The horse came about, feeling its rider go off, slowed to a trot, then a walk—then suddenly broke into a run as Bowen swung up on the saddle and pointed the horse slanting across the slope back toward the long sweep of meadow. But he covered barely a hundred yards before the Mimbres were all around him. He reined abruptly to come back on them, but they closed in before he could break through and he was forced to a stop with seven Springfields leveled at him.
The Mimbres dismounted. One of them, on Bowen’s left, reached up to drag him from the saddle. Bowen’s fist chopped at him viciously and he staggered back. A carbine barrel jabbed into Bowen’s right side. He turned his body, swinging a fist backhanded at the Springfield, and as he did a rawhide loop dropped over his head, and before he could free himself of it the line tightened and he was dragged from the saddle.
The Mimbres swarmed over him and the one Bowen had struck a moment before swung down at him with the butt of his carbine. Bowen rolled and the stock missed him. The Mimbre brought back the carbine to swing it again, but one abrupt, clearly spoken word in the Mimbreño dialect stopped him.
Bowen came to his feet. He looked for the Mimbre who had spoken and saw Salvaje then standing in front of his horse, the reins over his shoulder and hanging down in front of him. He spoke again and the Mimbres near Bowen stepped back from him.
Salvaje continued to stare at Bowen, openly appraising him and for a moment the hint of a smile softened his mouth. He nodded his head then, slowly, as if to say: It was a good game and it is too bad it had to end—
5
At one time, the convict camp at Five Shadows had been a cavalry station—founded during the raiding days of Cochise and garrisoned until Geronimo and his renegade Chiricahuas were sent off to Florida. Officers’ row, the troopers’ barracks, and even the log stable—forming a U around three sides of the quadrangle—were constructed of a double thickness of adobe brick, for although Five Shadows had been designated a temporary station, there was always a feeling of permanency about the Apache campaigns.
It had been deserted for almost seven years when Frank Renda began using it as a camp for his road construction operation.
In appearance, the camp was much the same as it had always been—even to the windmill and the half dozen Apache jacales off beyond the stable where the Mimbreño trackers and their families lived. But now a ten-foot barbed wire fence—three feet of it angled to the inside—enclosed the compound. Over the gate a sign read:
CONVICT LABOR CAMP
KEEP OUT
This camp is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Territorial Government. Unauthorized persons found entering will be fired on without warning.
F. W. Renda Const. Co.
The five separate quarters of officers’ row now housed Renda, his five guards, and the government superintendent, Willis Falvey, and his wife. Across the compound, parallel to this adobe, was the stable. The troopers’ barracks, in which the convicts were now kept, formed the base of the U and six doors of this adobe faced directly south to the camp’s only gate. Five of the doors entered directly into the long dirt-floor barracks. The sixth door opened into a single room that had originally been part of the barracks, but was now bricked off and did not have a window. This was the punishment cell.
At three o’clock Frank Renda rode into the compound. He had been out at the construction site since returning with the supply wagon. But less than a half hour ago, one of the Mimbres had come to him with word that Bowen had been taken. He placed Brazil in charge then and started back to camp, wanting to be there when they brought in Bowen.
Crossing the open yard, he saw Lizann Falvey come out of the stable. He dismounted in front of her and brought his horse into the shade of the wide, open doorway.
“Have a nice ride?”
Lizann shrugged, removing her gloves and not bothering to look at Renda as he spoke. She wore a green riding suit and hat, the hat straight over her eyes and resembling a small derby, and her auburn hair was pulled back severely into a chignon at the nape of her neck.
“I was out on the road,” Renda said, “and saw you go by.” Beneath the heavy mustache, his lips barely moved. “I thought I told you not to go near there.”
She looked at him now; her expression described boredom and even raising her eyes seemed an effort. Still she did not speak.
“So we’re not talking today,” Renda said mildly.
Lizann shrugged. “There isn’t really much point in it.”
“We could talk about Willis going to Fuegos again.”
“I didn’t know he had.”
“Maybe,” Renda suggested, “Willis’s got a woman there.”
Lizann looked at him again. “Willis wouldn’t know the first thing about getting one.”
“He got you.”
“Did he?”
“Then you must’ve got him,” Renda said. He nodded thoughtfully, even though he had thought about this before, months before, when Willis Falvey and his wife had first arrived. He had reasoned it out for himself at that time. “Sure,” he said now, “you got him…seeing him with Washington friends and thinking he was due for something big. I don’t blame you, Lizzy.” Renda paused. “But why did he end up here?”
“You’re talking to yourself,” Lizann said.
“Well,” Renda shrugged. “It doesn’t make much difference how it happened, when you get right down to it. Does it? You’re here and there isn’t a solitary thing you can do about it.”
“Isn’t there?” Their eyes held momentarily. Then Lizann turned from him and started across the quadrangle. Renda slapped his chestnut into the stable and caught up with her.
“So you’re still after Willis to quit.”
She didn’t bother to look at him, but she answered, “That isn’t any of your business.”
“You might think it isn’t,” Renda said. “I’ll tell you this—the only way Willis quits while I’m here is to get carried out feet first.”
“I’m surprised you let him go to Fuegos.”
“Willis’s got to have some fun.”
“What if he should run away?”
Renda shook his head. “He doesn’t even think about it any more.”
Lizann said, “You must have someone there to watch him, or you wouldn’t be so sure.”
“No, Lizzy…you know it and Willis knows it, if he runs out on me he’s a ruined man. I don’t need anybody bird-doggin’ him.”
“He’s already ruined,” Lizann replied.
“Let’s say he realizes that,” Renda said. “He still wouldn’t leave you here. See how it is?”
They were almost halfway across the yard when Renda saw the riders out beyond the gate. They were perhaps a quarter of a mile out and walking their horses toward the compound. Watching them, he said, “A man tried to run away this morning.”
Lizann looked up, following his gaze. “Good for him.”
“That’s him they’re bringing back.”
“And now you’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Even if I didn’t want to,” Renda said, “I would.”
They went on to the ramada shade of the long adobe and stopped there to watch the Mimbres ride in.
They straggled to almost single file as the guard opened half of the gate for them, then broke into a trot as they passed into the compound, two of the horses carrying double, and now Renda and Lizann could see the man they were leading.
Bowen was on foot, fifteen feet behind the last Mimbre. His hands were tied behind him and a reata extended from his neck to the saddle horn of the rider in front of him. The reata pulled taut as the horse started to trot and Bowen was jerked forward. He stumbled but kept his feet under him and now had to run to keep up with the horse.
Renda stepped out into the sunlight and raised his arm. “Over here!” He glanced back at Lizann. “They haven’t missed yet.”
Lizann was watching Salvaje, seeing him coming toward them now. “Animal tracks man,” she said. Her gaze moved to Bowen then
.
He was hatless and from hair to shoes he was covered with a heavy film of dust. She was sure that he had fallen more than once and had been dragged by the horse. The knees were torn from his pants and his shirt was almost in shreds. Dried blood caked the left side of his jaw and his shoulder was bloodstained where he had wiped his face on it. She could picture him doing this, stumbling along in the dust from the horses with his hands tied behind his back.
“Who is he?” Lizann asked, mildly curious.
Renda was watching Salvaje dismount. “Who?”
“The prisoner?”
“Oh…Bowen.”
“He looks as if he’s already been taught a lesson,” Lizann said.
“Only part of one,” Renda answered. He yelled to Salvaje then, “Bring him over here!”
A Mimbre pulled loose the honda and lifted the reata loop over Bowen’s head, but did not untie his hands. He took Bowen by the arm then and led him to the ramada.
Renda waited. His thumbs were hooked in his belt and he stared at Bowen, studying his face and waiting for Bowen’s eyes to drop or look away. But Bowen continued to return his stare and finally Renda said, “Was it worth it?”
Bowen didn’t answer. Then, he tried to turn his head and bring up his shoulder, seeing Renda suddenly shift his weight, but he was not quick enough and Renda’s fist slashed backhanded across his face.
Renda’s arm dropped slowly. “I asked you a question.”
Bowen nodded then. “It was worth it.”
“Why?”
“I learned something.”
“You’re going to learn more before we’re through.”
Bowen said nothing.
“Like your friend Pryde,” Renda said. “He learned his before he got off the road.”
Bowen shook his head. “He wasn’t in on it.”
“That’s why he went for Brazil.”
Now Bowen hesitated. “Ike did that?”
“He tried. He got a Winchester over the head.”
“If Brazil hit Ike,” Bowen said quietly, “then he rode up to the wagon to do it. Taking it out on Ike because I—”
“Listen! I’m not discussing this with you…I’m telling you!”
“And I’m telling you Ike wasn’t in on it!”
Renda’s fists came up together, up under Bowen’s jaw, and as his head snapped back Renda’s right hand fell away then swung viciously against Bowen’s face. Bowen went down. He rolled to his side painfully, his head resting on the ground.
“Pick him up,” Renda said.
Salvaje stooped and slid his hands beneath Bowen’s shoulders. Lifting him, he said. “This one fights well…when he has his hands.”
Renda looked at the Mimbre sergeant. “Careful now.”
“I say what I know,” Salvaje answered. “He fought well and deserves better than this.”
Renda nodded slowly, thoughtfully, before saying, “I’ll tell you something now. You went out of here with twelve horses. You came back with ten. Worry about where you’re going to find two horses and I’ll worry about this one.”
Salvaje shook his head. “You supply horses. We bring back escaped men.”
“I think you’d do better,” Renda said, “if you’d never learned to talk English.” His tone changed suddenly and he pointed a finger at Salvaje. “You’re going to find two horses to replace what you lost, or you’re going to find yourself back at San Carlos! You savvy that, Mister Indian?”
Salvaje did not answer, but his eyes remained on Renda.
“Now get out of the way,” Renda told him. He waited for Salvaje to move, then stepped up to Bowen, rubbing his fist into the palm of his left hand. Suddenly then, he cocked the fist. Bowen started to roll away from it, but as he did Renda’s left hand lashed against his jaw.
Lizann watched Bowen as he tried to rise, as he fell back again and rolled to his stomach. She looked at Renda then to see what he would do.
Renda’s glance went to Salvaje. “Pick him up.”
With the Mimbre’s help, Bowen came to his feet. He stood swaying, as if ready to fall, his head hanging forward, but as Renda swung at him again he rolled with the fist, and suddenly threw himself at Renda, lowering his head to drive against him. Renda went back a half step. He pushed Bowen away from him and moved in with his fists before Bowen could lower his head again. He hit him with both hands—short body jabs that kept Bowen backing away, trying to twist with the jabs, then a hard solid left hand to Bowen’s stomach and as he started to fold forward Renda’s right hand hammered against his jaw and he went down.
Renda stood over him, his thick chest rising and falling as he breathed. He backed away then and said, “Pick him up.”
“Don’t you think,” Lizann said mildly, “he’s had enough?”
Renda looked at her. “Do I tell you how to take care of Willis?”
“You’d like to be able to,” Lizann said.
Renda glanced at her leaning against the ramada post. She always seemed to be lounging, watching something going on, but never taking part herself. He turned to Salvaje again. “I said pick him up.”
Bowen was again lifted to his feet, but this time staggered and almost went down before Renda could reach him. Renda’s hand caught the front of his shirt. He held Bowen momentarily, then dropped his hand as he shifted his weight and he hit Bowen in the face as hard as he could swing his fist.
He stepped back then, his eyes raising from Bowen to Salvaje. “Throw him in with Pryde. They’ll think about it over bread and water for a while.” He paused. “Say twenty days. That’s a good round number.”
Lizann watched Renda hand Salvaje a key; then Salvaje made a sign and two of his Mimbres lifted Bowen to his feet. He stood between them, his shoulders raised awkwardly by the support of their hands under his arms. His legs moved as they led him away, following Salvaje, but his head hung heavily, chin against chest, and Lizann realized that he was barely conscious.
Her eyes followed as they took him across the compound to the convicts’ barracks, then along the wind-scarred adobe front of it, past five doors to the sixth one, the punishment cell.
She was thinking of her husband, comparing him to this man Bowen, and wondering if he could have taken half the beating Bowen did.
No, Bowen was a different breed—a man who would undoubtedly again try to escape, even if failure meant another beating and a longer period in the punishment cell. A man, Lizann reflected, who would go to any extreme to escape. Any extreme.
She saw Salvaje open the heavy door, the two Mimbres move inside with Bowen, then reappear, one carrying the length of rope that had fastened Bowen’s hands, then Salvaje padlock the door again, and she continued to think of Bowen, though no longer comparing him to her husband.
Pryde sat against one wall, his legs straight out in front of him. Fifteen feet away, Bowen lay on his side, his face resting on the hard-packed dirt floor. Above him was the outline of a window. It had been bricked in, all of it except a narrow space where the top row of bricks would have gone. This opening ventilated the six-by-
fifteen-foot cell, and now it framed a thin line of outside light, a faint ray that penetrated the dimness of the room to show Pryde’s face in a pale streak against the wall.
He waited until Bowen stirred. Then he said, “Corey—” his voice clear in the stillness though it was barely above a whisper.
Bowen raised his head. “Ike…is that you?” His face was numb and swollen tight and as he spoke he could not feel his lips move.
“It’s me,” Pryde said.
Bowen came up on his elbow. “Ike, I’m sorry.” His eyes narrowed as if to see through the dimness. “Ike, did you go after Brazil?”
Pryde’s head nodded.
“Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know, I saw him trying to bring up that Winchester and I went for him…got him off the horse and hit him once, but that’s all.”
“I’m obliged to you, Ike.”
Pryde said nothing
.
“And he gave it back to you over the head.”
Pryde’s eyes moved. “He gave me more than that. When we got back here, Renda said, ‘Learn him a lesson,’ and Brazil went and got a pick handle to do it with.”
Bowen crawled over to him. “You hurt bad?”
“I don’t know. I can’t move my back.”
“Your arms are swollen.”
“I think I’m swollen about all over.” He said then, still calmly, “Listen…you got to know something.”
“We have a long time to talk,” Bowen said. “Go to sleep now.”
“Listen to me!” Pryde’s voice rose. But he relaxed again as he said, “After Renda emptied his shotgun, he ran back to where we were. Brazil fired then, but it was too late. I was on the ground and my head buzzed like hell. That’s why I’m not sure of the exact words…though the meaning was plain enough.”
Bowen shook his head. “I don’t follow you.”
“You will. Renda looked like he wanted to kill somebody.” Pryde went on, “But there wasn’t anything he could do. Then he yelled out, ‘You said not till the grade!’ or words just like that.”
Bowen frowned. “He said that to Brazil?”
Pryde shook his head slowly. “To Manring. Somewhere along the line Earl told him you were going to run.”
6
They counted the days by marking the wall with Pryde’s belt buckle, a mark for each day scratched in a row on the adobe wall. But even with this, after little more than a week had passed, they were not sure of the count and it seemed there should be more marks on the wall than there were. Twice a day the door opened and they were given bread and water. The guard who carried the bucket and dipper and a half loaf of bread was never armed. But another guard stood in the doorway with a shotgun. They were ordered not to talk to the prisoners and would not answer with even a sign when Bowen or Pryde asked the number of days they had been there.