The Bounty Hunters Read online

  Flynn was puzzled. He said, “And why is it necessary that I speak Mimbre?”

  Soldado smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “So that you may tell our children your story.”

  10

  “I’m leaving now,” Rellis said.

  Lazair was looking toward the tarp shelter of the cave, following the girl’s movements as she gathered the tin plates, scraping and stacking them, and as she picked them up she glanced toward Lazair then turned away quickly when she saw that he was watching her. The two men were standing by the cook fire; Rellis, with his bay mare behind him.

  “I said I’m leaving,” Rellis repeated, impatiently.

  “Well, go on.” Lazair still watched the cave, though the girl had gone in now.

  “I’m taking some men with me.”

  Lazair looked at him now. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  Lazair smiled faintly. “You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”

  “I get by.”

  “You’ll get by with four men today,” Lazair said quietly. “Lew and Warren are going back. Tell Lew to bring two more.” He waited, but Rellis made no reply.

  “Doesn’t that suit you?”

  Rellis shrugged lazily, but his eyes were hard on the other man’s face. “They tell me you’re the boss.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re sure of it.”

  He shrugged again. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  There was a silence. Then Lazair said quietly, “Believe it, Frank. Even if you never believe anything else.” He turned away then and moved off toward the cave, taking his time.

  Rellis mounted the bay, then looked after Lazair a long moment before calling to the men standing off by the horses. They stared up at him idly.

  “Lew, you and Warren…and two more!”

  Lew Embree nodded to two of the men and one of them said, “We got us another boss.” Rellis was moving off and did not hear him. They mounted then, resignedly, and followed Rellis down through the defile to the meadow.

  Lew glanced up to the rocks and shouted, “Wesley, you keep awake, now!” to the guard, and then laughed. Warren laughed with him. They crossed the meadow at a trot, but slowed to a walk as the grass sloped over into the pines, beginning the long winding descent. Down farther, where the trail widened, Lew spurred to ride next to Rellis.

  “Curt’s going to get that girl yet, you wait and see.” Lew grinned.

  “I don’t give a damn who he gets,” Rellis answered shortly. Then he said, “How far to the pueblo?”

  “About three, four hours,” Lew said. “Depending how fast you go.”

  “I want to get there quick.”

  “The country ain’t built for going too fast. She closes in on you and you can’t see ahead in some places.”

  “I’m not looking for anything.”

  “But the ’Paches might be looking for you.”

  Rellis turned on one hip to look at Lew. “You scared of them?”

  “Much as anybody else is,” Lew said. “It’s when you can’t see ’em but can feel ’em is when I’m scared. Like just seeing their smoke curling up in the hills and then when you get on ahead there’s another smoke rise and you know they’re passing the word that you’re coming. We was over deeper in the Madres once and we seen this smoke, but we kept going and soon there was this canyon that was still as a tomb—just rocks that went up and up and up and then sky. There wasn’t a sound but the horses. Then if you’d listen close, you’d hear the wind playing over the rocks. You’d stretch your neck looking up those walls and there was just that dead stillness…and the hum of the breeze, which you didn’t count because it would be there even if nobody was about.

  “We moved down the middle, about fifty yards from both sides. Then all of a sudden I heard this swish and a thud and right next to me Wesley’s brother…you know that boy that was on guard?…Wes’s brother falls out of the saddle with a arrow sticking out of his neck. Mister, we got out of there fast.”

  “Was Curt there?” Rellis said.

  “Sure he was there.”

  “You feel any ’Paches now?”

  “I feel ’em most every time I ride to the pueblo.”

  “Maybe you should’ve stayed back there with Curt.”

  “Maybe I’d like to have.”

  Rellis said now, “He doesn’t care much what happens to you or the rest, does he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He would’ve sent you and Warren back alone if I hadn’t been going out and said something.”

  “We rode in alone.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Rellis said. “He knows there’s ’Paches around. How come you and Warren got to ride back and forth alone?”

  “You can get used to anything,” Lew said, looking at Rellis closely now, “even a feeling.”

  “Just sits there working up his nerve to grab chiquita and lets you do all the work.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Why don’t you get out then?”

  Rellis looked at him. “Just keep your goddamn nose where it belongs.”

  “You do a lot of pushing for one man.”

  “You going to do anything about it?”

  Lew said nothing.

  “Then keep your mouth shut.”

  “A man’s got to talk about something.”

  Rellis did not answer. He rolled a cigarette and drew on it without taking it from his mouth, watching the trail.

  For a short while, Lew remained silent, then he said, “I’m going up ahead a ways and look around.” Rellis shrugged and Lew said, half turning in the saddle, “Warren, come on.”

  Rellis watched them move off, bearing to the right, climbing to higher ground, parallel with the trail but into the pines where they could watch the country below without being seen.

  He pinched the cigarette stub from his mouth and ground it out between his fingers, crumbling tobacco and paper, then let the breeze take the particles from his open palm. His eyes, light colored, mild, and contrasting oddly with the coarseness of his features, were focused on the trail ahead, because you had to be careful. And partly because he was thinking and did not want distractions. Thinking about what he would do to a tall, thin man with a light mustache who wore a shoulder rig and who thought he was so goddamn smart. You should have pulled the trigger. What the hell was wrong with you! he thought. Well, you won’t back down next time. Then he thought: I didn’t back down! The son of a bitch had something under the cloth. He wouldn’t have been so smart if he hadn’t. You played it careful, that’s all. He won’t have a chance to get anything ready this time. And it’s him, all right. It’s his description. And I can even feel it’s him, the son of a bitch.

  He thought of the things he could do to Flynn. Get him when he’s turned around and go up behind him and say something like…“Aren’t you going to say hello to your old friend?” And when the son of a bitch turns around, jam the pistol into his gut and let go…and watch the expression on his face…. He smiled thinking of this. And if that other one’s with him, he’ll get his, too. Like that old man with the beard who thought he was so smart laughing all the time.

  Then Warren was standing just off the trail in a small clearing. His horse was not in sight. He held one hand palm-toward-them and the other hand was to his mouth.

  Rellis dismounted and led his horse toward him. “What’s the matter?”

  “ ’Paches.”

  “Where?”

  “Down below. Going into a draw that comes out just up a ways from where Lew is now.”

  “How many?”

  “Six. But two of them have got hats on.”

  They left their horses and followed Warren up through the pines, then, just ahead, they could see Lew belly-down behind the rocks, his carbine pointing down the draw. Farther back, the trough between the hills was dense with trees, but here the trees thinned as the draw climbed i
nto a rise, its steep sides falling gradually away. Lew’s carbine pointed to where the riders would come out of the trees. He glanced around as he heard the others come up.

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  Rellis eased down next to him and the other spread out along the rocks.

  “We ought to have somebody over on the other side,” Lew said, “but it’s too late now.”

  “Where are they?” Rellis said.

  “They’ll show any minute.” Lew pointed with the carbine barrel. “Come out right over there and pass within a hundred feet.”

  Rellis said, “Five against six,” considering this.

  “They won’t have a chance.”

  “What’s this about two of them wearing hats?”

  “They was way off when I spotted them but that’s what it looked like.”

  “I never heard of that.”

  Lew said, “I seen reservation ’Paches wearing hats.” He raised himself on his elbows and looked toward the others down the line then to Rellis, “If we do this right,” he said, “we got us six hundred pesos in the bank.”

  Rellis said nothing. He had both a carbine and a shotgun with him, and now he was examining the shotgun. At this range the shotgun would be better, especially if they rode close together.

  Suddenly he heard Lew whisper, “Here they come. Get ready.”

  A lone Apache came out of the trees slowly, cautiously. He rode directly up the middle of the draw, holding his pony to a walk. Near the rise, he angled toward the far side and as he reached the slope, two more appeared from the trees coming out into the open. They scanned both sides of the draw as they drew closer to the rise. One of them rode straight ahead, urging his pony up the rise. The other followed for a short distance, then veered abruptly, coming toward the near side. He stopped suddenly and his eyes crawled over the rimrock.

  Rellis whispered to Lew, “Take him. I’ll get the one on the rise.” His head turned to Warren. “The one on the other side. Tell the others.”

  “That’s only three of them,” Lew whispered hoarsely.

  “We can’t wait forever…take him!”

  Lew squinted down the short barrel as Rellis swung the shotgun toward the Apache who had stopped at the crest of the rise.

  Flynn felt his horse’s head jerk suddenly and saw that the Apache was leading them off to the side toward the hill slope. A line trailed from the Apache’s horse, back through the bit ring of Flynn’s bridle to Bowers’ and was tied there. Their hands were lashed to the saddle horns. Ahead, they could see Matagente and the two other Apaches disappearing into the trees.

  Bowers said, “Did you make out what he told them?”

  “He said they’d go on up to that rise…see it way up there over the trees?…and signal for us to follow.”

  “Doesn’t take any chances.”

  “They never do,” Flynn said.

  The Apache, with one of their Springfields across his lap, was looking intently toward the rise. He glanced toward them then and muttered gutturally.

  Bowers said, “What was that?”

  “Mimbre for shut-up,” Flynn said.

  They kept their eyes on the rise. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile above them, but seemed much closer because of the height. Then one of the Apaches was visible past the dense tops of the trees, a small speck moving gradually up the slope. They watched him reach the crest and stop there, and he seemed to wait there uncertainly before turning his mount to face back down the draw.

  He sat erect on the pony’s back and raised his hand to shield the glare from his eyes, looking over the trees below him. Then the other hand raised a carbine high overhead and waved it once in a long sweeping motion. And as if on the signal, gunfire cut the stillness, echoing down the draw.

  The Apache clung low to the pony and started to move off, but he was sliding to the side and as the horse broke he fell, grabbing wildly for the mane, and rolled down out of sight. There were more shots, but from below they could see no one.

  The Mimbre did not hesitate. Flynn swore. Bowers yelled as he cut past them suddenly. The lead rope turned their horses abruptly, jerked from standstill to dead-run as he swerved out into the draw and back down the way they had come. They dodged after the Mimbre through the scattering of trees and brush scraping mesquite thickets, riding head-down, unable to raise their arms against the branches. The lead rope would slacken, then tighten suddenly to stagger their mounts off balance, though neither of them went down. When they reached open country the Mimbre paused to listen, but now there was no sound of firing. And he moved off again at a sharp right angle, skirting the base of the hills. Soon, though, he angled into the hills again, now leading them much slower.

  “You never know, do you?” Bowers said.

  “Not in this country.”

  “It’s either rurales or this Lazair,” Bowers considered, and when the scout nodded, he said, “Where’s he going now?”

  “He’ll want to take a look before running for home.”

  “With us along?”

  “Maybe he’s got plans for us,” Flynn said.

  They moved up into high country behind the Apache who would stop frequently to listen; climbing slowly because there was no trail, winding into natural switchbacks where the ground rose steeper, transforming itself into jagged rock formations. But always there were dense pines scattered, straggling over the slopes, and they kept to the dimness of the trees most of the time. The sunlight clung to the open areas, coldly reflecting on the grotesque stone shapes—shadowed crevices and the brush clumps that stirred lazily when the wind would rise.

  And over it all, a stillness.

  For a time, as they climbed, the cry of a verdin followed them. But when they looked up into the trees the bird was never there—hidden against the flat shade of a tree limb. A thin, bodiless cry in the stillness. Just before they stopped they saw the verdin suddenly rise from a cholla bush and disappear into the glare, and they did not hear him again.

  The Mimbre led them into a hollow that was steep on three sides with shelf rock, ending abruptly only a dozen yards beyond the brush fringe of the entrance. He dismounted, dropping the Springfield, and approached Flynn’s horse.

  He looked up at the scout steadily for a moment then moved in close and quickly unstrapped the latigo. He grabbed Flynn’s leg suddenly and pulled, dragging him down with his saddle. He moved to Bowers then and did the same thing, and now both of them were on the ground still astride their saddles. If they were to move, they would have to drag the saddles between their legs. The Mimbre picked up the Springfield, then glanced at them once more before disappearing through the brush.

  Rest easy, Flynn thought. He saw Bowers begin to strain at the rawhide that was squeezing his wrists and he said quickly, “Not yet!” Bowers looked up and he added quietly, “He’s watching us. Give him time to calm down and get out.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Flynn said.

  Bowers relaxed, squatting hunched over the saddle, and his fingers moved idly against the saddle horn. It would be easy to drag the saddle over and untie Flynn’s hands, since his fingers were free, and he could not understand this. Finally he said, “We can get out of this. Why didn’t he tie us to a tree?”

  “Because he’d have to free our hands to do it,” Flynn said. “He didn’t want to take a chance, and this is the next best thing. He’s more concerned with those others over in the draw—close friends, maybe a brother.”

  “Why didn’t he kill us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason Soldado did not.”

  Bowers frowned. “Which was what?”

  “You’d have to ask an Apache,” Flynn said.

  Bowers said nothing now, listening to the silence, staring up at the shelf rock and the sky directly above them and over the brush fringe at the entrance. The hollow was in deep shadow because now the sun was off to the west. After a time he shook his head wearily.

  “It’s a god-a
wful poor way to fight a war,” he said.

  Flynn looked at him. “What war?”

  “Whatever you want to call it then,” Bowers said irritably.

  “No cannons.”

  “You can keep the cannon.”

  “It’s a good thing that old Apache doesn’t have any.”

  “Or the rurales…or this Lazair,” Bowers said. “I’m trying to make up my mind who’s the worst of the three.”

  Flynn said quietly, “I don’t think there’s any doubt.”

  Bowers thought of the wagon train now, and of the girl and what the old Apache had said about the red stones and the white stones and he knew what Flynn meant. And he said nothing. But after a while, after he had thought of Flynn and the girl and Flynn’s never mentioning the girl, he became angry and he thought: He’s been fighting Apaches so long he acts like one. No emotions. Just a stoicism—like a rock.

  They waited for almost two hours, talking in low tones when they did talk, and now there was little light showing over the brush fringe. Then, “It’s about that time,” Flynn said matter-of-factly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Bowers looked at him as the cavalry guide rose and dragged over his saddle and pushed it tight against Bowers. His fingers strained away from the rawhide until he touched Bowers’ hand, then the fingers worked at the rawhide slowly because the knots were stiff and he did not have the full strength of his hands to use. But finally the thong loosened and Bowers was free. He untied the guide’s hands. They passed through the brush cover and moved off in a general southwest direction toward Soyopa.

  But when it was full dark, they stopped. A niche in the rocks would protect them from the wind. There was no fire; and before lying down, Flynn placed a semicircle of loose stones out a few yards from the niche. Then they slept; even with the chill and the wind moaning over the rocks. The Apaches had prevented sleep entirely the night before. And the dead had made it fitful the night before that.

  They moved off again with the first light, past the circle of stones that were still in place.

  “We’re above that draw now,” Flynn said. “The Mimbre brought us almost clear around it to the other side.” He pointed far off over the trees to the wild country that fell below them. “It’s down in there somewhere. If we head about that way we’ll cross it…maybe find out what happened.”