“What about the witnesses?” Bowen said. He watched Renda’s hand drop to his thigh.
“Who’s going to say you didn’t try to run?” Renda answered. His hand moved to the pocket and brought out a shell. He glanced down at the open shotgun and started inserting the shell into the left chamber.
It was the moment Bowen was waiting for. He lunged at Renda, reaching up for him.
The shotgun snapped closed and exploded over Bowen’s shoulder as he dragged Renda from the saddle, one hand on the barrel, the other gripping Renda’s sleeve, twisting then, throwing his shoulder into Renda’s stomach as they both went to the ground.
Renda rolled free. He started to rise, coming to one knee, swinging the shotgun in line, but he was a moment too late and as he pulled the trigger the barrel rose suddenly and fired into the air. Bowen’s left hand twisted the barrel, Renda cried out, his finger caught in the trigger guard, and as he released the shotgun, Bowen’s right hand slammed against the side of his face.
Renda went down, rolled again and shielded his face with his arms as he came to his knees. Then, seeing Bowen standing, holding the shotgun, not coming for him, his gaze swung to the Mimbres, to Salvaje.
“Bust him!”
Salvaje made no move.
“You hear me!” Renda screamed. “Bust him!”
Salvaje held his Springfield straight up, the stock resting on his thigh. His eyes were on Renda, but he did not move.
Renda hesitated, his chest rising and falling. His gaze moved along the line of the Mimbres, over the cloth headbands and the stone-silent stares, the slanting cartridge bandoleers and the Springfields leveled across the pommels of their saddles. All of them were watching him and only Salvaje’s carbine pointed into the air.
“You hear me!” Renda screamed again. “Cut him down! Now!”
“They hear you,” Bowen said.
Renda’s eyes did not leave Salvaje. “What’s the matter with you? I said shoot him!”
Then silence, and Bowen said, “There’s your surprise, Frank.” He watched Renda turn slowly to face him. “You were in such a rush to get back,” Bowen went on, “you didn’t find out if you were leading or being chased.”
For a long moment Renda said nothing. “What did you tell them?” he asked finally.
“What difference does it make. You don’t have your guns, you don’t have any men and Willis is against you…Why don’t you quit now?”
Renda’s eyes stared from the shadow of his hatbrim, not moving from Bowen. His mustache masked the grim line of his mouth and his jaw was clenched tightly. He stared at Bowen, silent with his thoughts, and the hate came slowly into his eyes. Finally, then, he started toward Bowen, walking slowly, his head slightly down, but his eyes raised and not wavering as he came on.
Bowen held the shotgun in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. “Frank, my hands aren’t tied this time.”
Renda came on.
“And I’m not Lizann,” Bowen said.
Another two steps…three…on the next one, Renda hesitated, then rushed at Bowen. At the same moment Bowen swung the shotgun, letting it go at Renda’s legs. Renda tried to dodge, bringing himself up, but the barrel cracked across his ankles and he stumbled forward.
Bowen had half turned as he threw the gun; now his body swung back and his left hand hammered against Renda’s face. Renda tried to cover, bringing up his arms, but Bowen’s right slammed through his guard; he tried to fight back, swinging blindly, viciously, but Bowen’s right hand jabbed again and again and he was forced to cover his face. As he did, Bowen side-stepped and came in with a wide swinging left that opened Renda’s guard and jolted him back off balance. Bowen followed, shifting his feet, hammering in with his right hand, and as Renda staggered back, Bowen kept with him, hooking in one hand then the other, slashing Renda across the mouth and eyes, putting almost his full weight behind each blow, until Renda dropped. He tried to rise, then fell heavily on his back. His arms were outstretched now and he didn’t move.
Bowen’s arms hung at his sides. The muscles in them ached and he opened and closed his hands painfully. He felt exhaustion and relief, looking down at Renda, thinking now of all that had happened over the past hour, seeing Karla and Falvey and Renda and the Mimbreños, briefly remembering words, pieces of conversations, but not seeing or thinking these things in proper order and he wasn’t sure if all of it had actually happened.
He heard footsteps in the yard, someone coming out from the house, but he turned to the Mimbres first and walked toward them, to Salvaje who had dismounted.
“If we were to talk for a few days,” Bowen said to him, “with tulapai between us, maybe I could tell you how I feel.”
“Come to San Carlos,” the Mimbreño said.
“They won’t send you back,” Bowen said. “Whoever comes out to take Renda’s place will still want trackers.”
The broad brim of Salvaje’s hat moved slightly as he shook his head. “We go home. This is not like other times. I think Victorio would laugh.” The Mimbre watched Bowen closely. “Do you understand that?”
Bowen’s head nodded slowly. “Yes…I think I do.”
Salvaje’s eyes went to Renda. “He will be in the punishment cell until they come for him.”
Demery approached. He was smiling, looking from Renda, who was still on the ground, to Bowen. “He didn’t even put a hand on you!”
“Not this time,” Bowen said.
“About Falvey,” Demery said. “There wasn’t time to tell you before…That was something to see. Soon as you and Frank started talking about him he got up and moved closer to the window, and after a minute he didn’t seem drunk anymore, or even afraid. He just stood staring at the wall…I never felt so sorry for a man in all my life. There you were handing him a chance to prove himself a man and you could see him trying his damndest to work up enough courage to take it.” Demery shook his head. “That’s something I’ll never forget.” He looked toward Renda again. “And Frank not even knowing what was happening.”
“I’m not sure I knew either.” Bowen said. “Or know yet.” He saw Karla and moved past Demery to meet her. “Is Willis all right?”
Karla smiled. “He’s in bed with your friend. Propped up with a drink next to him and pen and paper on his lap. He asked for it. He said if he didn’t do another thing, he was going to get it off his chest right now…Come see.” She took his hand and as they walked off toward the house, she asked, “But what about Lizann?”
Lizann, Bowen thought wearily. You forgot Lizann. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s gone by now. If she is, Willis is better off without her. But maybe she’s learned her lesson…And a few more maybes for good measure.”
“You’re tired,” Karla said quietly.
All that he had been thinking and trying to remember was still in his mind; though less vividly now and as he walked toward the adobe, Karla close at his side and the awareness of her coming over him more strongly, more relaxingly, the pieces of conversation and the images began to dissolve: the Mimbres, Willis Falvey, the road, even Frank Renda-there was no reason to think about them now. Somehow it had happened and somehow it was over.
Only Karla remained.