You’re looking at it, Bowen thought, knowing it, being sure of it, and feeling the excitement inside of him now and trying not to show it.
You don’t sit and think about it. You go or you don’t go.
The crook of Brazil’s left arm squeezed the barrel tightly as he poured tobacco into the troughed square of cigarette paper. Both of his hands were busy; both of them away from the trigger of the Winchester.
You go!
It was in his mind and out of his mind as he pushed himself from the wagon and went over the side of the ledge, not looking at Brazil, but hearing suddenly a hoarse yell as he hit the slope falling, sliding, raising dust, the abrupt leg shock of reaching the bottom, and now rolling and hearing another yell from above and another and lunging into the brush as a shotgun blast ripped the mesquite branches above him.
He was on his feet, running, stumbling through the scrub pine, then suddenly, instinctively, swerving to the left and the shotgun roared again, spattering buckshot through the trees behind him and it went through his mind: Where’s the Winchester!
But he did not look back. Coming out of the trees he hesitated, but only momentarily, only long enough to be sure of his direction. His shoes dug into the loose sand and he sprinted down the open hillside, his shoulders drawn tight waiting for the gunfire.
Then it came, the whining report and sand kicking up behind him, and he knew the Winchester was at work. Three times the .45-70 slugs whined ricocheting after him; then stopped abruptly as he reached the dense trees at the bottom of the grade. Silence followed.
He stood for a moment making himself breathe in and out slowly, then started up the slope, up through heavy timber, knowing he would not be seen now. At the top of the ridge he stopped again and this time looked back.
Far across, the wagon was a small shape on the hillside. He could make out men standing behind the wagon, but he could not distinguish one from another or even count how many were standing there. His gaze dropped down the slope, following the course he had taken, but there was no movement anywhere. Minutes went by as he waited and listened, but still there was no movement, nor the sound of anyone coming up through the trees.
Now they’ll put the trackers to work, Bowen thought…and Brazil probably already halfway there to get them.
His only chance was to make his way back to the Pinaleño station and somehow get a horse. He knew this; and he knew that he had little time before Renda’s detachment of Apache police would be reading his tracks.
Willis Falvey dismounted in front of the Pinaleño adobe. There was no sound in the sunlit yard. His gaze went to the stable shed, then back to the screen door of the adobe. He hesitated uncertainly before going inside.
“Demery?”
There was no answer. His eyes moved from one end of the low-ceilinged room to the other, past Demery’s open roll-top desk, past the plank table where the stage passengers ate to the small mahogany-stained bar. The dimness was a relief after the outside glare. It was quiet here, restful, and momentarily it occurred to Willis Falvey that perhaps he might stay here instead of riding all the way to Fuegos.
No, he thought then. He would want to remain all night, and that could prove embarrassing. Not like at Fuegos where he could drink all he wanted in the privacy of a hotel room-in what passed for a hotel room-then sleep it off.
Well, he could have one here…at least one. He called for Demery again, waited, then walked to the bar and poured himself a whisky. This would be the start. Perhaps by this evening he would have forgotten, for a time, Frank Renda and the convict camp and his wife, Lizann.
A horse whinnied-the sound coming from the backyard where the corral was located-then Karla’s voice.
Falvey listened, then drank down the whisky. He left the bar, walked through the kitchen, and from the back door saw Karla outside. She was rubbing down one of the relay horses in the shade of the long, main stable that extended out from the back of the adobe almost to the corral.
Willis Falvey’s eyes raised suddenly. No, there was nothing there; but for a moment he thought he had seen someone standing on the far side of the mesquite-pole corral.
“Karla.”
She looked up, seeing Falvey coming out from the adobe, his gaze shifting now and again to the corral. He was unnaturally conscious of himself, she knew, and he had to be occupied when he thought someone was looking at him-even if it was only to glance at corralled horses. The few times he had been here before, Karla noticed this-his obviously self-conscious actions, his almost complete lack of anything to say-and in a way she felt sorry for him. He was out of place at the convict camp, especially as government superintendent, and Karla was sure he realized it more than anyone else.
“Just passing by, Mr. Falvey?”
He nodded, and hesitated before saying, “I helped myself to a drink. I’ll put the money on the bar when I go back in. I heard you out here and-”
“That’s all right,” Karla said easily. “You could pay the next time for that matter.”
“I didn’t see your father inside.”
“He had to go to Fuegos.” She said then, “Your friend Renda was here to pick up supplies. I suppose you passed him coming in.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They only left about an hour ago.”
“I took the horse trail,” Falvey said. Then asked, “Are you alone?”
She nodded, seeing his gaze move to the corral again.
“I thought I saw someone out there,” Falvey said, “just as I came out of the house.”
Karla looked out from the shade. “I don’t know who it would be.”
“No, it was probably the way the horses were standing.” Falvey was silent for a moment. “You’re here all alone?”
“I’m used to it,” Karla said. “Pa has to go to Fuegos every once in a while, to the telegraph office.”
“Oh-” Falvey nodded. “What about your mother…is she-”
“Dead?” Karla smiled at his uneasiness. “No, she’s in Willcox with my two sisters.”
“I didn’t know you had sisters.”
“Younger ones. They’re still in school and my mother stays with them for the term. They’ll be back soon for the summer.”
Falvey seemed more relaxed. “It must be hard not seeing them most of the year.”
“It is, but my mother says we all have to be educated. She was born in Sonora…You see, her mother was Mexican, but her pa was an American, a mining man, and she didn’t go to school at all. That’s why we have to, even if it means being away.”
“She must be a fine woman.”
Karla grinned. “I like her.”
“Listen,” Falvey said eagerly. “Why don’t you come inside while I have a drink?”
“I don’t serve the bar, Mr. Falvey.”
“I didn’t mean that. Just…so we can talk.”
“There’s a stage due just before eleven and the change team’s not nearly ready.”
“It’d only be ten minutes.” Falvey smiled. He was trying to make the proposal sound offhand.
“I’m sorry,” Karla said. “There’s just not time.”
“Oh, come on.” He was still smiling as he reached out to take her hand, but she stepped away from him. For a moment he stood awkwardly, his arm still extended, then moved toward her again.
Karla backed away. “Maybe you’ve already had too much to drink.”
Falvey stopped. “Karla…I swear, I only want someone to talk to.”
“And I told you I didn’t have time.”
“Karla-” He hesitated, but stepped toward her again as he said more calmly, “Didn’t you ever want to relax and talk to someone? Just talk about anything, as long as it wasn’t important. Even the weather. I mean talk without raising your voice, without arguing, without knowing someone’s going to snap at the next thing you say.” He paused. “That’s all I want to do, just talk.”
“Don’t you talk to your wife?” Karla asked hesitantly.