarse sabaneta grass and as they approached the heights on the west side, the sun barely showed over the rim-rock.

  The base of the slanting rock wall was in deep shadow, and passing into the dimness, Warren said, looking up overhead, “Somebody must be asleep.”

  They heard the click close above them, sharp in the stillness—the lever action of a carbine. “Stand there!”

  Lew looked up, but could not see the guard. “Who’s that, Wesley?” He called out, “Wes, it’s me and Warren!”

  The voice answered, “What’re you sneaking up for?—sing out, or you’re liable to get shot!”

  “Go to hell….”

  They passed on, entering a defile that climbed narrowly before opening again on a pocket in the rocks, walled on all sides. Four tents formed a semicircle behind a cook fire. Off to the left another fire glowed in the dusk, a smaller one, in front of a tarpaulin rigged over the entrance to a cave. The cave was Curt Lazair’s. His fourteen men
shared the tents.

  Lew Embree handed his reins to Warren who led their horses off to where the others were picketed along the far right wall. He nodded to the men sitting around the cook fire. They looked up from tin plates, some mumbling hello, and watched him make his way over to the cave, wondering what had brought him from the pueblo, and as he reached the tarpaulin awning, Curt Lazair appeared in the entrance.

  “What are you doing back?”

  “Somebody hauled in a load of dead Mexicans right after you left,” Lew said.

  “I didn’t think they’d find ’em so quick.” Lazair eased into a camp chair, sucking his teeth, and propped his feet on a saddle in front of the chair. “You eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  Lazair nodded back toward the cave entrance. “That girl ain’t a bad cook…At least she’s good for something.”

  “The people who found ’em weren’t from Soyopa.”

  Lazair looked up. “Who were they?”

  “A couple of Americans.”

  “Prospectors?”

  Lew shrugged. “That’s the question nobody knows.”

  “Well, why didn’t you stay to find out?”

  “I figured you’d want to know right away.”

  “You could’ve left Warren there.”

  “Between the mescal and that saloon whore he’d find out a hell of a lot.”

  “What’d they look like?”

  “Like anybody else.” Lew shrugged. “They weren’t carrying signs.”

  “What!”

  Lew reconsidered. “One of them looked army.”

  “A lot of people were in the army. What does that look like?”

  “He had an army pistol holster on him…”

  “You’re about as much good as Warren.”

  “What did you want me to do, go up and ask ’em for their cards?”

  “There’re enough rum-bum rurales you could have asked!”

  “How would they know?”

  “Because they live in Soyopa and talk to people…those two aren’t bringing the bodies into Soyopa ’cause they don’t know anybody here! Why didn’t they haul them to Rueda or Alaejos? They’re just as close.”