"Who is it!"
"Hilario Esteban!"
He could hear the sound of the other man on the hard-packed square and suddenly the shadowy form of Duro was not in front of him, but running, sprinting into the open darkness of the square.
"Senor Duro!"
Quick, rapid-sharp boot steps in the openness…
"Senor Duro! Halt!"
A dim form growing dimmer…fifty, sixty, seventy feet…
The Burnside came up, cheek level. "Senor Duro!…"
Eighty…
"Saint Francis help me!" And with it the heavy dull explosion of the Burnside.
Lamas Duro took six more strides, though he was not conscious of them…for he was dead the instant the heavy ball slammed into his back.
"Here he comes," Madora said.
"He's half animal," Flynn whispered, belly-down next to Madora in a shallow gully, watching the dim form creeping noiselessly toward them through the brush.
"He's all animal," Madora grunted and rolled to his side to face Three-cents as the Coyotero dropped into the gully with them. They were returning the same way Madora and the Coyotero had come-Three-cents going ahead to see that the way was clear, then either signaling them on or crawling back to get them if he considered an audible animal-sound signal dangerous. This way, if they ran into Soldado's Apaches, Three-cents would meet them first, and there was the chance they would think him one of their own. Even recognizing him as not a Mimbreno would take time and Three-cents would have his chance to act.
In his own language, but with a word here and there of Spanish, he informed them that Mimbres were just ahead.
"There are three," he told them. "They stand listening. Then two will move in opposite directions, but always one remains in the same place."
"Like army pickets," Flynn whispered.
Madora muttered, "They've been doing it for five hundred years." They were silent then, thinking, but finally Madora said, "Well, let's go take him."
"Who's doing the honors?"
"Whoever sees him first."
They crawled out of the gully one at a time, Three-cents leading, and kept to the brush patches as they went over the flat ground. Just ahead now they could make out the dense blackness of trees, a soft crooked line against the night sky, and when Three-cents glanced back at them they knew that there the Mimbre waited.
They moved up on both sides of the Coyotero and he said, with his mouth close to the ground, "Thirty paces into the trees he stands. The two come out to the edge before going opposite ways." They were silent again, watching, and then Three-cents muttered, "There," pushing his arm out in front of him on the ground.
It was visible for a moment, like an off-white speck of shadow and then gone.
"He's sure of himself," Madora grunted, "wearing a white breechclout at night." They waited several minutes, giving the two Mimbre vedettes time to move off, out of hearing; then they crawled toward the trees.
Pines. The scent was heavy. Flynn could feel the needles in the sand beneath his hands and knees, and now a branch brushed his face. He had not brought the Springfield. It would be in the way. But he could feel his pistol under his left arm and a clasp knife was in his pocket.
Watch Three-cents now, Flynn thought. He'll call it. They waited for the Mimbre to move, to cause a sound that would tell where he was, but no sound came and as the minutes passed they knew they would have to bring the Mimbre to them.
Three-cents rose silently and moved off from them a dozen steps before sinking down, huddling close among pine branches. A low moan came from him then, in the stillness a long low gasp of pain.
Flynn waited. Come on. That's one of your brothers in trouble. Come on and find him. Still there was no sound, but at that moment he felt the movement; he sensed it and from the corner of his eye there he was, the Mimbre, crouched low, moving toward Three-cents. Wait. Nothing sudden. Let him get past you. Joe's seen him too. Joe probably smelled him.
The Mimbre stopped. In the moaning tone, a word in the Mimbreno dialect came from Three-cents. And in the corner of Flynn's eye the Mimbre moved again. All right, get him.
But as he rose, Madora was suddenly, silently behind the Mimbre and the next moment his arms were around him, forearm viselike against the throat and hand clamped over the mouth, dragging the warrior to the ground with him. Three-cents stood over them. Without hesitating he pushed his knife into the Mimbre's chest.
They went on, carrying the Apache, for he could not be left there for the others to find. When it's light, Flynn thought, they'll read the signs. That will make it harder to get back. But what might happen after sunup was something to think of then. They moved on through the darkness.
Three-cents signaled when they neared the place where the others were. A soft low whistle…silence…then an answering whistle and within a minute there were Coyotero scouts all around them.
"Where is he?" Flynn said to Madora. Here was another pine stand and in the darkness he could see only the Coyoteros standing close by.
Madora pointed. "He was right over there before."
"You'd think three men walking in at night would interest him."
"He's got enough troubles without looking for more."
"Joe, there's another problem now we didn't count on before." He indicated the dead Mimbre. "Tonight they'll miss him; tomorrow they'll be getting in each other's way looking for him."
Madora nodded. "I agree."
"So," Flynn went on, "if we're going back to the village, it's got to be tonight or not at all."
"But," Madora said, "you got to convince Deneen crawling through their line's the thing to do-anytime."
"I'll convince him," Flynn said, and looked at the Mimbre again. "We'd better get rid of him."
"We'll bury him."
"When we go back it should be in two or three groups. What do you think?"
Madora nodded. "I'll work it out with Three-cents, you go talk to Horse's-ass."
Colonel Deneen was lying down, head on his saddle bag and a blanket covering him as Flynn entered the small clearing Deneen had reserved for himself; but in one abrupt movement the blanket was thrown back and he was sitting up, pointing a pistol at Flynn.
"Who is it?"
"Flynn." He started to explain, "Madora brought me out…" but he stopped. God, he should know that much.
"Well, goddamn it, sit down! I don't care for you standing there looming over me!"
"I didn't mean to frighten you."
"You didn't frighten me, I assure you. Where's Bowers?"
"Soyopa."
"Why didn't he come?"
"It wasn't necessary."
Sitting down, Flynn studied the man, trying to see the face clearly in the darkness. The face had changed, but he could not make out details other than it being in need of a shave, perhaps drawn. Bluntly now, Flynn asked, "What are you going to do?"
"I haven't decided."
"It's less than four hours to daylight."
"So?"
"We killed a Mimbre on the way out. As soon as it's light they'll be looking for him."
"So?"
"So we'll have to start back to the village now while it's still dark," Flynn said patiently.
"And since I happen to command, and don't choose to go to the village, what then?"
"It would be better if you went."
"Are you threatening me, Flynn?"
God, he's sitting on the edge of his nerves! "Of course I'm not threatening. I'm reminding you that with the sun something's bound to happen. It would be too late then to get back to the village and those people might need all the help they can get."
Abruptly then, in a tone intended to sound calm, natural, Deneen said, "I suppose you were surprised to find me here."
Flynn nodded. "Somewhat."
"The general decided I had better look into this myself, since it has possibilities of an extensive border campaign. It's been my argument right along, one push from both sides of the border will squeeze every Apache man, woman and child out of the hills right where we want them." As he said this, his voice sounded natural.