“Somebody’s been talking to you,” Renda said quietly.
“Maybe it was Willis,” Bowen said. “Maybe he’s getting tired.”
“Willis knows better.”
“Maybe he’s so tired he’s going to stand up to you.”
“Where would he get the nerve?”
“He’s got it, Frank. He’s had enough all along to think of his wife first…to stay out of jail for her sake.”
“You think so, huh?”
“He made a mistake getting tied to you, but once he was in, it took nerve to keep going. The wrong kind of nerve, but at least you know he’s got it.” Bowen paused, thinking: You hear that, Willis? “Sometimes a man will put up with anything for his wife. That’s where you misjudged him.”
Renda said, “You don’t know as much about him as I thought.”
“But now,” Bowen went on, “he’s tired of it. He’s starting to think it would be worth going to jail for a year or two just to get it off his mind. He realizes now his wife would respect him more if he did. After that he’d be a free agent and all the Frank Rendas in the world could go to hell.”
“He knows he’d get more than a jail sentence,” Renda said. “I’d bust his head for him.”
“Would you?” Bowen paused. He said then, slowly, clearly, “Is that what you did to Lizann?”
Renda stared at him. “Karla didn’t forget anything, did she?”
“She’ll probably never forget it,” Bowen said, “seeing a woman beat up. Did you have a hard time?”
“She got what she asked for.”
“Frank, you’re a real fighter, aren’t you?” A sound came from the kitchen. Bowen heard it close behind him, but he was not sure what it was. “You fight women…and men with their hands tied behind them.”
Renda’s intent expression did not change. “You’re getting off the subject, aren’t you?”
“We’ve got time,” Bowen said easily. He was thinking, hurriedly: Keep him on it! “Frank, what’s it like to hit a woman?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions,” Renda said.
“Do you let her fight back?”
This time Renda did not answer.
“Or do you get her against the wall and just keep swinging at her?”
“You’re leading up to something,” Renda said cautiously.
“Frank, what’s Willis going to do when he finds out?”
“He’ll figure he’s lucky it didn’t happen to him.”
“You know what I’d do if I were Willis?” Bowen paused. “I’d take a pick handle to you.”
“You would, huh?”
Bowen nodded. “I’d crack you ten for every one time you hit her.”
Then, close behind him, not expecting it, the screen door swung open. As he heard it, Bowen moved aside, almost glancing back, but at the same moment, seeing the look of shocked surprise come over Renda’s face, he knew it was Willis Falvey, just as he knew, suddenly feeling more sure of himself, that Falvey had been listening all the time. Still watching Renda, he thought: If he moves hit him in the leg. He glanced quickly to the side then. Falvey was staring up at Renda, Lizann’s .25-caliber Colt in his hand.
“Frank…you put your filthy hands on my wife?”
Renda shifted his weight in the saddle. “Willis, I didn’t know you were here.”
“Answer me!”
“Listen, Willis. I’m sorry that had to happen. It was Lizann’s own fault. She didn’t have to get hit but she wouldn’t tell me—” He stopped. “Willis, she was planning to leave you. You realize that?”
“Frank,” Falvey said tonelessly. “When you’re through talking I’m going to kill you.”
“Use your head! She’s going to leave you anyway. She don’t care a damn about you.”
Bowen glanced at Falvey. “Killing him isn’t the way. Testify against him in court. He didn’t just beat up your wife—men died in that place because of him, men like Chick Miller. You’ll see him dead—but let a jury take care of it!”
“I’ll testify,” Falvey said. “But Frank won’t be there to hear it.”
“So you shoot him and they hang you. You think it’s worth it?”
“I’d as soon that happen as go to prison,” Falvey answered. “You’re wasting your breath.”
Renda moved uneasily in the saddle, his hands gripping the shotgun. “Willis—listen to him—he’s talking sense!”
Falvey stared. “Are you through?”
“Man, stop and think for a minute!”
“You’re through,” Falvey murmured.
He brought up the revolver, leveling it at Renda’s chest, thumbing back the hammer. It was in his mind to kill Renda and there was no persuading him otherwise—but as he pulled the trigger, Bowen slammed against him. The revolver fired wide as both of them went down, and with the report Renda was reining hard to the right, kicking the chestnut; he fired from his lap as the big mare wheeled, but the shot was hurried and ripped high through the screen door.
Falvey was up as the mare broke into a gallop angling to the left of the corral. He fired once, then again. Bowen was on one knee as he saw Renda twist in the saddle and point the shotgun back with one hand.
“Go down!”
But he called too late. Renda’s second barrel exploded. He saw Falvey spin sideways as the buckshot hailed against the adobe, chipping a powdery cloud, and Falvey went down, dropping the revolver and suddenly clutching his left hip.
Then Demery was outside, lifting Falvey, holding open the shot-out screen door with his foot and dragging Falvey into the kitchen. He snapped at Bowen, glancing off at Renda, “Get him—what’s the matter with you!”
“Watch,” Bowen said, coming to his feet. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze following Renda as he reached the far side of the corral and rode on toward the pine-covered slope beyond.
Demery came out again. “You let him get away!”
“Watch,” Bowen said again. And as their eyes followed the chestnut moving across the meadow, streaking for the dark expanse of trees, they saw it veer sharply to the right. A single file of riders had suddenly appeared, coming down out of the trees.
Renda circled, waving his shotgun in the air and the riders, the Mimbres, came after him. As he continued the wide circle, gradually coming back to the yard, another file of Mimbres rode out of the trees approximately two hundred yards farther to the right, joining the first group now and spreading out behind Renda who glanced back at them, waving them on with the shotgun, then began to rein in as he neared the corral again.
“They’re backing him!” Demery hissed.
“Wait and see,” Bowen said, not taking his eyes from Renda. Then asked, “Where’s Karla?”
“Inside,” Demery murmured. “Looking after Willis. She circled around and came in the front. Stood there biting her nails through the whole thing…like to got hit when Frank ripped up the door.”
“What about Willis?”
“His side’s scraped is all.”
“Was he listening…before?”
“Hanging on every word you said…like courage being poured into him.” Demery watched Renda wave the Mimbres past him. “Listen, you can’t just stand there!”
Bowen said nothing, watching four of the Mimbres circle the corral to come in on the left side. The others—he counted six—Salvaje one of them, rode past Renda. They entered the yard, moving past the corral and spread out in an uneven line as they came to a halt.
Now, Bowen thought; and walked out toward them. He was halfway across the yard when Renda came through the line of Mimbres and reined in a few yards in front of them. Bowen continued toward him until less than fifteen feet separated them.
“That’s far enough,” Renda called. “Now drop the shooter.”
Bowen held the Colt at his side, pointed at the ground. “It won’t do you any good.”
“Drop it!”
Bowen let it fall from his fingers.
“Now kick it out of the way.”
/> With the side of his foot, Bowen pushed the Colt away from him.
“The deal’s off.” Renda grinned. He was relaxed and confident now and looked at Bowen with open amusement. “Give me the letter.”
“It wouldn’t do you any good even if there was one,” Bowen said. “Since Willis is going to speak up against you.”
Renda’s eyes narrowed. “He’s still alive?”
“You just scraped his hip.”
“Well, I’ll have a talk with Willis,” Renda said easily. “I’ve found Willis an agreeable boy if you talk to him right.” His tone changed as he snapped, “Now give me the letter!”
Bowen brought the folded envelope from his pocket. He moved close to the chestnut’s right shoulder, handed the envelope to Renda and stepped back again.
Renda glanced at it, saw Demery’s address and looked at Bowen again. “You just pulled twenty more days in the punishment cell.”
Bowen said nothing.
Renda’s gaze raised to the adobe. Demery was still at the door. “John, where’s that letter your girl brought?”
Demery shook his head holding his palms up.
“I’m warning you, John—”
“He doesn’t have it,” Bowen said. “Nobody does.”
“I can burn down the house if that’s what he wants.”
“There never was a letter, Frank. Lizann made it up to get rid of you. But you happened to see Karla and you believed her.”
“If there’s no letter,” Renda said, “then why’d you try to make a deal? You think I’d have let you go without even looking at it?”
“That was leading up to something else,” Bowen said. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“You sure as hell weren’t.”
“I didn’t know how I was going to use the letter at first,” Bowen said. “I just had it as an extra card. Then, somewhere along the line, it steered us to Willis.”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Check with your men in the canyon then! They saw Karla go by after you left for the camp. Karla didn’t even drop off the mail she had, much less pick any up.”
Renda looked past Bowen toward the adobe. “We’ll see.”
Bowen shook his head. “You’re not going in there.”
“Who’s going to stop me?”
“Frank, you’ve got a surprise coming.”
“I’m getting awful sick of you,” Renda said slowly.
“But you’re not going in,” Bowen said. “Not with Willis there.”
For a moment Renda was silent. “Corey…I think I’ve had just about all I can take of you.” His right hand went into his coat pocket and brought out a shell for the shotgun. He broke open the gun, still watching Bowen, and carefully inserted the shell into the right chamber.
“What you’re going to do,” Renda said, taking his time and seeming to enjoy what he was saying, “is make a run for it. But if you move before I give the word, these bucks will blow you apart.”
Bowen watched Renda’s hand move to the pocket. The hand raised then and pointed off to the far side of the corral.
“That’s the way you go,” Renda said. “With a ten-count start. If you can run like hell, maybe you’ll almost reach the trees.”
“What about the witnesses?” Bowen said. He watched Renda’s hand drop to his thigh.
“Who’s going to say you didn’t try to run?” Renda answered. His hand moved to the pocket and brought out a shell. He glanced down at the open shotgun and started inserting the shell into the left chamber.
It was the moment Bowen was waiting for. He lunged at Renda, reaching up for him.
The shotgun snapped closed and exploded over Bowen’s shoulder as he dragged Renda from the saddle, one hand on the barrel, the other gripping Renda’s sleeve, twisting then, throwing his shoulder into Renda’s stomach as they both went to the ground.
Renda rolled free. He started to rise, coming to one knee, swinging the shotgun in line, but he was a moment too late and as he pulled the trigger the barrel rose suddenly and fired into the air. Bowen’s left hand twisted the barrel, Renda cried out, his finger caught in the trigger guard, and as he released the shotgun, Bowen’s right hand slammed against the side of his face.
Renda went down, rolled again and shielded his face with his arms as he came to his knees. Then, seeing Bowen standing, holding the shotgun, not coming for him, his gaze swung to the Mimbres, to Salvaje.
“Bust him!”
Salvaje made no move.
“You hear me!” Renda screamed. “Bust him!”
Salvaje held his Springfield straight up, the stock resting on his thigh. His eyes were on Renda, but he did not move.
Renda hesitated, his chest rising and falling. His gaze moved along the line of the Mimbres, over the cloth headbands and the stone-silent stares, the slanting cartridge bandoleers and the Springfields leveled across the pommels of their saddles. All of them were watching him and only Salvaje’s carbine pointed into the air.
“You hear me!” Renda screamed again. “Cut him down! Now!”
“They hear you,” Bowen said.
Renda’s eyes did not leave Salvaje. “What’s the matter with you? I said shoot him!”
Then silence, and Bowen said, “There’s your surprise, Frank.” He watched Renda turn slowly to face him. “You were in such a rush to get back,” Bowen went on, “you didn’t find out if you were leading or being chased.”
For a long moment Renda said nothing. “What did you tell them?” he asked finally.
“What difference does it make. You don’t have your guns, you don’t have any men and Willis is against you…Why don’t you quit now?”
Renda’s eyes stared from the shadow of his hatbrim, not moving from Bowen. His mustache masked the grim line of his mouth and his jaw was clenched tightly. He stared at Bowen, silent with his thoughts, and the hate came slowly into his eyes. Finally, then, he started toward Bowen, walking slowly, his head slightly down, but his eyes raised and not wavering as he came on.
Bowen held the shotgun in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. “Frank, my hands aren’t tied this time.”
Renda came on.
“And I’m not Lizann,” Bowen said.
Another two steps…three…on the next one, Renda hesitated, then rushed at Bowen. At the same moment Bowen swung the shotgun, letting it go at Renda’s legs. Renda tried to dodge, bringing himself up, but the barrel cracked across his ankles and he stumbled forward.
Bowen had half turned as he threw the gun; now his body swung back and his left hand hammered against Renda’s face. Renda tried to cover, bringing up his arms, but Bowen’s right slammed through his guard; he tried to fight back, swinging blindly, viciously, but Bowen’s right hand jabbed again and again and he was forced to cover his face. As he did, Bowen side-stepped and came in with a wide swinging left that opened Renda’s guard and jolted him back off balance. Bowen followed, shifting his feet, hammering in with his right hand, and as Renda staggered back, Bowen kept with him, hooking in one hand then the other, slashing Renda across the mouth and eyes, putting almost his full weight behind each blow, until Renda dropped. He tried to rise, then fell heavily on his back. His arms were outstretched now and he didn’t move.
Bowen’s arms hung at his sides. The muscles in them ached and he opened and closed his hands painfully. He felt exhaustion and relief, looking down at Renda, thinking now of all that had happened over the past hour, seeing Karla and Falvey and Renda and the Mimbreños, briefly remembering words, pieces of conversations, but not seeing or thinking these things in proper order and he wasn’t sure if all of it had actually happened.
He heard footsteps in the yard, someone coming out from the house, but he turned to the Mimbres first and walked toward them, to Salvaje who had dismounted.
“If we were to talk for a few days,” Bowen said to him, “with tulapai between us, maybe I could tell you how I feel.”
“Come to San Carlos,” the Mi
mbreño said.
“They won’t send you back,” Bowen said. “Whoever comes out to take Renda’s place will still want trackers.”
The broad brim of Salvaje’s hat moved slightly as he shook his head. “We go home. This is not like other times. I think Victorio would laugh.” The Mimbre watched Bowen closely. “Do you understand that?”
Bowen’s head nodded slowly. “Yes…I think I do.”
Salvaje’s eyes went to Renda. “He will be in the punishment cell until they come for him.”
Demery approached. He was smiling, looking from Renda, who was still on the ground, to Bowen. “He didn’t even put a hand on you!”
“Not this time,” Bowen said.
“About Falvey,” Demery said. “There wasn’t time to tell you before…That was something to see. Soon as you and Frank started talking about him he got up and moved closer to the window, and after a minute he didn’t seem drunk anymore, or even afraid. He just stood staring at the wall…I never felt so sorry for a man in all my life. There you were handing him a chance to prove himself a man and you could see him trying his damndest to work up enough courage to take it.” Demery shook his head. “That’s something I’ll never forget.” He looked toward Renda again. “And Frank not even knowing what was happening.”
“I’m not sure I knew either.” Bowen said. “Or know yet.” He saw Karla and moved past Demery to meet her. “Is Willis all right?”
Karla smiled. “He’s in bed with your friend. Propped up with a drink next to him and pen and paper on his lap. He asked for it. He said if he didn’t do another thing, he was going to get it off his chest right now…Come see.” She took his hand and as they walked off toward the house, she asked, “But what about Lizann?”
Lizann, Bowen thought wearily. You forgot Lizann. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s gone by now. If she is, Willis is better off without her. But maybe she’s learned her lesson…And a few more maybes for good measure.”
“You’re tired,” Karla said quietly.
All that he had been thinking and trying to remember was still in his mind; though less vividly now and as he walked toward the adobe, Karla close at his side and the awareness of her coming over him more strongly, more relaxingly, the pieces of conversation and the images began to dissolve: the Mimbres, Willis Falvey, the road, even Frank Renda—there was no reason to think about them now. Somehow it had happened and somehow it was over.