There were four of them-it went through Flynn's mind-now only three, but you can count on them coming, coming quick!
His hand was tight clutching Nita's arm and he ran with her through the swishing wet wound of the sabaneta grass, holding himself to run at the girl's speed.
There was his mount, where he had left it. Hide glistening wet, skittering nervously at the abruptness of their coming into the trees. Flynn mounted, now reached for the girl and swung her up behind him and felt her arms holding as he wheeled the horse off through the trees. They descended, following the trail in his memory, crossed a flat stretch on the dead run then climbed again into timber before stopping to listen.
At first it was only the sound of Nita's breathing, then far off, faintly, he could hear the horses.
They're close, he thought, straining to listen, now conscious of his own breathing. They've figured it out. Somebody from Soyopa since it was not Apaches. So they're running hard in the direction of Soyopa. If they don't overtake someone they'll double back and in the morning spread out and start looking.
The sound of running horses was louder now. They had reached the flat stretch below them. Still mounted, unmoving, with the girl's arms tightening about him, they heard the horses pass, carrying their sound with them into the distance again. The girl's arms relaxed.
"We'll have to wait until it's light," Flynn said. "In the darkness we could run into them." He looked over his shoulder and saw her head nod.
Higher up in the timber they dismounted. Flynn kindled a low burning fire, without worrying about it being seen. A brush rimmed pocket shielded them on three sides. The fire might be visible from the fourth, but a man would have to be standing less than twenty feet away to see it and if he were that close, fire or no fire he'd know they were there.
They sat close over the mesquite twig fire letting their clothes dry on them. The girl's were not so wet, but Flynn's were stuck cold to his body and it was some time before the fire warmth penetrated enough for him to feel it on his body.
Later on, they lay close to each other to sleep.
"Nita."
The girl's face turned to his and was only a few inches away.
He said in Spanish, softly, "I offer my sorrow for what has happened, though the words do little good."
"There is nothing one can say," the girl answered.
"Your father is well."
"Will you take me to him?"
"Of course. When it is light. When we can go without the fear of coming onto those without seeing them."
She's calm, Flynn thought. Even after all she's been through she has control of herself and can speak without her voice giving it away. She's a woman of Mexico, used to the sight of death-but that's a lot of nonsense. No, it's not callousness. It's faith. God is God and He lets things happen and that's all there is to it. But He has reasons, and His reasons for something happening would be more important than a man's reason for questioning whatever it might be. That's how she has probably looked at it and it has taken some of the sting out. Not all, some.
Flynn said now, "I have thought of you often since the time in Soyopa."
Nita had closed her eyes. Now she opened them. "I remember you well. At first I did not, because in my mind I was expecting the other, but now I do."
He said abruptly, though gently, "Did Lazair cause you pain?"
"With his eyes," the girl answered. "He did not molest me because he wanted me to consent. He would touch me, but that was all."
Flynn said, "I'm sorry," quietly, almost with embarrassment.
And then, as if they had been speaking of it before, the girl began: "The firing came suddenly from above, from both sides of the road and I saw my Uncle Anastacio fall from his horse. Others fell. There was screaming then and the mules began to go faster, but the wagons became entangled because the road was narrow and as this happened the men came down from the slopes firing their guns. One of them pulled me from the wagon and on the ground, beneath it, he tore open my dress and began to touch me, but the one called Lazair appeared and ordered him away. He took me up the slope to his horse and from there we watched what took place after"-she paused-"the scalping of those who had been killed, and some who had not been killed. Then he rode down the slope, holding me in front of him on the saddle, and ordered the men to cut loose the mules and burn the wagons. But after only two of them were burning he said to not bother with the others as it was time to go. Then four men rode through dragging sapplings to obliterate the signs that were there. Then I saw one of my cousins being carried on another horse. She tore herself from the man who carried her and ran back toward the burning wagons, and the man shot her as she ran. One of those with the saplings dismounted and was drawing his knife as Lazair turned and rode off with me."
Nita said no more. She lay facing him, but her eyes were closed and her soft, shadowed features seemed relaxed now. Flynn put his arm around her gently. Through the night they lay close together and neither spoke again.
With first light they were moving down through the timber, through the gray mist that clung to the trees, left behind by night. Flynn carried the Springfield, leading the horse. Nita was mounted. Moving, winding slowly with the squeaking of straining leather and the crisp cracking rustling of hoofs in dried leaves.
Then they were crossing sand that muffled the hoofs; through mesquite and catclaw that tangled both sides of a draw, and there was ocotillo that yesterday had been thorned stalks but now blazed scarlet with the rain. The sky told there would be more rain and Flynn could smell it coming on the sultry wind.
The draw began to slope, gradually at its beginning, cutting between sweeping slopes, and as they followed the rise it narrowed, curving high up into the hills. In timber again, in the shadowy silence of it, they looked back down the way they had come. Far below, three riders were entering the draw.
They've found the tracks, Flynn thought. And now they know there are only two of us. One man and one woman. They probably aren't very worried and are thinking now it's getting interesting. He pictured them grinning at each other.
The girl had been watching them and now she looked at Flynn, asking the question with her eyes.
He said, "We can't run, because they can move faster. They would overtake us. The only thing to do is show them that we are aware of them and try to make them go slower." And he added, in his mind: Or stop them from going at all.
He moved the girl deeper into the trees then crept out among the rocks that overhung the steep-falling slope here. Dropping to his stomach he pushed the Springfield out between the rocks and looked down the barrel.
There they were, closer now, out of sight passing through jack-pines, then reappearing. From his pocket Flynn brought out two brass cartridges and put them on the ground, on the spot where his hand would drop after swinging open the breech.
Five hundred yards, he thought. Take your time, they'll get closer. His eyes moved ahead of them, up the draw to where it narrowed and began to curve. But you'll have to hit them before they reach there. They'd have cover then and be able to sneak up through the brush if you miss with your first shot. So you'll fire from three hundred yards. It's a good thing it's downhill. They make them short in the barrel for shooting from horseback, but for long range you might just as well spit.
Now it was four hundred yards. They were single-file, taking their time.
Hit the first one. First things first. Let them get up to that open spot, so they won't be able to break for cover. But you won't get them all. You know that.
Close over the barrel he watched them come. The Springfield was cocked. His finger fondled the trigger lightly, feeling the spring tightness of it. The front sight covered the first rider. A little closer now, he thought.