He's been rehearsing this one, Flynn thought.
Deneen went on, "I'm contacting the local rurale officer first…at my own time. Do you know him?"
Flynn nodded.
"There in that village?"
Flynn nodded again.
"Well goddamn it speak up! What's his authority!"
"Do you really want to know?"
"What!"
Flynn's voice was calm. "Look, there are only a few hours until light. I think it would be wise if we started back right now instead of sitting here playing games. I know why you're here. Everyone does, and you know it. And I'll tell you this…I don't give a good damn what happened between you and the general. That's past history, to me it's as dead as what happened that night at Chancellorsville. You've made that one live on even when I was trying to forget it, and now you throw this border campaign nonsense in my face and expect me to swallow it, pretending you're on a secret mission…like I've been doing with Bowers for the past week-trying to act like this is an honest-to-God assignment; half wanting to help him keep his faith in the army, half wanting to tell him what a real son of a bitch you really are, but not having the heart because to him a colonel, even you, is a rank that takes time, guts and a military mind." Flynn stopped, but abruptly he added, "Why did you send him?"
Deneen stared with the rage plain in his face, even in the darkness, and he was not able to speak.
"Maybe I can answer it myself," Flynn said, watching Deneen closely. He started out slowly, "Bowers' father, the brigadier, was there. Maybe he saw you do it…or he was in the medical tent after and could tell gunshot from shrapnel and had time to figure where a doctor there wouldn't. Either way, you were aware of his knowing. Perhaps you'd forgotten it over the years, but when the boy showed up at Whipple there it was again and you took it for granted the brigadier had told his boy about the cowardly act of a Captain Deneen one night at Chancellorsville. If Bowers knows about it, he's not saying, but the chances are remote that he even does, because his father wasn't the kind of man to let it get beyond him. But maybe he should have told…and had you drummed out of the service. No, you should have resigned yourself. But instead you stuck it out, because after the war there wouldn't be any more Chancellorsvilles…and now some men have paid with their lives because you're a rotten officer and not honest enough to admit it…because two men you think know about a mistake you once made, you conclude the only thing to do is get rid of them before everybody knows." Flynn paused. "Your big mistake was pointing that pistol at your foot-you were about five feet too low."
"Is that all you have to say, Flynn?" Deneen kept his voice calm.
"One other thing."
"What is that?"
"You're going to the village."
"At the point of a gun?" Deneen half smiled. "I think not. And we'll stay as long as I choose to."
"If you do, you'll stay alone."
"Madora is under my command. If I stay, he'll stay…and with all of his men!"
Turning to go, Flynn said quietly, "Ask him."
20
They waited in the darkness crouched low in the mesquite, watching the pines off across the clearing. Clouds had formed in the night sky and now the moonwash was a soft haze that barely outlined the dense shape of the trees.
Madora said, "How long now?"
"About twenty minutes," Flynn answered.
"That's not so good."
"Maybe they're close and he can't move."
Deneen, crouched at Flynn's right, moved his leg and his boot scraped the loose sandy rock.
Madora's head turned. "Why don't you ring a bell?"
Deneen began, "Madora, you'll be sorry you ever…"
"Damn it-shut up!"
Indicating the pines across the clearing, Flynn said, "That's where the Mimbre was killed…maybe he's run into something."
"Like the other two," Madora said.
Flynn glanced at Madora. "If he doesn't show soon, we'd better start thinking. What about the rest of your trackers?"
"They'll wait a good hour before following: give us plenty of time. If something happens, they're on their own."
But a moment later, Three-cents appeared, crawling, squirming into the mesquite. He told them that two Mimbrenos were among the trees looking for the one who had disappeared, feeling through the pines carefully. "They will look only a short time more, searching a wider area. Then they will go to inform the others."
"Which means," Flynn said, "we go now or never."
"What did he say?" Deneen whispered, demanding, not merely asking.
"He said it's empty; we could drive a wagon through," Madora told him.
"That's not what he said!"
Madora did not bother to reply; he moved out and they crawled single file after him across the clearing, moving more quickly through shoulder-high brush hands and knees again across another open stretch and then into the pines. They waited, listening to the silence, then deeper among the trees they could hear crickets. They sing if nothing's disturbing them, Flynn thought. But even a cricket wouldn't hear a Mimbre. They moved on, creeping through the trees, brushing pine needle branches, holding them from swishing…and three of them gritted their teeth and felt needles down their spines as Deneen's boot snapped a rotted tree limb. They stopped where they were and dead silence followed.
Three-cents looked at Madora and when the scout nodded he moved off, disappearing into the darkness.
The clasp knife is in the left side pocket, Flynn thought, and his hand moved against the cloth feeling the shape of it. He could feel the weight if the pistol beneath his left arm. But no shooting, he reminded himself. He smelled the cold fresh smell of the pines and suddenly he realized there was no longer the sound of crickets. A movement in the tree darkness flicked in his vision.
He saw it again, a short quick shadow movement, and held his gaze on it, waiting for it to show again. When it did, he knew that it was a man, and almost instinctively he knew it was not Three-cents.
He glanced at Deneen. He hadn't seen him. The shadow moved again, coming closer cautiously, taking the definite shape of a man. It went through Flynn's mind: Joe's closest. It's up to him. Now he could see the shoulder-length hair and the colorless gray of the breechclout. He knew Madora, a few feet in front of him, was ready; but now he thought of Deneen, behind, slightly to the side, and he wanted to warn him not to move, but he knew it was too late. Joe-get the mouth. Whatever you do, don't let him yell. Let him take a few more steps- "Oh God!" and the pistol shot slamming the stillness on top of the words.
Deneen held the pistol out in front of him…the Apache was on the ground…but suddenly another shape was coming out of the trees…his thumb hooked the hammer and he fired at it…the figure hung motionless and he pulled the trigger twice again until the shape dropped to the ground.
Madora's voice suddenly-hoarse, urgent, "Stop him!"
Flynn was moving…one hand gripped the gun barrel, wrenching it from clawed fingers…the other tightened in uniform cloth to drag Deneen to the ground.
"Get off of me!"
The face beneath him was tight with panic, ready to scream again. Flynn pushed his palm down viciously over the mouth, holding it there, seeing the eyes stretched openMadora was next to him. "He shot Three-cents!"
"What!"
"The second one…It was Three-cents! The crazy son of a bitch killed him!"
Looking down, seeing the eyes, Flynn's hand tightened over the jaw. And one of the flashes in his mind, coming through the shock of Madora's words, said: This would be easy. But it was momentary. Ten years on the frontier was telling him something else, something undeniable, urgent…and he leaped up to follow Madora who was already moving, running through the trees. They reached the end of the trees together and paused, drawing their pistols. Then they were in the open-five, six, seven strides-and suddenly the gunfire broke, coming from three sides, pinpoint bursts of flame, stopping them in their tracks, forcing them back crawling, lunging into the cover of the trees.