Lew said nothing.
"Then keep your mouth shut."
"A man's got to talk about something."
Rellis did not answer. He rolled a cigarette and drew on it without taking it from his mouth, watching the trail.
For a short while, Lew remained silent, then he said, "I'm going up ahead a ways and look around." Rellis shrugged and Lew said, half turning in the saddle, "Warren, come on."
Rellis watched them move off, bearing to the right, climbing to higher ground, parallel with the trail but into the pines where they could watch the country below without being seen.
He pinched the cigarette stub from his mouth and ground it out between his fingers, crumbling tobacco and paper, then let the breeze take the particles from his open palm. His eyes, light colored, mild, and contrasting oddly with the coarseness of his features, were focused on the trail ahead, because you had to be careful. And partly because he was thinking and did not want distractions. Thinking about what he would do to a tall, thin man with a light mustache who wore a shoulder rig and who thought he was so goddamn smart. You should have pulled the trigger. What the hell was wrong with you! he thought. Well, you won't back down next time. Then he thought: I didn't back down! The son of a bitch had something under the cloth. He wouldn't have been so smart if he hadn't. You played it careful, that's all. He won't have a chance to get anything ready this time. And it's him, all right. It's his description. And I can even feel it's him, the son of a bitch.
He thought of the things he could do to Flynn. Get him when he's turned around and go up behind him and say something like…"Aren't you going to say hello to your old friend?" And when the son of a bitch turns around, jam the pistol into his gut and let go…and watch the expression on his face… He smiled thinking of this. And if that other one's with him, he'll get his, too. Like that old man with the beard who thought he was so smart laughing all the time.
Then Warren was standing just off the trail in a small clearing. His horse was not in sight. He held one hand palm-toward-them and the other hand was to his mouth.
Rellis dismounted and led his horse toward him. "What's the matter?"
" 'Paches."
"Where?"
"Down below. Going into a draw that comes out just up a ways from where Lew is now."
"How many?"
"Six. But two of them have got hats on."
They left their horses and followed Warren up through the pines, then, just ahead, they could see Lew belly-down behind the rocks, his carbine pointing down the draw. Farther back, the trough between the hills was dense with trees, but here the trees thinned as the draw climbed into a rise, its steep sides falling gradually away. Lew's carbine pointed to where the riders would come out of the trees. He glanced around as he heard the others come up.
"Don't make a sound."
Rellis eased down next to him and the other spread out along the rocks.
"We ought to have somebody over on the other side," Lew said, "but it's too late now."
"Where are they?" Rellis said.
"They'll show any minute." Lew pointed with the carbine barrel. "Come out right over there and pass within a hundred feet."
Rellis said, "Five against six," considering this.
"They won't have a chance."
"What's this about two of them wearing hats?"
"They was way off when I spotted them but that's what it looked like."
"I never heard of that."
Lew said, "I seen reservation 'Paches wearing hats." He raised himself on his elbows and looked toward the others down the line then to Rellis, "If we do this right," he said, "we got us six hundred pesos in the bank."
Rellis said nothing. He had both a carbine and a shotgun with him, and now he was examining the shotgun. At this range the shotgun would be better, especially if they rode close together.
Suddenly he heard Lew whisper, "Here they come. Get ready."
A lone Apache came out of the trees slowly, cautiously. He rode directly up the middle of the draw, holding his pony to a walk. Near the rise, he angled toward the far side and as he reached the slope, two more appeared from the trees coming out into the open. They scanned both sides of the draw as they drew closer to the rise. One of them rode straight ahead, urging his pony up the rise. The other followed for a short distance, then veered abruptly, coming toward the near side. He stopped suddenly and his eyes crawled over the rimrock.
Rellis whispered to Lew, "Take him. I'll get the one on the rise." His head turned to Warren. "The one on the other side. Tell the others."
"That's only three of them," Lew whispered hoarsely.
"We can't wait forever…take him!"
Lew squinted down the short barrel as Rellis swung the shotgun toward the Apache who had stopped at the crest of the rise.
Flynn felt his horse's head jerk suddenly and saw that the Apache was leading them off to the side toward the hill slope. A line trailed from the Apache's horse, back through the bit ring of Flynn's bridle to Bowers' and was tied there. Their hands were lashed to the saddle horns. Ahead, they could see Matagente and the two other Apaches disappearing into the trees.
Bowers said, "Did you make out what he told them?"
"He said they'd go on up to that rise…see it way up there over the trees?…and signal for us to follow."
"Doesn't take any chances."
"They never do," Flynn said.
The Apache, with one of their Springfields across his lap, was looking intently toward the rise. He glanced toward them then and muttered gutturally.
Bowers said, "What was that?"
"Mimbre for shut-up," Flynn said.
They kept their eyes on the rise. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile above them, but seemed much closer because of the height. Then one of the Apaches was visible past the dense tops of the trees, a small speck moving gradually up the slope. They watched him reach the crest and stop there, and he seemed to wait there uncertainly before turning his mount to face back down the draw.
He sat erect on the pony's back and raised his hand to shield the glare from his eyes, looking over the trees below him. Then the other hand raised a carbine high overhead and waved it once in a long sweeping motion. And as if on the signal, gunfire cut the stillness, echoing down the draw.
The Apache clung low to the pony and started to move off, but he was sliding to the side and as the horse broke he fell, grabbing wildly for the mane, and rolled down out of sight. There were more shots, but from below they could see no one.
The Mimbre did not hesitate. Flynn swore. Bowers yelled as he cut past them suddenly. The lead rope turned their horses abruptly, jerked from standstill to dead-run as he swerved out into the draw and back down the way they had come. They dodged after the Mimbre through the scattering of trees and brush scraping mesquite thickets, riding head-down, unable to raise their arms against the branches. The lead rope would slacken, then tighten suddenly to stagger their mounts off balance, though neither of them went down. When they reached open country the Mimbre paused to listen, but now there was no sound of firing. And he moved off again at a sharp right angle, skirting the base of the hills. Soon, though, he angled into the hills again, now leading them much slower.
"You never know, do you?" Bowers said.
"Not in this country."
"It's either rurales or this Lazair," Bowers considered, and when the scout nodded, he said, "Where's he going now?"
"He'll want to take a look before running for home."
"With us along?"
"Maybe he's got plans for us," Flynn said.
They moved up into high country behind the Apache who would stop frequently to listen; climbing slowly because there was no trail, winding into natural switchbacks where the ground rose steeper, transforming itself into jagged rock formations. But always there were dense pines scattered, straggling over the slopes, and they kept to the dimness of the trees most of the time. The sunlight clung to the open areas, coldly reflecting on the grotesque stone shapes-shadowed crevices and the brush clumps that stirred lazily when the wind would rise.