From the saddle, Santana glared at the rurale who had been on guard. "Pick up your rifle!"
"I was overpowered…"
"Pick up your rifle!"
Flynn felt the anger return, thinking of Hilario, and now these grinning animals to make a difficult situation worse. And even though he knew they couldn't be aware of Hilario's sorrow, still their presence grated against his nerves and polite explanation wouldn't do. The rifle was in the road a few feet from the door stoop. Flynn moved to it now and placed his boot on the barrel before the rurale could reach it.
"You can order your man wherever you like," he said to Santana, "but if he stays here he doesn't need the rifle."
"Your position is not the best for suggesting orders," Santana said, half-smiling. "What is this supposed to be, an exhibition of Senor Lazair's influence? If it is, go and tell him that I am not the teniente. I order my men with my own mind."
Flynn looked at him curiously. "I don't know this Lazair," he said.
"Come now, why else would you be here? The teniente proves to the alcalde that he is governing body of Soyopa, then the hunter of Indians must prove that his power overbears the office of the teniente."
"Your words are nothing."
"Tell your leader," Santana said, "and he will explain it to you."
"Soldier, I'm not going to stand here and argue with you. If you want to order your men, order them some place else."
Santana moved his sombrero back from his forehead and looked at Flynn with amazement. "God in Heaven-how this one talks!"
From the doorway where he had been standing, Hilario moved to Flynn's side. "Senor Santana, these men do not belong to Lazair. This one I have known before, and the other is his good friend. They have come to see me."
"Many days on horseback just to see the poor alcalde of Soyopa?"
"They have come to tell me of the death of my family," Hilario said quietly.
Santana hesitated. "Your family?"
"They were killed by the Apaches as they returned home." Hilario's lips moved stiffly as he spoke the words and tried to picture what had taken place. He added, "These friends have brought them home to be buried."
"Your entire family-brothers, sisters, children?"
"I have not yet made a count."
Santana was silent for a long moment. Finally he shrugged-what can one do?-and said wearily, "Tend to your dead, old man."
He guided his horse to a turn and his rurales swung into their saddles on the signal. Let the old man alone, he thought. Along with his dead. They will guard him for the time. He pressed his heels into the horse's sides and looked up toward the square, then reined in abruptly. Lieutenant Duro was entering the street.
He approached slowly, holding his mount to a walk, and passed through the rurales, making them pull their horses out of the way. He dismounted with the same slow deliberateness.
"Leaving?" he said to Santana.
"There is nothing to be done here."
"Am I the last to know when my orders are disobeyed?"
Santana dismounted reluctantly. "I did not wish to disturb you."
"From what!"
"Your own affairs."
"Perhaps I should judge that." He looked at Flynn and then to Bowers. "What do you want here!"
"We've already done all the explaining we're going to do," Flynn said shortly.
"Hilario Esteban's family has been killed by the Apaches," Santana said bluntly. "These came to tell him of it."
"Oh…" Duro's expression eased. Instinctively he said, "May I express my deep sympathy." To Flynn he said, "Did it occur near here?"
"Yesterday afternoon. About ten hours ride in the wagon."
"Oh… You were on your way to Soyopa?" And when Flynn nodded, Duro said, "Perhaps on business?"
Flynn said, "You might say that." The lieutenant irritated him strangely. All of a sudden he was too friendly.
"We hope your stay in Soyopa will be a pleasant one," Lieutenant Duro said. He had already forgotten about the alcalde's family. Here was something to wonder about. Two more bounty hunters? Perhaps. And perhaps not. "We are at your service, senor…?"
"Flynn. My friend's name is Bowers."
"It is a pleasure," Duro said, bowing slightly. "Perhaps you would find the time to dine with me later in the day."
Flynn glanced at Hilario. "Perhaps another time."
"Certainly…another time. And Hilario, if there is anything my men can do to assist you…"
The old man looked at the lieutenant with disbelief.
The man at the corner flicked his cigarette into the street and turned away, walking back down the row of adobe building fronts to the mescal shop. It was in the middle of the block on this, the west side of the square. A sign above the door said, Las Quince Letras-red lettering crudely done and fading as the adobe sand wore away. The man opened the screen door and put his head inside.
"Warren!"
He heard the horses behind him then and let the door swing closed and turned to see the rurales crossing the square at a trot. He watched Duro dismount in front of his headquarters and climb the stairs as his rurales passed down the side street. They would be returning to their garrison of tents on the south side of the village. Duro kept only two men with him on guard duty.
The one called Warren came out of the mescal shop adjusting his hat, squinting in the direction the rurales had gone. "They going home?"
The two men were the Americans who had witnessed the execution that morning. Now the one who had been on the corner, whose name was Lew Embree, said, "They let them go. They're not even guarding the old man any more."
"Who do you suppose they are?"
"I don't know," Lew said.
"Maybe we ought to tell Lazair," Warren said.
They looked up as Flynn and Bowers and Hilario Esteban came out of the street and crossed to the church, following the church yard back to the house in which the priest lived. The cemetery was just beyond. The two men watched them pass out of sight.
Warren said, "All of a sudden the old man can go where he wants." He tried to understand this. "Maybe Duro feels sorry for him."
"Or else he's tiptoeing till he finds out what's going on," Lew Embree said. "That younger one's got army written all over him, but that doesn't mean anything. He might of just gotten out." He shrugged. "We'll let Lazair figure it out."
They rode out of Soyopa by the south road, passing the rurales' camp area, and went on in the same direction for almost three miles before beginning a gradual swing to the east. Hours later, toward evening, they were traveling northeast and now began a winding, gradual climb into timber, scrub oak at first then cedar and sycamores and finally, when they were up high, pines. They crossed a meadow of coarse sabaneta grass and as they approached the heights on the west side, the sun barely showed over the rim-rock.
The base of the slanting rock wall was in deep shadow, and passing into the dimness, Warren said, looking up overhead, "Somebody must be asleep."
They heard the click close above them, sharp in the stillness-the lever action of a carbine. "Stand there!"
Lew looked up, but could not see the guard. "Who's that, Wesley?" He called out, "Wes, it's me and Warren!"
The voice answered, "What're you sneaking up for?-sing out, or you're liable to get shot!"
"Go to hell…"
They passed on, entering a defile that climbed narrowly before opening again on a pocket in the rocks, walled on all sides. Four tents formed a semicircle behind a cook fire. Off to the left another fire glowed in the dusk, a smaller one, in front of a tarpaulin rigged over the entrance to a cave. The cave was Curt Lazair's. His fourteen men shared the tents.
Lew Embree handed his reins to Warren who led their horses off to where the others were picketed along the far right wall. He nodded to the men sitting around the cook fire. They looked up from tin plates, some mumbling hello, and watched him make his way over to the cave, wondering what had brought him from the pueblo, and as he reached the tarpaulin awning, Curt Lazair appeared in the entrance.