They sat on the packed-dirt floor with their legs crossed and their backs to the wall and waited. For what, they did not know, wondering why they were not taken to the Apaches' rancheria.
Matagente brought them meat, then sat near the doorway with one of the Springfields across his lap. His hand moved over the smooth stock idly. Before this he had used a Burnside.54 which needed percussion caps and powder, and often it misfired.
When they had eaten the meat, Flynn said, "Take us to Soldado now."
"You will see him," Matagente said, and again lapsed into silence. This new gun was in his mind-this pesh-e-gar-and he was thinking how good it would be to fire it.
Through the doorway Flynn could see the other Apaches standing in front of the house, talking to each other in low tones he could not hear. Then he saw them look up. One of them moved off and the others watched after him. In a moment he was back and he called in to Matagente, in the Mimbreno dialect. "They are here."
Matagente rose and moved to the doorway as mounted Apaches suddenly appeared in front of the house. These dismounted as others continued to enter the square from the side street, walking their ponies. The sound of this came to Flynn, but he could see nothing until Matagente stepped back from the doorway. He saw the Apaches now, at least twenty, probably more, milling in front of the house, then his view was blocked again as a figure moved into the doorway.
Matagente said, "Now you see Soldado. Tell him your story, American."
Bowers looked at him with open surprise, and now wondered why he had expected this Apache to look different than any other, though he was old for an Apache still active. Wrinkled face and eyes half closed beneath the bright red headband. And skinny-filthy clothes, ill-fitting to make him seem smaller. A buttonless cavalry jacket, a bandoleer crossing his chest holding the jacket only partly closed, and cotton trousers stuffed into curl-toed moccasins that reached to his knees where they folded and tied. He rested one hand on the butt of a cap-and-ball dragoon pistol in his waistband. But the hand only rested there; it was not a threat.
Flynn watched his face as he sat down in front of them crossing his legs. The cavalry guide had expected nothing. A man is some things and he is not others. A Mimbre Apache is not a fashion plate. He is ragged and dirty and has the odor of an unwashed dog and at night in his rancheria drinks tizwin until it puts him to sleep or sends him after a woman. He has many faults-by white standards. But he is a guerrilla fighter, and in his own element he is unbeatable. That's the thing to remember, Flynn thought. Don't underestimate him because he smells. He isn't chief because his dad was. And a broncho chief doesn't get to be as old as he is on his good looks.
He said now, in Spanish, "Do you speak English?"
The Apache shook his head.
"Lieutenant, you can take that for what it's worth. He might speak it better than we do." Then to Soldado he said, "We did not come here to fight your men. The fight could not be avoided."
"But one of them is dead," Soldado said.
"I did not wish him to die the way he did, but it could not be helped. It is not the way a Mimbreno should die."
The old chief looked at him intently. "Who of us have you known?"
"I have known Victorio and Chee and Old Nana."
"What are you called?"
"David Flin." He pronounced the name slowly.
"I have not heard of you."
"This country is wide."
The Apache said quietly, "Yet you would force us to live in one small corner of it."
"What I do," Flynn said, "is not entirely of my mind."
"Then perhaps you are a fool."
"It is only foolish when you fight against what is bound to happen," Flynn said. "I see the days of the Mimbreno numbered…as well as the Chiricahua, Coyotero, Jicarilla and the Mescalero. The Tonto and Mojave have already been given their own land."
"And who is this that gives land which he does not own?" the Apache asked.
Damn him, Flynn thought. He said, "The chief of the Americans, who owns it because of his power. Let me tell you something, old man, for your wisdom to absorb: your days remaining are few. If you give yourself up now, you will be given good land which still abounds in those things to keep you alive. And you will be under the protection of our government."
Soldado said seriously, "And if I were to find my woman lying with someone else and I cut off her nose, what would happen to me?"
"You would be taken before the agent," Flynn said, feeling foolish saying the words.
"For what reason?"
"For your offense."
"And when our women see that they can lie with any man they wish and only the husband is punished if he objects, what will your government do then?"
"Your women are your own problem," Flynn said.
"Man, we have many problems which we would keep our own."
Flynn shook his head wearily. What a sly old bastard, he thought. He makes you sound like a damn fool. Maybe you can't be a big brother. Maybe the only kind of respect they know is a kick in the face. He intimated so just now with that about the women. Only you're not in a very good spot to do any kicking. All you can do now is bluff-and if it doesn't work, which it probably won't, you haven't lost anything.
He said now to Soldado, "I tell you this as a friend: If you fight, you will be defeated, and being remembered with distaste you will be treated ill and perhaps be put into prison."
Soldado said, "What is the difference in meaning between these words prison and reservation?"
"You ask many questions."
"I only wish to borrow from the wisdom of the American," Soldado said.
"You may scoff at these words," Flynn said, "but what happens, happens. It is above you and me and will come about regardless of what you do, but I am wise enough to see it."
"Are you wise enough to see your own fate, American?"
"I speak to you as a people."
"And I speak to you as a man. What does this spirit of yours say will happen to you?"
"I could die at this moment," Flynn said. "So could you."
"But who would you say this is more likely to happen to?"
You're not doing this very good, Flynn thought to himself. He always has the last word and makes you feel like a green kid who doesn't know what he's doing. Bowers touched his arm then and as he looked at him Bowers said, "How does he know why we're here?"
"What?"
"You've told him nothing. We could be scalp hunters for all he knows, yet he talks about the reservation. How does he know we came to see him?"
Soldado said, "The silent one wonders how I know of your mission."
In English, Flynn said quickly, "How did you know what he said?"
Soldado shook his head. "No comprendo."
Flynn repeated the question in Spanish and the old Indian smiled faintly. "His question was on his face. It did not need words; though I have been waiting for you to ask it."
"Then you have known of us for some time," Bowers said.
"Since the day you gathered the bodies of the Nakai-yes and returned them to their village. This was not an act of the killers of Indians."
Flynn concealed his amazement. Now he said, "You were very thorough. No one was left alive."
Soldado studied him silently before saying, "Do you believe these words you use?" and when Flynn did not answer, he said, "No, you do not believe them, but you would hear it aloud that we did not kill the Nakai-yes. There is no need however to explain these things to the wise American who is able to see the future."