The one called Sid, heavy-set, with a stubble of red beard, stepped out reluctantly and drew Flynn's pistol from his belt. "The carbine's in the tent," he mumbled.
"Here, let's see it," Lazair said. He weighted the pistol in his hand. "Just a mite long in the barrel. Likely it's accurate, though." His arm swung quickly thumbing the hammer and he fired the pistol in the motion.
Sid jumped quickly. "Hey!"
But no one was looking at him. Matagente sagged forward, his chin against his chest, unmoving, and below his chin was the small hole Lazair's bullet had made.
"Damn accurate," Lazair said.
A silence followed. Flynn studied him coldly. "You trying to prove something?"
Lazair shrugged. "He wasn't doing anybody much good. Hair's worth more'n his carcass. See, we don't exactly make farmers out of them, but we help the crops…turn them under, like manure."
He handed the pistol to Flynn. "You ought to cut that barrel down. Sid," he said over his shoulder, "you saddle up two mounts and fetch that carbine along and if anybody's got this other soldier's gun, fork over." He nodded to Bowers and Flynn. "You boys take it easy now." He turned and walked off toward the cave.
It was past noon when they reached Soyopa, entering by the way they had gone out two days before. And now the cemetery was silent. Rows of wooden crosses, but no one kneeling to remember the dead. Later on, when the shadows lengthened behind the church, the women would come. Always someone came.
The newer graves were near the road and already these were beginning to resemble the others, though the wooden crosses were not yet graved by the weather; small stones spread over the low mounds-a stone for a prayer for the repose of the soul.
Flynn dismounted stiffly and walked to the grave of Anastacio Esteban. Bowers followed him. A square of wood was nailed to the arms of the cross and it bore the inscription:
Aqui yace Anastacio Maria Esteban Vencino de Soyopa Matado por los barbaros el dia 26 de Octubre del ano 1876 Ora por el, Christiano, por Dios.
Flynn said in English, "Killed by the barbarians… Christian, for the sake of God, pray for his soul." Then he said again, "Matado por los barbaros…" He looked at Bowers. "A barbarian with a willow-root straw and a red neckerchief."
Bowers eyed him curiously. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"The Indian could have been lying."
"It's not what Soldado said."
Bowers looked at him, but said nothing.
"Then you didn't see her," Flynn said, "…just for a moment in the cave entrance. Nita Esteban."
12
A breeze moved over the square, raising dust swirls about the stone obelisk.
Two rurales lounged asleep in the shade of Duro's headquarters, and in front of Las Quince Letras a row of horses stood at the tie rack-a dun swished its tail lazily and the flanks of a big chestnut quivered to shake off flies. A dog yelped somewhere beyond the adobe fronts. And a woman, a black mantilla covering her head and shoulders, passed without sound into the shadowed doorway of Santo Tomas de Aquin. In the heat of the afternoon it was best to remain within.
From the doorway that opened onto the balcony, Lamas Duro watched the man leave the mescal shop and cross the square to the adobe whose sign read Comida. He walked leisurely, carrying a bottle of something.
"One of the American filth," Duro said half aloud.
As the figure passed from view he saw two riders then enter the square from the street that bordered the church, and as they passed the mescal shop Duro moved back into the room, buttoning his shirt. He smoothed his hair with his fingers as his eyes went on the desk to see the mescal bottle and glass. Hastily now he gathered them up, finishing the inch of colorless sweet liquid in the glass, and disappeared into the bedroom. He was back in a moment and arranged the papers on his desk in a semblance of order before returning to the doorway. The two riders were almost directly below.
He stepped out onto the balcony and called down, "Senores, please come up!" his smile as white as his shirt.
The taste of mescal was sour in his mouth and he lighted a cigar as he listened to the double tread on the stairs. Then they were on the balcony and he stepped aside allowing them to enter the room first.
"You do me an honor, Senor Flin and Lieutenant Bowers."
Bowers looked at him quickly.
Duro smiled. "This is a small pueblo, Lieutenant. The news does not have far to travel. Perhaps the alcalde tells a close friend…or someone overheard you speaking. He tells a friend. It enters Las Quince Letras and pop…it is out."
"Our identity was not intended to be kept secret," Bowers said.
"Of course not." Duro smiled. "But I wouldn't blame you if you did intend it so. Sometimes there is a problem in crossing into another country to perform a mission of a government nature. Often such matters must be handled with discretion. Of course, here you have nothing to fear. As a representative of Porfirio Diaz, I am at your command."
"That's very kind of you," Bowers said woodenly.
"Not at all." Duro held up his hand as if he would not think of accepting gratitude. "I know His Excellency, Porfirio, would have instructed that I aid your mission in every way…had he been informed of it. After all, the menace of the Apaches is a reason for the existence of our rurales. Actually then, you are giving assistance to us. Though I cannot say I envy your task." He said this as one soldier to another.
Bowers said, "But as a military man you know one cannot question his orders."
"Certainly." Duro bowed.
Flynn's eyes went over the room and returned to the rurale. "Have you ever made contact with Soldado Viejo?"
Duro shook his head. "Not with that elusive one. A few times, though, we have taken others of his tribe. The day you arrived we executed one." He sighed. "Sometimes such an act seems without heart but," his eyes shifted to Bowers, "one cannot question his orders."
Flynn crooked a knuckle to stroke his mustache idly. "I suppose not," he said. "You don't have to pay out much bounty money then."
"Occasionally." Duro shrugged.
"We were talking to a man named Lazair this morning-"
"Oh-"
"He was telling us about the fifteen scalps he brought in the other day."
"Fifteen!"
"Isn't that right?"
"I don't recall the exact number."
"That was a good haul."
"Yes, but it does not happen often."
Flynn eyed him steadily. "I was wondering how often it does happen. This Lazair must be pretty good to take that many at one time. He only has about a dozen men."
"I suppose," Duro said, "he knows many tricks in the tracking of Indians."
"I suppose," Flynn said.
"Would you care for a drink?" Duro said now, looking from one to the other.
Flynn said, "Fine," and Bowers nodded.
Duro went into the next room and returned with the bottle of mescal and three tumblers. "I have this for special guests," he said confidingly.
Flynn watched him place the glasses on his desk and pour mescal into them. "He had a Mimbre brave in his camp," he said.
Duro looked up. "This Lazair?"
Flynn nodded. "He'll be bringing you the scalp pretty soon."
"Oh…he was dead."
"He was after a while."
Duro shrugged. "Lazair is a businessman. A live Apache is worth nothing to him."
Bowers said quietly, "You get the feeling a live anything is worth nothing to him."
"Except perhaps a woman," Flynn added.
Duro handed them each a glass and said offhandedly, "He has a woman with him?"