“Then you’d better hurry,” Karla said. “The saddle’s on the wall behind you.”
Bowen turned, almost reluctantly. He bridled the big mare, spread the blanket, and as he swung the saddle up, Karla started to walk away.
“Where’re you going?”
Karla looked back. “To get you some clothes.” She waited as he stared at her and she felt that she could almost read his thoughts. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know why I should.”
“All right, ride around with those numbers on your pants.”
Bowen shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”
“What would you like to know?” Karla asked.
“Why’re you helping me?”
“I’m not. You’re taking a horse. What good would it do if I objected?”
“The clothes—”
“You would have thought of it sooner or later,” Karla said. “Hurry now.”
Unexpectedly, Bowen said, “Was Falvey bothering you?”
Karla smiled again. “Maybe you’re not in a hurry.”
“Was he?”
“Mr. Falvey was looking for a friend, that’s all.”
“He could use one.”
“So could you.”
“I was trying to figure,” Bowen said hesitantly, “if there was something between you.”
“You’d better think about getting something between you and Renda’s trackers.” She turned. This time he did not stop her and she went on to the adobe.
Bowen was leading the horse out when she returned carrying a blanket roll. “Shirt and pants are inside,” Karla said. “And something to eat.”
Bowen’s eyes remained on her. “I’d like to know why you’re doing this.”
“I’m not sure why myself,” Karla answered quietly. She said then, “If you’re caught, they’ll make it hard for you.”
“Like what, working on a road?”
Karla hesitated. “Did you really steal cattle?”
“Now how would you know that?”
“That doesn’t matter now. Just tell me.”
“Why would you think I didn’t?”
Karla’s shoulders moved, her dark eyes still watching him. “I just have a feeling you didn’t.”
“You can sure simplify things,” Bowen said.
“But did you?” Karla asked again.
“I got to go.”
“Tell me!”
Bowen swung up to the saddle, then looked down at her.
“That man with the beard this morning—Earl Manring—he hired me in Prescott to help him drive a herd, even showed me a bill of sale for the stock. But the second day out we were arrested to stand trial for rustling. The man who’d sold Earl the stock said he never did such a thing and that the bill of sale Earl had was no good, and he said he could prove it because there wasn’t any copy of the transaction in his books.”
Karla said, “Didn’t you have a lawyer?”
“The court appointed one. We didn’t have any money for our own.”
Karla frowned. “But the man who sold you the stock—”
“Sold Earl the stock—Earl already had the bill of sale when I met him. The man’s name was McLaughlin. He took an oath that he’d never seen the bill of sale Earl had before in his life.
“Earl told me he should’ve known better than to deal with a man he didn’t know, and no wonder the stock was offered at such a good price. He said McLaughlin took advantage of him—got his money for the stock, then didn’t register it in his books, called out the law, then even got his stock back. We were arrested one day, tried the next, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. The fastest trial I ever heard of.”
“And,” Karla said, “you were sentenced to Yuma.”
“Seven years each.”
“You needed a good lawyer,” Karla said thoughtfully.
“We needed more than that.”
“You needed a lawyer like Mr. Martz, the Hatch & Hodges attorney. He’s in Prescott. He’s—” She stopped abruptly, looking up at Bowen.
Bowen shook his head. “The trial’s over.”
“But if he could prove you didn’t know anything about it—”
“He’d be awful good.” Bowen reined the mare around. “I hope I can pay you back for this.”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
He looked down at her and seemed reluctant to leave, then said, “Goodbye, Karla.” That was all.
She watched him circle the corral and disappear into the pines and only then did it occur to her that he knew her name. He could have heard Renda say it—that was it. But he remembered it—that was the important thing.
4
Salvaje, sergeant of Apache police, waited. His eyes, beneath the broad hatbrim, were fixed on the dark rise of pines miles to the east—the hillcrest that overlooked the Pinaleño station. He had sent one of his Mimbres there within minutes of being told of the escape. It was something he always did; for invariably the sign led to Pinaleño. With the rest of his trackers he had followed the escaped man’s trail to this point. If the signal did not come from the pines, they would continue. Sometimes it took a complete day to bring back an escaped man, but seldom longer than that.
And sometimes it was almost too easy. At least this one had not tried to cover his trail. Some of them used devices that only wasted their time: back-tracking and stream-wading tricks that even a reservation child could understand. Doing this even when their objective was almost always Pinaleño and a horse.
But one had to admit that this was better than duty at San Carlos: the endless hunting of tulapai stills and carrying back men of your own people who had jumped the reservation. Here, one had the opportunity to track white men. Salvaje’s father had been a Mimbreño war chief; his mother, a Mexican woman taken in a raid on a Chihuahua pueblo. Salvaje had spent the better part of his life making war against his mother’s people and against white men—the good years of riding with Victorio and Delchay, years that could not be compared with this business of recapturing escaped prisoners.
He waited patiently, one thumb hooked in the cartridge bandoleer that crossed his worn cavalry jacket. He was confident that the signal would come, that it was only a matter of time. What else could an escaped man do but go to Pinaleño?—if he had thought about it at all.
And finally the signal did come—a white-gleaming dot in the pines, then the pinpoint flashes, sunlight reflected on a metal disk and sent to him here, miles away, and what Salvaje had known all along was now confirmed.
It blinked once; then three times in quick succession. The escaped man had left the adobe and was riding to the west. His man in the pines would follow now and signal again if the escaped one changed direction.
Salvaje looked at his men. There were ten trackers here, and now he watched them remove their army-issue shirts and pants, stripping to breech-clouts, then slipping on their cartridge bandoleers again. All of them wore curl-toed Apache moccasins folded and tied just below the knee; and to a man they carried single-shot Springfield carbines.
When they were ready, Salvaje nodded, and they moved off to take the escaped man.
Now the sun was directly overhead. Bowen urged the mare over a cutbank, leaning back in the saddle as the crusted sand gave way and followed them down the slope in a thin dust trail. He entered the cover of trees that grew thickly along both sides of the dry creek bed: cottonwood and sycamore and higher up, farther down the draw, black patches of pine shadowing steep shelfrock. In the dimness it seemed more quiet and he stopped to listen before crossing the creek bed to follow its course through the draw.
He moved carefully, knowing that he was leaving a trail, but more concerned with what might lie ahead than what might be following. Coming this way, he knew, would give the Mimbre trackers time to cut him off. Still, this was wild climbing country, laced with draws and heavy timber to use for cover. South and east from the Pinaleño station were desert flats, and water only if you knew the lo
cation of the wells.
Less than two hundred yards farther on, the draw widened and began to rise and here the trees ended. Bowen edged the mare close to the near wall of shelfrock, then moved out into the open and climbed the rise. He stopped then and looked back, down over the green rolling carpet of the treetops.
At first he wasn’t sure. Then there was no mistaking it—a thin wisp of dust hanging motionless over the far end of the draw.
His gaze came back to the long sweep of meadow in front of him. It sloped gradually and narrowed into a trough between two pine-studded hills. He would be in the open for more than a mile. But, he thought, trying to keep himself calm, trying to ignore the uncertainty that was tightening inside of him: You go that way or you don’t go at all.
Then the wind was in his face and the mare was pounding over the thick grama grass, racing for the bottom of the meadow. The trough between the hills, perhaps a hundred yards wide, opened before him as he heeled the mare again and felt her lengthen her stride reaching level ground again.
And suddenly, with the high whining report, with the solid smacking sound of the bullet, the mare went down and Bowen was over her head—rolling, stumbling, coming to his feet as the Mimbre rode out of the pines up on the right slope, then seeing the Mimbre and running hard for the opposite grade, a shot ringing behind him, then another, and he knew he would not reach the trees.
He veered sharply, running now for an outcropping of rocks at the foot of the hill, hearing suddenly the sound of horses rumbling down the far slope. Three shots sang off the rocks as he went down behind them, and abruptly he heard the horses being reined in. Then silence.
Bowen came up slowly. He brought his knees under him, but kept his head low as he separated the brush that was thick between the rocks.
The Mimbreños were off perhaps eighty yards: eleven of them, all armed and sitting their short, close-coupled horses patiently, taking their time now, as much time as they wanted, to study the rocks. Bowen watched them, wondering why they waited.
If you could think like an Apache, Bowen thought now, you’d know why. All right, then think like a white man. What would you do if you were eleven people and you had one man cornered out in the middle of nowhere? I’d march my eleven people over and drag him out. Eleven what look like Springfields are a match for a pair of bare hands any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
If you’re sure they’re bare hands.
They know you’re not armed.
But that’s one of those things you can know and still want to be clearly sure of. So you’d spread out your eleven people and edge in a step at a time and call out things about coming out with your hands up and not trying any funny business.
Only you never in your life heard of an Apache doing anything like that, so you can cross that off and throw it away.
But however they do it, they’ll try to take you alive. Even if they didn’t work for Renda they’d do that. Only—and there’re a lot of onlys—they can take you back in all kinds of states where you’d still be alive, though you’d just as soon be dead.
Give yourself up, he thought. No…let them work a little bit. You never know what can happen…like getting one of their horses.
How do you do that?
How do you do anything! Just shut up and watch!
Not expecting it, he saw one of the Mimbres ride off from the others. His horse went into a canter heading toward the narrowing of the trough between the two hills. Suddenly then, he turned a tight circle, kicking his horse to a gallop, and he came on a dead run directly for the rocks. Bowen went down and the Mimbre passed within ten yards of him firing his Springfield as he went by.
Bowen came up cautiously. He watched the rider circle wide returning to the rest of the band and as he did another Mimbre rode out. This one also pointed off toward the narrowness, giving his horse room to run before coming around, before making his pass at the rocks. He fired as he went by, the shot glancing off rock and whining up into the trees that were high on the slope behind Bowen.
Now, watching the third Mimbre make his circle, Bowen thought: They’re making a game out of it, trying to scare you. They’ve got all the time in the world, so they’ll play with you a while—knowing they can take you any time they feel like it. And each one comes a little closer.
He went down as a Springfield roared five yards in front of him, then came up again to watch the Mimbre rejoin the others.
That’s some game, he thought then. You know who the winner is before you start. But if you had a gun…if you had a gun you could play with them. You could make it a two-sided game. And it occurred to him then: Why didn’t you get a gun from her! Clothes and a horse, but no gun.
The fourth Mimbre started to make his circle and Bowen eased down. Or, he thought, get a gun from one of them.
Just like that. Go out and grab onto a Springfield as it goes by.
You’ve done crazier things. Jumping off that wagon didn’t make sense either…at first.
He thought of breaking off a mesquite branch to use as a club, but he knew he would never get close enough to use it. Not against a mounted man. No, it had to be something to throw. Something light enough to throw, but hard enough to drop a man from a running horse.
They were scattered all around him, the stones and the broken chunks of rock; but he had had to think in terms of a throwing weapon before becoming fully aware of them. The hoofbeats grew louder as his hand groped for a piece of rock, found one the size of a man’s fist, jagged and uneven, and the next moment he was standing, seeing the Mimbre low on the horse, guiding it with his knees, raising the carbine, using both hands and pressing his face close to the breech—
Bowen threw the rock and went down. The carbine exploded over his head and he was up again as the Mimbre looked back, circling toward the others. He had thrown too quickly.
He saw the Mimbre who had just made the pass pointing toward him and a faint sound drifted across the openness. Now they’ve got something to laugh about, Bowen thought. Something to make the game better. Well, come on. If you think it’s funny keep trying.
He went down, his hand searching for another rock as the fifth Mimbre circled wide to make his pass. But this time, Bowen continued to think, we’ll do it different. We’ll make up new rules.
He found the right-sized rock, then moved over and away from the boulders almost five yards. Here there was less protection, but enough low brush to cover him. The rider would not see him until he was directly in front of the brush, and then it would be too late to do anything about it.
Now he could hear the Mimbre coming, the quick sound of the hoofs growing steadily. Bowen crouched, judging the distance by the sound. Almost to the rocks, getting ready, bringing up the carbine. Now. He was firing as Bowen came up, rushing past as Bowen hurled the rock, and starting to look back as it caught him in the face.
The Mimbre went back out of the saddle and Bowen was through the brush running for the carbine, picking it up and swinging it suddenly as the Mimbre started to rise. The stock caught the Mimbre’s head and he crumpled. Bowen was on him, pulling the bandoleer up over his shoulder; but firing broke suddenly from the other slope and he knew there wasn’t time to take the belt. His fingers snatched cartridges from the belt loops and again he was running for the rocks. The firing stopped abruptly as he reached cover.
He looked out again, pushing a cartridge into the breech of the Springfield, then placed the other four cartridges he had taken on a shelf of level rock next to him.
It wasn’t even worth it, Bowen thought. Five shots. That’s all you’ve got. What do you do with five bullets against eleven. No, against ten. He looked over to the motionless form of the Mimbre. You should’ve dragged him back with you. Then you’d have the whole belt…And you’d have a sore-headed ’Pache to watch.
No, it wouldn’t have made any difference. What would you do, shoot all eleven of them? You don’t run away from jail because you shouldn’t be there in the first place, but kill
eleven men doing it. Then you might just as well stay in prison.
You’re all mixed up, aren’t you? You got yourself into something and now you don’t know how to get out.
Maybe scatter them and make a run for it, he thought then. He rolled to his side to study the pine stands up on the hill behind him. The trees were green-brown and motionless against the sky.
Only it’s a long run for not knowing what’s on the other side. What do you do once you get up there?
Then you think of something else. Just take it a step at a time…you’re not going any faster than that.
He rolled to his stomach again and now saw one of the Mimbres leave the band. This one did not move off as if to make a circle, but came directly toward the rocks.
The brave one, Bowen thought, pressing his cheek against the smooth stock of the carbine. Well, give the brave one something to think about.
He squeezed the trigger and the horse went down. The Mimbre rolled clear and ran back to the others. Then, as he reached them, Bowen fired again. Another horse stumbled, sinking to its knees, and the Mimbres were suddenly wheeling their mounts to move out of range.
And as they scattered in momentary confusion, Bowen moved. He snatched up the cartridges and turned from the rocks, running now for the nearest stand of pines that straggled down the slope behind him. Fifty yards to the trees…then the beating of hoofs bearing down on him. He was loading the Springfield as he ran—dropped a cartridge—knew that he was holding only two more in his hand, and jammed one of them into the breech.
He came around, dropping to one knee, and brought up the Springfield. But the Mimbre veered off to the left, aiming his carbine at Bowen with one hand and both fired at the same time, both shots going wide.
Bowen hesitated. He saw the Mimbre rein a tight circle, starting to reload, and then he was running for the Mimbre—seeing the sudden look of surprise on the Mimbre’s face, now seeing the horse jump as it was spurred forward—then dodging the horse’s head he swung the carbine up at its rider.
The Mimbre swayed in the saddle, dropping his carbine, but he did not go down. He came back at Bowen to run him down, but again Bowen dodged aside. This time he released the carbine as he swung it and the stock slammed against the Mimbre’s head knocking him from the saddle.