He would move when it was dark. He'd cross the meadow and climb the slope there two hundred yards away and find the guard before the guard found him. If the rain keeps up it will help, he thought.
Then he would find out if he'd guessed right. He had planned to watch here until the band of scalp hunters rode out…even if it might take a few days…but now he was almost certain they were not in camp, and waiting to make sure would only waste time.
It took longer for full darkness to creep over the meadow, because Flynn was waiting for it, but finally it settled and with it the rain seemed louder.
Pretend you're Mimbreno, he thought as he left the cover of the trees and started across the meadow. This would be easy for one of Soldado's boys. It would be nothing. But think of the guard now; he was up in the rocks before; that doesn't mean he'll be there now. It's raining. If he's taken cover you'll have to be careful; but at least he won't hear you with the rain. Think like an Apache. But don't kill him, he thought then. Not if you can help it.
Faintly he could see the shape of the rock rise against the sky. We were over more to the right, he thought, remembering the outline of the crest as it had looked to him the first time. The first and only time…this morning. And that's hard to believe that it was this morning. The guard had been to the left then. Now he would be directly in front of you if he's in the same place.
Flynn moved to the right, now, holding the detail of the rock rise in his memory and now estimating where the defile would be. He moved closer, threading into the rocks and there it was just above him slanting darkly into the slope.
He eased himself up over the rocks, crawled, lay flat to listen, then crawled again to the pass opening and rose, looking up to the ledge where the guard had been that morning.
He's not there. Flynn's gaze came back to the define which was totally dark as far as he could see-or maybe he's in there using an overhang for shelter. But maybe there isn't any guard-and if there isn't, then you know Lazair's gone. That's the way it would be-nobody bothering to take watch if Lazair wasn't there to make him.
But you have to be sure.
He moved in a little farther, listening. Then went the rest of the way through without hesitating, crouched low to one wall, and at the other end he went down into the wet grass, feeling it cold against his hands and face, and looked out at the camp.
Across the open area he could make out the horses. They had drifted into the aspens, and now he heard one of them whinny, a faint shrill sound in the darkness.
The rain made a splattering sound against the tents. The ties of one had unfastened and the flaps billowed and then popped as the wind rose to sweep stinging into the camp. Three of the tents were deserted. The fourth stood ghostlike in the darkness-a lantern inside illuminating the pale, wet canvas outline.
No light showed from the cave entrance.
A man's voice came from the lighted tent. The sound of a word, then laughter, faint sounds far away.
Flynn raised himself slowly and edged along the rock outcroppings that rimmed the pocket. Nearing the cave, a vertical crack of light now showed along one edge of the blanket that covered the entrance. And then he was up the slight rise under the shelter.
Now, very quietly, he thought. Take all the time you want because you'll do this just once. He put his hands into his coat and dried them against his shirt. He wiped his face with a bandana then drew his pistol and wiped it carefully.
The voice sound came from the tent again and Flynn could feel it inside of him tightening his chest. He pictured the men in the tent. He pictured four of them for some reason. I could go down there and empty this into the canvas and get all of them, he thought. Then: Don't be foolish. Come on now.
Cocking the pistol he brushed aside the blanket covering and the next moment was inside the cave-in high, room-size dimness, a line with clothes hanging from it, bedding along one wall, and in a corner, crouched beside the coal-oil lamp turned low, was Nita Esteban.
Flynn put one finger to his mouth. Then, "Don't speak out loud," he said softly.
The girl looked up at him, her body tensed. She was kneeling on a blanket, sitting back on her feet. Her hands held the blanket tightly and no part of her body moved.
Close to her, Flynn dropped to one knee. "Nita." He put his hand on her shoulder and took it away feeling her body shudder. "I'm not one of them." He touched her again, gently. "Do you remember, six months ago I came through Soyopa and stayed at the house of your uncle. I was a friend of his, David Flin."
Her eyes held his-searching, deep black eyes that were not sure. And then they were sure. Then they remembered and the dark eyes in the drawn face were suddenly glistening with tears. Flynn brought her to him gently and heard and felt the muffled sob against his chest. Her shoulders quivered and he held her close to him, awkwardly with one hand because the pistol was there, now moving the other hand up to stroke her hair, with much the same feeling you stroke a child's head.
Lowering his face he said to her ear, "How many are there?"
The sobbing stopped. "Most of them left during the afternoon. There would not be many now. One of them came here not long ago. I thought you were he when you entered."
"There is a light in only one tent."
"They are the only ones," she said. "Perhaps three, or four or five. The one who was here came for a bottle of something to drink." She hesitated. "He said I should go with him, but I refused and he said that when he came back I would be sorry."
Flynn rose, bringing her up with him. She wore a skirt to her ankles and a man's shirt buttoned high and the shirttail hanging to where her knees would be.
"Lazair keeps his clothes here, doesn't he?"
She nodded, but did not look at his face.
"Put another shirt on."
He moved to the blanket covering as she did this and stood listening. There it was again; one of them laughing. Then another sound-close!
He had time to warn the girl only with his eyes. She saw him flatten against the wall. A leather coat was hanging there from a nail and he drew the coat in front of him, though he still could be seen.
Then the blanket cover was whipped back and a man stood in the entrance, weaving, his eyes narrowing on Nita Esteban, then smiling.
"You must a been coming to see us. Nowhere else you could go." Mescal was in his voice and in the half-open eyes. He had come from the tent bareheaded and now his hair was shining, plastered close to his skull. He had brought no hat, but he was armed. He chuckled and turned to the wall where Lazair's gear was, where the mescal was kept.
He was about to say something more to the girl but the words caught in his mouth. He could see Flynn, and the pistol pointed toward him.
The man wheeled. In split-second surprise he wheeled toward the cave entrance.
Flynn held back, then there was no choice and he felt the.44 jerk with the exploding sound.
The scalp hunter stumbled, rolling to his side. His hand waved, slapped against his holster…the glint of metal coming up with the hand…then a second report, ear-splitting in the closeness, and the man fell back and did not move.
They were over him, past him, almost the same moment. Flynn holding the girl's arm, brushing aside the blanket, then out into darkness running for the scattered rimrocks. And as they reached cover the other men were coming out of the tent, furiously at first-the canvas shaking, something kicked over, glass breaking, curses-then the light was extinguished and the men were outside. Now they made no sound. Now it was realization of what they had to do and they approached toward the cave slowly, fanning out, as Flynn and the girl crept to the defile and made their way through the blind narrowness of it.