"About the time Deneen got back to Whipple from his tour, the genral'd found out what he'd done." They had entered the adobe and now, close to the firelight, Madora was smiling. "That was something. The genral dressed hell out of him and the first thing you know Deneen's got a Mexico assignment of his own."
"How'd you find out?"
"Hell, it's all over. Some of it was overheard firsthand…a friend of mine. Anyway, your pal was relieved of his adjutant's job and the genral kicks his tail down to Sonora to find a Lieutenant Duro of the rurales…cuz the genral says, All right, goddamn it, if we're going to do it, then we're going to do it right. Get your ass down to Mexico and get some permission and if you don't get it, don't come back." Madora added, "Now some say genrals don't talk like that, but my friend says it's gospel."
"But why only ten men?"
"We ain't a war party. The genral told him no soldiers, else it'd be considered invasion of a foreign country, but he said you can take all the trackers you want cuz for cry-sake there's enough goddamn Apaches down there now that nobody's going to notice a few goddamn more."
"I never heard the general talk like that."
"What's that, atole? That's the only thing that's almost not better than nothing."
"Where's Deneen now?"
"About a mile off."
"Apaches spot you?"
"Hell no."
"I'd better go talk to him."
"Somebody better. He like to wet his pants when Three-cents come in and told about Soldado." Madora looked at Flynn quickly, seriously. "This is the first time I've seen him in a tight spot. He can't take it, can he?"
"Why ask me?" Flynn said.
"Because you were in the war with him where there were lots of tight spots." Madora paused and half smiled. "That's what's between you two. You caught him in a jackpot cryin' for his mama."
"You don't get to be colonel that way."
"That's what everybody thinks."
"But that isn't what's bothering us here and now."
"You want to see Deneen. All right, I'll take you to him."
"Maybe he'll come in," Flynn suggested. "It would be safer for him here."
"He won't move."
"All right, then we'll go out."
"In one minute." Madora took heaping spoons of the atole, scraping the plate clean. Three-cents had been eating as they spoke and now they went outside, back to the low wall. Bowers was alone.
"Where's Hilario?" Flynn asked.
"He went to relieve the man watching Duro's house. Dave, what is it?"
"Deneen is here, but with only a few trackers. He was on his way to talk to Duro about a border campaign when they ran into the Apaches."
"He's fighting them?"
"No, holed up. I'm going out and talk to him. When I get back I'll tell you all about it."
"What if you don't get through?"
Flynn smiled. "If this old man can do it, anybody can."
Madora said mildly, "David, when they passed out proper respect you must've been scratchin' your butt with both hands."
Bowers watched them go over the wall and fade into the darkness. He asked himself: Could you do that? Sure, if you've been doing it as long as they have. What about the first couple of times? He was squinting into the darkness, expecting a sound. You either get used to it, or you don't get used to it. That's the way to look at things like that. He knew this was easy to say and he told himself: Who said anything about getting used to it being easy!
He had thought before that this was not an assignment for a soldier, but now he knew conclusively that he had been wrong. And thinking of soldiers, oddly, he thought of Santana and how Santana considered himself one and boasted that if ever his rurales got the Apaches in open country, then he'd see some soldiering; that's what Santana had intimated.
After this he thought of many things, faraway things, but slowly his thoughts came back to the present. Now…and then the morning, a few hours away. What would happen then? Flynn said Lazair's men might come back in the morning, he thought.
That's how it started in his mind, the plan. Just from remembering something Flynn had said, and in the next few minutes the plan began to develop, began to grow into something that might work.
A man crouched next to him in the darkness, startling him.
"What passes?" the man said. "Hilario Esteban relieved me and told me to come here."
Bowers nodded, "It is still quiet," and then quickly, unexpectedly, he asked, "Have you seen the rurale, Santana?"
19
The alcalde, Hilario Esteban, stood beneath the veranda of Lamas Duro's house, and with the Burnside.54 cradled in his arm he looked out over the dark stillness of the square. Far across loomed the dim outline of Santo Tomas and creeping in a wide circle toward him on the two sides were the low, shadowed adobe fronts of the buildings that faced the square. There were no horses in front of Las Quince Letras.
This is the first time in six months that the cantina has been empty, Hilario thought. The time before was the day everyone remained in their houses. The day the rurales came.
But it was just the one day that there was no business, his thoughts continued, for the rurales were inside the cantina as soon as their camp was erected. And soon after, within three days, the people were beginning to go there again; quietly at first, once in a while, then soon with the same frequency as before…having adjusted themselves to our new neighbors.
A man can adjust himself to anything.
Still, there is a limit. He thought, now we have reached the limit. We could go on pretending that Lamas Duro is not here, but in doing so we would also be pretending that such a thing as honor still remained. If a man must make excuses for himself, continually argue with himself that he is a man, then he is better off dead. And then he thought: Why do I think about this one man when our worst enemy now surrounds the village? He shook his head faintly. No, Lamas Duro is more the Anti-Christ than Soldado Viejo. He whispered, half aloud, "Saint Francis, help us."
Now and then his eyes would go up the stair-ways that came down from both ends of the veranda above him, angling toward the center where he stood.
He would look up as the sound came from the room: walking, a squeaking board, and sometimes he thought he heard talking; but he told himself, if so Lamas Duro was talking to himself to keep his spirits up.
And finally it occurred to Hilario: Why not talk to him now? Waiting until Soldado left would be reasonable if you were occupied elsewhere, but here you stand. Go up and talk to him…no, tell him…and get it over with.
He started up the stairs on the left. Halfway up he stopped, holding himself still. The door above had opened. Slowly, with a long, low squeak. He heard footsteps on the veranda now. Three steps, then silence. Now three more, moving to the other side of the veranda.
Hilario turned slowly, crouching, and eased down until he was sitting on the steps. He raised the Burnside carefully and pointed it toward the opposite stairway. Cocking it will make a noise, he thought, hearing and feeling his heart beating through his body. So don't cock it until you are ready to fire…if firing is necessary. But, Saint Francis, don't make it necessary. Make Senor Duro go back inside.
He heard the footsteps again, at the top of the stairs now. Then they were coming down. Hilario held himself tense, squinting in the darkness, and now he could see the dim outline of a man. He waited, holding his breath, watching the figure reach the bottom. Then another sound, above…another man was on the stairs!
Two of them…how can that be!
His eyes fought the darkness, studying the second dim shape almost at the bottom of the stairs now. That one is Duro! I know it is!
Hilario Esteban rose suddenly, bringing up the Burnside, pulling back the hammer. "Senor Duro-stand where you are!"
And with the suddenness of this the first man was running. Hilario ignored him. Duro stood at the bottom of the stairs looking across and up at him.