The Bounty Hunters

  “Oh….”

  “Oh,” Lazair mimicked him. He rolled a cigarette then, idly, considering what this could mean.

  Lew said, “Maybe we shouldn’t of hit that wagon string. There were too many of ’em…all from Soyopa.”

  Lazair said nothing.

  “Now,” Lew went on, “people right in the village have got kin and close friends to pray over and wonder about…and maybe they’ll wonder so long they’ll figure something out.”

  “How much they hate the Apaches,” Lazair said. “That’s all the figuring they’ll do.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to like it! You don’t get paid for your smiles!”

  “Maybe those two Americans’ll figure out something…”

  “Goddamn it shut up, will you! I can’t think with you crying in my ear!”

  Two Americans suddenly appear with the bodies. They must have had a reason for coming down here. They stumble onto the ambush and know exactly where to cart the bodies; they knew they were from Soyopa, Lazair thought. Hell, if they knew where they were from, then they knew who they were! Why? Maybe one of the Mexicans had something on him that told what his village was. What are you getting so excited about? Probably a couple of saddle tramps looking for greener grass. Just mustered out of the Army. Maybe they heard about the scalp bounty and thought it was worth a try. You son of a bitch, you’ve got fourteen men with you and you worry about two. But all of a sudden people were starting to pop out of nowhere. Like the man they ran into just before the ambush who wanted to join the band. Well, the ambush was his test. He came out all right. If he had backed down, he’d have been left with the dead. Sure, he turned out all right. He thought now: And maybe he saw them. He must have come down the same way.

  He called over to the cook fire, “Frank!”

  The man was a shadowy figure crossing the camp area, taking his time until finally he appeared out of the dimness in front of the fire at the edge of the tarp awning. Frank Rellis had changed little. Dirtier, that was all.

  “What?”

  “When you were coming down from Contention, did you see anybody?”

  “Did I see anybody?”

  “Two Americans.”

  “What the hell kind of a question is that?” Rellis said.

  Lazair swung on Lew irritably. “What did they look like!”

  “One was a little taller than medium size, thin in the hips and put his boots down hard like a horse soldier. A young fella with red hair. The other one had a mustache, light-colored. He was stringier than the other fella and seemed taller. He looked peaceful enough, but his coat bulged a little like he had a six-gun under it.”

  Rellis said instantly, “A soldier mustache?”

  Lew said, “Yeah, and the other one had an army holster on his side.”

  “Where are they?”

  Lazair looked at Rellis curiously. “You know them?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Soyopa. They found those dead Mexicans and brought ’em in,” Lazair said watching him closely. “I asked you if you knew them.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I do. One of them sounds like an old friend. Maybe I ought to go to Soyopa and find out for sure.” He walked away before Lazair could ask him anything else.

  Lazair watched him go back to the cook fire. The hell with it, he thought. Getting anything out of that son of a bitch is like pulling teeth. If it was something to worry about he would have said something. He looked at Lew Embree. “You want a drink?”

  “Fine.”

  Lazair half turned and called behind him, “Honey!” There was no answer and he winked at Lew. “She’s bashful.”

  Lew grinned, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. “How is she?”

  “I can’t even get her to smile.”

  “They don’t have to smile.”

  “Honey!” Lazair called again. “Bring us out a bottle of something!”

  Nita Esteban appeared in the cave opening, in half-shadow, the light of the fire barely reaching her. She held the ends of a red scarf that was about her shoulders tightly in front of her. Her features were small, delicate against the soft blackness of her hair. Her skin was pale in the light of the fire and her eyes were in shadow.

  Lazair glanced at her and grinned. “A bottle of mescal, honey.”

  She disappeared and returned in a moment with the bottle in her hand. She approached Lazair reluctantly, handed the bottle to him and turned quickly, but as she did this he reached for her. She felt his hand on her back and dodged out of reach, twisting her body away from him. But his fingers tightened on the scarf and pulled it from her shoulders as she slipped away.

  Lew grinned at his chief. “That’s a step toward it.”

  “She likes to play.” Lazair felt the material between his fingers and then tore it down the middle.

  Lew said, “Maybe she’s upset after seeing what you did to her kin.”

  Lazair folded a part of the scarf lengthwise, then tied it around his neck, sticking the ends into his shirt. “Some girls are funny that way,” he said.

  8

  “O God, by whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, vouchsafe to bless this grave, and appoint Thy holy angel to guard it; and release the souls of all those whose bodies are buried here from every bond of sin, that in Thee they may rejoice with Thy saints forever. Through Christ our Lord.”

  The Franciscan made the sign of the cross in the air and sprinkled the grave with holy water.

  Flynn waited patiently, though within him there was an impatience, while the priest finished his prayer over the last grave. He was anxious to be going, but the Franciscan had moved slowly from grave to grave, reciting the burial prayers reverently, a liturgy unaffected by time. There was no need to hurry.

  Flynn’s restlessness was not out of irreverence. He whispered his prayers with the priest, but his mind kept wandering to the news the vaquero had brought.

  As they were lowering the bodies into the freshly dug graves, the vaquero had ridden in, killing his mount with the urgency of his news. He had seen Apaches! Tending his herd, a dozen miles from Soyopa, he had entered a draw after a stray—and there at the other end, trailing down from high country, were the Apaches. He had flown before they were able to see him, he told. But he had looked back once, and coming out of the draw they had traveled southeast in the direction of the deserted village of Valladolid. How many? Perhaps six or seven.

  “Then it is not a raiding party,” a man had said.

  “Who knows the way of the Apache,” the vaquero answered. He perspired, and the wide eyes told that he was still frightened.

  “What about your cows?”

  “My cows must protect themselves.”

  Flynn had listened with interest. Perhaps this was the opportunity. They could scour the hills for months without finding an Apache. Now, the Apaches had shown themselves. Scout them, he thought. Perhaps they would lead to Soldado Viejo, or, he could even be one of the six. He asked the vaquero to take them back to where he had seen the Apaches, but the vaquero steadfastly refused. Well, they could go alone.

  “We might wait a long time for a trail as fresh as this one,” he told Bowers.

  Bowers shrugged. “Why not? That’s why we’re here.”

  A few of the villagers who had heard this looked at the Americans curiously.

  They returned to the alcalde’s house for their horses, then passed the cemetery again as they left Soyopa by the trail north. Hilario was still standing by the graves. He would move to the foot of a grave, recite the “Hail Mary” and drop a small stone, then move to the next. Later, the villagers would come and do this and after that any traveler entering Soyopa who knew a prayer for the dead would drop a stone.

  The vaquero had told them approximately where his small herd had been grazing. Flynn remembered vaguely this country just to the north and the small village of Valladolid, half the size of Soyopa, a lonely outpost for vaqueros and th
eir families. He had passed through it returning home. But now, he was told, Valladolid was only adobe—as lifeless as the mud it was made from. Soldado had struck the vaqueros too often and finally they had left it for larger villages—Soyopa, Rueda and others to the south; though some few herds were still grazed up there in the wild grama and toboso grass.

  They rode due north through the afternoon, Flynn a few yards ahead of Bowers. Bowers would make the decisions; it was his assignment. But Flynn would show the way; it was his business.

  They found the herd without difficulty, though the cattle were scattered, perhaps thirty head grazing from one end of the meadow to the other. There could be others in the hills now, hidden by the scrub trees, and up the draw which they recognized from the vaquero’s description. Flynn did not doubt that the Apaches had driven off some, but until later he was not sure how many.

  On the east edge of the meadow they stopped to eat—beef and tortillas which Hilario had told them to take from his house; then followed after the unshod horse tracks as they left the meadow.

  At first, Flynn would step down from the saddle often to examine the prints more closely. But in less than a quarter of a mile he was sure and he said to Bowers, “The cowboy wasn’t exaggerating. There are six of them. They’re driving three cows.” Farther on there were horse droppings in the trail. Flynn dismounted again. “They’re not expecting anybody to be following.”

  Bowers said, “How far ahead?”

  “About four hours.” His eyes swung up to the high country that was before them. “They should be farther than that.”

  Bowers said, “They’re taking their time. Maybe they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be chased.”

  “What about Lazair?”

  Bowers looked at him quickly, curiously, “That rurale mentioned him.”

  Flynn nodded. “So did Deneen. The rurale thought we worked for him, and he said something about the hunter of Indians proving to the lieutenant who was boss.”

  Bowers said, “Hunter of Indians.”

  “Bounty hunters,” Flynn said.

  They began climbing shortly after. The ground was high on both sides and the draw rose gradually toward thick scrub brush. Still following the tracks, they crossed a bench then climbed again, now into pine, and soon they reached the long flat crest of the rise. In the distance, the hills took up again, but more rugged—tumbling into each other, spewed with rock and brush, forming a thousand fantastic shapes. The unshod tracks continued on down the slope of the hill, and below them, deathly still in the evening light, was the village of Valladolid.

  “Well?” Bowers asked it.

  Flynn’s eyes roamed over the adobe huts, half squinting. The first buildings were perhaps four hundred yards down the slope. The walls were wind-scarred and the bricks showed in many places where the outer plastering of adobe had crumbled off. Beyond these, a patchwork of brush rooftops, some caved in or blown away. Grass and brush grew in the streets which they could see, and the taller growth swayed gently as the wind moved through the shadowed lanes. The village seemed all the more dead, because it had once been alive.

  Bowers said, “What are you thinking about?”

  “All the places down here an Apache could hide,” Flynn said.

  They moved back into the heavier pines and tied their horses to the lowest branches so they could graze, then sat down to rest and think and check their guns. And for the next hour they smoked cigarettes cupped in their hands and spoke little. When it was almost full dark, Flynn nodded and they rose together and moved back to the slope.

  Flynn was starting down the grade as Bowers touched his arm, and he stopped. “Do you really think it’s worth it?” Bowers said.

  Flynn shrugged. “You have something else you’d rather do?”

  “You could lie down there and no one would even know about it.”

  “The Apaches would….”

  Flynn moved off then, Bowers a few yards behind him. They descended slowly, taking their time, and when they had gone almost halfway Flynn motioned to keep lower. The rest of the way they moved more cautiously, zigzagging through the shadows of the brush clumps. Flynn would move ahead, then drop to his stomach and wait for Bowers to follow, then lie motionless to make sure the silence had not changed before moving again. The brush straggled all the way down to the first building, so there was no opening to cross, and when they reached the wall they pressed close to it in the deep shadow of the roof overhang and waited a longer time now.

  A cricket chirped inside the house, then another. Flynn eased to the corner of the building, and moved around it holding tight to the wall with his back. He went to a crouch then, passing beneath the small front window. As he disappeared through the doorway the crickets stopped.

  Bowers waited at the corner of the house. He counted seconds mechanically, a full minute, while he strained against the silence. Then he followed.

  Inside he could see nothing. To the left a window framed the night, shades lighter than the inside darkness, and through it he could make out the dim outline of the next building. He heard Flynn whisper, “Here,” and moved toward the sound of his voice.

  He touched Flynn before he saw him, against the wall by the window.

  “Do you think they’re here?”

  “Almost dead sure.”

  “Why?”

  Flynn spoke very low, close to Bowers’ face. “Because you don’t hear anything. Something scared off the night sounds.”

  The breeze moved through the streets and somewhere a door creaked. It banged—a pistol report against the warped frame—then creaked open again. They were startled by the abruptness of the sound, even though they knew it was the wind.

  Flynn said, “Are you afraid?”

  Bowers hesitated. “I suppose so.”

  “Everybody gets scared sometime,” Flynn said.

  “Do you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do Apaches?”

  “I never asked one. But we might find out.” He wanted to see Bowers’ face, but it was too dark. “It’s not so routine now, is it?”

  Bowers said, “No,” quietly.

  “Do you think you’re a better soldier than these Mimbres?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When will you?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “It’s the not seeing them, isn’t it?”

  Bowers nodded. “What do you want to do?”

  “Take them. If they think we’re a bunch they might quit without a fight. Now, they’re most likely camped in the square, not chancing getting trapped inside a house. If we can get on two sides and pour it in all of a sudden, we’ll catch them with their breechclouts down.”

  “What if they fight?”

  Flynn winked and the tone of his voice meant the same thing. “You’ll think of something. That’s what they pay you for.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’re about five houses from the square; you go up this row, I’ll cross over a few rows and work around to the other side of the square. Just think of one thing: if it doesn’t wear a hat, shoot it.”

  Bowers saw the form silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, then Flynn was gone.

  The cavalryman turned to the window and his body tensed as he lifted his leg and hooked it over the window sill. He paused, sitting on one thigh, before pulling his body through. Then he was out. He moved to the next building and listened for a long minute before going through the window. As he did, the stock of the carbine scraped the inside wall. The sound was rasping, loud in the small room, and Bowers stiffened. He closed his eyes tightly. Finally, when he opened them, he thought: Dammit, hold onto yourself!

  Inside, thick darkness again, and the window in the other wall framing the lighter shade of the outside. He went through to the next house, but remained there a longer time while he listened for the sounds that never came, and he tried to picture fear on the face of an Apache.

  It took him longer to climb through this window, because no
w he was more careful. Just keep going, he thought. Don’t think and keep going. He dropped to the ground and darted to the next wall keeping his head down. His hand touched the adobe, groped along the crumbling surface; his head came up quickly then and he looked both ways along the wall. But there was no window on this side of the house.

  He moved to the corner and inched his face around with his cheek flat to the wall, then sank gradually to hands and knees and crawled along the front of the house, careful of the carbine. At the doorway he paused again, listening, then rose and stepped into the darkness. Instantly the smell touched his nostrils. It hung oppressively in the small room. A raw smell that made him think of blood, and of a butcher’s shop.

  He started to move and the toe of his foot touched something soft. He stooped then, slowly, extending his hand close to the floor until the palm touched it and told him what it was. Cowhide, and the bloated firmness of the belly. Freshly butchered…

  Behind him there was a whisper of sound. He knew what it had to be. Turn and shoot! It flashed in his mind. Don’t wait! But it was too late—a hand closed over his mouth…something at his throat…the carbine jerked from his hand then came back suddenly against his face.

  Flynn waited at the rear of the livery stable, his back flat against the boards. He was in shadow, but a few feet from him the sagging door showed plainly in the moonlight. A half-moon, but there were no clouds to obscure its light and the shadows about him hung motionless. Above the doorway a loading tree jutted out dimly against the sky.

  The livery stable faced on the square. In the time it had taken to work around to this side, he had heard nothing; and there was no one inside, he was certain of that now; still, they could be just beyond the front entrance. He tried to picture the square as he had once seen it. It was small, with a statue in the middle. The statue of a saint. He calculated now: Anywhere in the square they could not be more than a hundred and fifty feet away. He looked up at the loading tree again, then eased through the partly open doorway and moved along the wall until his hand touched the ladder.