"What the hell kind of a question is that?" Rellis said.
Lazair swung on Lew irritably. "What did they look like!"
"One was a little taller than medium size, thin in the hips and put his boots down hard like a horse soldier. A young fella with red hair. The other one had a mustache, light-colored. He was stringier than the other fella and seemed taller. He looked peaceful enough, but his coat bulged a little like he had a six-gun under it."
Rellis said instantly, "A soldier mustache?"
Lew said, "Yeah, and the other one had an army holster on his side."
"Where are they?"
Lazair looked at Rellis curiously. "You know them?"
"Where are they?"
"Soyopa. They found those dead Mexicans and brought 'em in," Lazair said watching him closely. "I asked you if you knew them."
"I don't know. Maybe I do. One of them sounds like an old friend. Maybe I ought to go to Soyopa and find out for sure." He walked away before Lazair could ask him anything else.
Lazair watched him go back to the cook fire. The hell with it, he thought. Getting anything out of that son of a bitch is like pulling teeth. If it was something to worry about he would have said something. He looked at Lew Embree. "You want a drink?"
"Fine."
Lazair half turned and called behind him, "Honey!" There was no answer and he winked at Lew. "She's bashful."
Lew grinned, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. "How is she?"
"I can't even get her to smile."
"They don't have to smile."
"Honey!" Lazair called again. "Bring us out a bottle of something!"
Nita Esteban appeared in the cave opening, in half-shadow, the light of the fire barely reaching her. She held the ends of a red scarf that was about her shoulders tightly in front of her. Her features were small, delicate against the soft blackness of her hair. Her skin was pale in the light of the fire and her eyes were in shadow.
Lazair glanced at her and grinned. "A bottle of mescal, honey."
She disappeared and returned in a moment with the bottle in her hand. She approached Lazair reluctantly, handed the bottle to him and turned quickly, but as she did this he reached for her. She felt his hand on her back and dodged out of reach, twisting her body away from him. But his fingers tightened on the scarf and pulled it from her shoulders as she slipped away.
Lew grinned at his chief. "That's a step toward it."
"She likes to play." Lazair felt the material between his fingers and then tore it down the middle.
Lew said, "Maybe she's upset after seeing what you did to her kin."
Lazair folded a part of the scarf lengthwise, then tied it around his neck, sticking the ends into his shirt. "Some girls are funny that way," he said.
8
"O God, by whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, vouchsafe to bless this grave, and appoint Thy holy angel to guard it; and release the souls of all those whose bodies are buried here from every bond of sin, that in Thee they may rejoice with Thy saints forever. Through Christ our Lord."
The Franciscan made the sign of the cross in the air and sprinkled the grave with holy water.
Flynn waited patiently, though within him there was an impatience, while the priest finished his prayer over the last grave. He was anxious to be going, but the Franciscan had moved slowly from grave to grave, reciting the burial prayers reverently, a liturgy unaffected by time. There was no need to hurry.
Flynn's restlessness was not out of irreverence. He whispered his prayers with the priest, but his mind kept wandering to the news the vaquero had brought.
As they were lowering the bodies into the freshly dug graves, the vaquero had ridden in, killing his mount with the urgency of his news. He had seen Apaches! Tending his herd, a dozen miles from Soyopa, he had entered a draw after a stray-and there at the other end, trailing down from high country, were the Apaches. He had flown before they were able to see him, he told. But he had looked back once, and coming out of the draw they had traveled southeast in the direction of the deserted village of Valladolid. How many? Perhaps six or seven.
"Then it is not a raiding party," a man had said.
"Who knows the way of the Apache," the vaquero answered. He perspired, and the wide eyes told that he was still frightened.
"What about your cows?"
"My cows must protect themselves."
Flynn had listened with interest. Perhaps this was the opportunity. They could scour the hills for months without finding an Apache. Now, the Apaches had shown themselves. Scout them, he thought. Perhaps they would lead to Soldado Viejo, or, he could even be one of the six. He asked the vaquero to take them back to where he had seen the Apaches, but the vaquero steadfastly refused. Well, they could go alone.
"We might wait a long time for a trail as fresh as this one," he told Bowers.
Bowers shrugged. "Why not? That's why we're here."
A few of the villagers who had heard this looked at the Americans curiously.
They returned to the alcalde's house for their horses, then passed the cemetery again as they left Soyopa by the trail north. Hilario was still standing by the graves. He would move to the foot of a grave, recite the "Hail Mary" and drop a small stone, then move to the next. Later, the villagers would come and do this and after that any traveler entering Soyopa who knew a prayer for the dead would drop a stone.
The vaquero had told them approximately where his small herd had been grazing. Flynn remembered vaguely this country just to the north and the small village of Valladolid, half the size of Soyopa, a lonely outpost for vaqueros and their families. He had passed through it returning home. But now, he was told, Valladolid was only adobe-as lifeless as the mud it was made from. Soldado had struck the vaqueros too often and finally they had left it for larger villages-Soyopa, Rueda and others to the south; though some few herds were still grazed up there in the wild grama and toboso grass.
They rode due north through the afternoon, Flynn a few yards ahead of Bowers. Bowers would make the decisions; it was his assignment. But Flynn would show the way; it was his business.
They found the herd without difficulty, though the cattle were scattered, perhaps thirty head grazing from one end of the meadow to the other. There could be others in the hills now, hidden by the scrub trees, and up the draw which they recognized from the vaquero's description. Flynn did not doubt that the Apaches had driven off some, but until later he was not sure how many.
On the east edge of the meadow they stopped to eat-beef and tortillas which Hilario had told them to take from his house; then followed after the unshod horse tracks as they left the meadow.
At first, Flynn would step down from the saddle often to examine the prints more closely. But in less than a quarter of a mile he was sure and he said to Bowers, "The cowboy wasn't exaggerating. There are six of them. They're driving three cows." Farther on there were horse droppings in the trail. Flynn dismounted again. "They're not expecting anybody to be following."
Bowers said, "How far ahead?"
"About four hours." His eyes swung up to the high country that was before them. "They should be farther than that."
Bowers said, "They're taking their time. Maybe they've forgotten what it's like to be chased."
"What about Lazair?"
Bowers looked at him quickly, curiously, "That rurale mentioned him."
Flynn nodded. "So did Deneen. The rurale thought we worked for him, and he said something about the hunter of Indians proving to the lieutenant who was boss."
Bowers said, "Hunter of Indians."
"Bounty hunters," Flynn said.