The Bounty Hunters

  Flynn paid Willet, who took the money silently, then moved to the antlers. He took down his coat, then lifted off his gun harness and passed his arm through the sling so that the holster hung well below his left armpit, the long-barreled .44 extending past his belt. He put on the tan coat, faded, bleached almost white. His light Stetson was sweat-stained around the band and he wore the stiff brim straight, close over his eyes. Putting it on, he said, “We’ll see you again, John.”

  Willet said now, “He’s not going to forget that. Dave, you don’t know that man.”

  Madora said, “But he knows Dave now.”

  2

  They rode out of Contention toward the cavalry station which was two miles north, up on the San Pedro. It was a one-troop post and Flynn wondered why it had been chosen for the meeting place. He had been working out of Fort Thomas since his return, and Bowers was from Whipple Barracks. But that was like Deneen. He’d pick it so you would wonder. Deneen, the departmental adjutant, whom he’d known for a long time. Too long. Since Chancellorsville. And there was a day at Chancellorsville that he would never forget. Madora had said once that you ought to take a good look at Deneen because he was one of the few honest-to-God full-blooded sons of bitches left.

  They rode relaxed, walking the mares, Flynn on a buckskin and Madora on a chestnut. It was close to four o’clock and already the sun was low off to the left, a long crimson streak above the colorless sierra of the Catalinas.

  Madora said, “Remember Anastacio Esteban?”

  Flynn looked up, surprised. “Very well.”

  “He came through here yesterday with about the whole tribe. Four or five wagons of big and little Estebans hanging on every place you looked.”

  “Here? They live down in Sonora. Soyopa.”

  “I know it,” Madora said. “They were up the line for some shindig. You know Anastacio made a lot of friends when he was packin’ mules for the army. It don’t take much to get him back for a celebration.”

  Flynn said, “I came through Soyopa. I was digging just southeast of there and stopped off on my way back. Anastacio had me spend the night at his dobe.”

  “He mentioned he saw you.”

  “His brother Hilario is the alcalde now. Least he was six months ago when I passed through.”

  Madora nodded. “The quiet one.”

  “Unlike his brother,” Flynn said. “He wasn’t along, was he?”

  “No; his daughter was. Did you meet her?”

  “I think so.”

  “You don’t think so about her. You either did or you didn’t.”

  “Anita?”

  “Nita,” Madora said. “She could stand a few more pounds, but she’s much woman the way she is.”

  “She was along?”

  “Taking her father’s place. They passed through here just yesterday. You might catch up with them…depending when you leave.”

  “We might,” Flynn said.

  He had become acquainted with the good-natured Anastacio while still in the army, during the time Anastacio transported supplies for them; Anastacio the mule skinner, the arriero, who talked to his animals as if they were his children, and drank mescal as if it were water. But he had not met the others until he passed through the pueblo of Soyopa. They had not come up into Arizona to work as Anastacio had done. Hilario, the quiet one. And Nita, whom one remembered well. Perhaps he would see them again.

  “Deneen’s here already,” Madora observed, as they rode into the quadrangle of Camp Contention; a scattering of cottonwoods behind a row of drab, wind-scarred adobes, a flagpole, then a long low stable shed facing the adobes.

  “That’s his bay over there in the end stall the trooper’s wipin’ down,” Madora said. “When Deneen’s standin’ next to it you got to blink your eyes to tell which is the genuine horse’s-ass, and then you can never be dead sure.”

  At the end of the stable shed, a dozen or more figures sat about a smoking fire. The sun was behind them and Flynn could not make out who they were until he put his hand up to shield the sun glare.

  “My boys,” Madora said.

  Flynn recognized them then—Coyotero Apaches, working for the army as trackers. The Apaches looked toward them then and one of them stood up and waved. He wore a faded issue shirt, but it lost its regulation worn with the rest of his attire. Red cotton headband and gray breech clout, and moccasin leggings that reached his thighs.

  Madora said, “You remember him?”

  “Three-cents,” Flynn said. “He worked with me awhile.”

  “That red son’s better than a bloodhound,” Madora said.

  A sign marked the adobe headquarters. Black lettering on a whitewashed board to the right of the door: TROOP E—SIXTH U.S. CAVALRY.

  A trooper who had been at parade rest by the door took their reins and they went inside.

  By the left wall, an officer, holding a kepi in his hand, came up quickly off the bench that was there and Flynn knew that this was Bowers. He glanced at the sergeant seated behind the desk and nodded, then looked back at the officer. A young man—no, he looked more a boy—above medium height, red hair cropped close and a pinkish clean-lined face with a serious set to it. His dark brown eyes held the question, though it was plain he was trying to seem incurious.

  “Bowers?”

  The young man nodded.

  “Dave Flynn. You know Joe Madora.”

  The officer nodded again, taking the outstretched hand. His grip was firm and he returned Flynn’s close inspection as they shook hands.

  “We had a divisional commander named Bowers.”

  “He was my father.”

  “Good soldier.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then Flynn beckoned to the door leading into the post commander’s office. “Is Deneen in there?”

  Bowers nodded. “With Lieutenant Woodside.”

  “Have you seen him yet?”

  “Only for a few minutes.”

  “He hasn’t explained anything, then.”

  “I don’t see the necessity of an explanation,” Bowers stated. “I’ve already received my orders.”

  “May I see them?”

  Bowers hesitated.

  “Look, I’m on your side.”

  He drew a folded paper then from inside his jacket. “You are mentioned here,” Bowers said quietly. “I assumed, though, that this would be discussed in a more private manner.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” Flynn said. He glanced at Bowers’ serious face and wanted to smile, but he did not.

  Madora moved next to him then, to look over his shoulder. “That’s a nice hand,” he said.

  Flynn held it close to his face. “I don’t smell any perfume on it.”

  “Well, don’t get it too close or you’re liable to smell something else,” Madora said. They read the orders in silence.

  FROM: .R.L. Deneen, Col. ept. Adjutant, Department of Arizona n the field, Camp Contention, Arizona Terr. O: egis Duane Bowers, Second Lt. th Cav. Reg. hipple Barracks, Prescott, Arizona Terr. UBJECT: ransfer and Reassignment

  17 Oct. 1876

  As of this date, R. D. Bowers is formally assigned to the office of the Departmental Adjutant, Department of Arizona, and is hereby instructed to report to Camp Contention, Arizona Terr., for detailed instructions concerning the following outlined orders:

  Within one week, or, before 25 Oct., R. D. Bowers will have made preparations for extended patrol.

  R. D. Bowers will contact one D. Flynn, civilian contract guide. However, herenamed contract employee is free to decline assignment. Substitute, if needed, will be selected by the office of the Department Adjutant.

  R. D. Bowers and civilian guide will proceed to that section of Sonora (Mexico) indicated at a future date.

  Aforementioned are to make contact, without show of arms, with one Soldado Viejo, hostile Mimbreño Apache, and return said hostile to Apache Agency, San Carlos, Arizona Terr.

  R. D. Bowers is warned that if detained by Mexican authoritie
s, because of the nature of the assignment he will not be recognized by the United States as a lawful agent.

  The subject matter contained herein is of the strictest confidential nature.

  The office of the Department Adjutant extends its heartiest wish for a successful undertaking.

  A. R. L. DENEEN Department Adjutant

  Madora said, “That last line’s the one.”

  Flynn returned the sheet to Bowers and moved to the bench; sitting down, hooking a boot heel on the edge, he made a cigarette and took his time lighting it, then exhaled the smoke leisurely, studying the young officer who was trying to appear composed, trying to look West Point. And it was plain that the orders meant very little as far as he was concerned.

  This was the man he would take across the Rio Grande—which they would call the Bravos then—to find Soldado, a broncho Mimbre, who had been fighting longer than Bowers or he had lived. Four dollars a day to guide a new lieutenant with only one year of frontier station behind him. To take him across sun-beaten nothingness and into scrambling rock-strewn puzzling never-ending canyons in search of something that would probably not be there. But always with eyes open, because the Apache knows his business. He knows it better than anyone else. How to kill. That simple? Yes, that simple, he thought. That’s what it boils down to. That’s what it is from where you’re standing, so that’s what you call it. Four dollars a day. More than a lieutenant makes. His uniform compensates for the low pay rate…though he could die naked as easy as not.

  He heard Madora say, “What’s he got on you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Bowers said, startled.

  “He must a caught you with his old lady.”

  Bowers looked at him steadily, but said nothing.

  Flynn took his hat off, leaning back, and felt the adobe cool against the back of his head. “Mister,” he said to Bowers, “what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  God, the calm one. He’s tensed-up being calm. “About your orders.”

  “You almost answer your own question. They are orders. Under the circumstances I doubt if an opinion would affect them one way or the other.”

  Madora grinned. “Look out, Dave. You got yourself a serious one.”

  “I don’t believe this concerns you in the least,” Bowers said coldly.

  There was silence. Flynn watched the lieutenant grip his hands behind his back and walk to the single window. Flynn said to the back, “Do you know what you’re talking about?”

  Bowers turned on him sharply. “Mr. Flynn, I assure you I am capable of interpreting a military order. It is a precise, unadorned, quite literal description for a specific assignment which I have been trained to obey without question, without hesitation. Since my opinion is of no value, I see little reason in discussing it…especially with a person who is in no way related to the order in question. Is that quite clear?”

  “Very clear, Mr. Bowers.” Colonel Deneen stood in the doorway of the post commander’s office. Lieutenant Woodside could be seen behind him. “And I might say unduly modest of you. Your opinion is worth…something.”

  He hesitated, his eyes roaming over the group in the outer office. He was a man of medium height, in his early forties, carefully dressed, from the trace of white showing above his collar to the highly polished black boots and silver spurs that chinged softly as he moved into the room. And though he took only a few steps, a faint limp was noticeable, a favoring of the right foot as he put his weight on it. One hand picked idly at the front of his tunic, as if removing invisible lint, and he looked at the three men closely, individually, as if to command their attention.

  “At ease, Mr. Bowers.” He nodded to Madora, who stood relaxed with thumbs in vest pockets, then his eyes went to Flynn and stopped there. Flynn had not moved his position. He leaned against the wall with a half-boot still hooked on the edge of the bench, his arm resting idly on the raised knee and the extended hand holding the stub of a cigarette. He drew on it as Deneen looked toward him.

  “Don’t get up, Flynn.”

  Dave Flynn returned his stare, looking up at the smooth features, dark hair well combed and shining. He dropped the cigarette then, but did not step on it. He glanced at Woodside, the post commander. “Don, good to see you again.” Then back to Deneen—“How’s the foot, Colonel?”

  For a moment the face tightened and the dark eyes did not blink, holding squarely on Flynn, as if waiting for him to say more, but Flynn remained silent. The face relaxed then and Deneen said, “Very well, thank you.”

  There was the hint of a smile playing at the tips of Flynn’s mustache. “That’s good. Sometimes those old wounds start aching, especially when the weather’s damp.”

  “Fortunately the climate is uncommonly dry.”

  “Fortunately.”

  “I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

  “I don’t imagine you did.”

  “You know why you were asked, of course.”

  “As well as you do.”

  “Because of your knowledge of the country. I’m told you’ve been on a mining venture down there for something like a year and a half. I assume it was unsuccessful, or you would not have returned to scouting. Did you see signs of Soldado Viejo?”

  “There are always signs.”

  “And less cryptically, that means what?”

  “The dead.”

  “I suppose the Mexican government has done little.”

  “On my way up I talked to a man in Soyopa who said that Porfirio Diaz was sending police to help them. They were expected any day.”

  “Rurales?”

  Flynn nodded.

  “His newly formed police. Bandits to fight bandits.”

  “Maybe that’s the way,” Flynn said.

  “What about the scalp bounty?”

  “The government’s still paying it if you’re man enough to take an Apache’s hair.”

  “I’m told there’s an American outlaw down there making something of a success of scalp hunting. Lazair. Have you heard of him?”

  “He was pointed out to me once.”

  “Where?”

  “In Guazapares, over a year ago. At that time scalps had to be taken to Guazapares for the bounty. Lazair rode in with some of his men and I saw him at a distance. I saw his face before that on wanted dodgers up here.”

  “How does he get along with the authorities?”

  Flynn shrugged. “I don’t know. Everybody seems afraid of him.”

  “I’m told he’s now trying quite eagerly for Soldado’s scalp.”

  “He should, it’s worth five hundred pesos,” Flynn said. “Are you suggesting we go to him for help?”

  Deneen smiled faintly. “If you were making a business of scalping Apaches, would you think kindly of someone appearing to take them away?”

  “I was going to remind you of the same thing.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility of my own reminding.”

  Flynn shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing.

  “I will mention again,” Deneen said politely, “that you are not obligated in any way to take this assignment.”

  “What about Bowers?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “I mean nothing personal, but there are other officers with considerably more experience who might have been chosen.” He glanced at Bowers as he said it and saw the young officer stiffen, as if anxious to reply.

  Deneen said, “Do you imply that you won’t go if Lieutenant Bowers does?”

  “Of course not. I just don’t see why you’d send an inexperienced man on a job like this.”

  “And how do you gain this experience if you never take the field?”

  “Tracking Soldado in his own element isn’t exactly just taking the field.”

  “We’re not going to debate it. You either go or you don’t go.”

  “I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  “I haven’t the time. Are you going?”

  Flynn hes
itated, then nodded his head.

  “You will leave in the morning. The quartermaster sergeant will issue your ammunition if you use a Springfield; otherwise you supply your own.”

  “I’m aware of all that.”

  “Then there’s no reason to detain you,” Deneen said, and turned abruptly to Bowers. “Lieutenant, step into the office.”

  The sun had dropped below the horizon line of the Catalinas and they rode back to Contention in the silent dusk, Flynn thinking, reminding himself that he was in it now, and that was that.

  “He was almost half decent for a minute,” Madora said. “Then the ninety-nine percent bastard started to show.”

  “You’ve got to hand him that,” Flynn said. “He’s consistent.” Flynn was silent, riding, following the sway of his mount. Then, “Joe, where does he get his authority for this?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “The orders said the army wouldn’t recognize us. If there was an agreement with Mexico, there’d be an expedition.”

  “With a lot of noise,” Madora added. “And you’d never find Soldado.”

  “That’s not the point. What does the general say about this? I don’t think it’s something that can be kept from him.”

  “Deneen’s a talker,” Madora said. “Maybe he can explain it so it sounds legal.”

  “Maybe.” Flynn shrugged it off then, saying, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m leadin’ Deneen’s grand tour of post inspections. With Three-cents and his Coyoteros along to add color.”

  “You could do worse.”

  “Like what?”

  It was dark when they turned off Commercial Street onto Stockman, riding past the Republic House on the corner. They were both staying there and they boarded their horses at the livery stable behind the hotel, on Stockman. They dismounted in front of the wide doorway framing the darkness inside.

  “I wonder where the man is?” Madora said. He stopped just inside, blinking his eyes.

  Behind him, Flynn said, “Seems to me there was a lantern on a nail along the boards there.”

  “Over here?” Madora moved into the darkness.