The Bounty Hunters

by Elmore Leonard

  As they moved on, working their way down, Bowers said suddenly, “You’ve got the biggest capacity for doing things of any man I know.”

  “It’s a big country. Everything in it’s big,” Flynn said. “The sun’s big, the mountains, the deserts, even the bugs. You got to strain to keep up with it, that’s all.”

  “What are you going to get out of this?” Bowers said.

  “Sore feet.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Four dollars a day.”

  “What else?”

  “What do you want, Red, a medal for everything you do?”

  “I want a good reason, that’s all!”

  “Isn’t that colonel reason enough?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Flynn’s eyes lifted from Bowers and moved along the wall of rocky slope that rimmed this end of the clearing they had entered minutes before. He glanced off in the other direction, at the flat meadow that offered no cover, then back to the rocks and he saw it again—remaining fixed now, a sliver of light pointing out from a crevice in the rocks—like sun reflecting on a gun barrel.

  “Mister, you’ll have to ask me some other time,” he said. “I think we’re walking into something.”

  11

  “Hold it there!”

  It came abruptly then to stop them fifty feet from the sloping rock wall. Bowers’ eyes went over the slope and Flynn said, “About ten o’clock, just above those two boulders.” He saw it now, the gun barrel hanging motionless, pointing down through the crevice. No one showed behind it.

  “Throw your guns away!”

  Flynn’s eyes stayed on the crevice. “We’re unarmed!”

  “I’ll give you five seconds.”

  “We don’t have any!”

  A silence followed. Then, “Take off your coats and walk slow with your hands in the air.”

  They did this and as they reached the slope, the man appeared. He descended part way until he was only a few yards above them. He stopped here, squatting on a shelf, with a double-barreled shotgun pointing down toward them.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re on our way to Soyopa,” Flynn said.

  “Just out for a little stroll?”

  “You’re close.”

  The man grinned, raising the shotgun. “You better say something that makes sense.”

  Bowers said impatiently, “We need horses, does that make sense?”

  The man nodded, taking his time, “But I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  Flynn said, “Get off that rock and take us to Lazair and quit wasting everybody’s time.” The man looked at him startled and he knew he had guessed it right.

  “How do you know he’s here?”

  “You going to take us, or d’you want me to start yelling for him?”

  The man studied them silently, then shrugged, as if he had carried it as far as he could. He said, “Move on into that pass yonder and follow it up.” And as they entered the defile he came down and stayed a few feet behind them until the pass opened up into the pocket high in the rocks.

  The camp seemed deserted—no one about the four tents, the cook fire dead and over by the cave the only movement was the tarp awning moving gently with the breeze. The guard mumbled, “Where the hell is everybody…” Then he saw them, seven or eight men off beyond the tents, standing idly before a patch of young aspen. “They’re over there,” he said, and motioned them to go on.

  The men looked toward them as they approached. One of them had his back turned, squatting at the base of an aspen and he looked over his shoulder but did not get up. The man with the shotgun yelled, “Somebody fetch Curt!”

  For a moment no one moved and someone said, “What’s the matter with you?” Then one of them walked off toward the tarp shelter. The others stood where they were, staring at the newcomers, and the one who had been squatting rose now to study them also. Something was behind him, huddled at the base of the aspen—a shoulder, and an arm bent back to the tree trunk.

  The guard said, “You still at it?”

  “What does it look like?”

  Another one said, “The son of a bitch won’t even groan.”

  He stepped aside to reveal the half-naked figure of a man, a dark man with hair to his shoulders, a breechclout and curl-toed moccasins. His upper body sagged limply from the white bark, head-down, hands bound behind the trunk. And he sat heavily with his legs extended, the left thigh bloody, dried blood and a gaping raw wound. His upper body and head showed bruises and in many places the blood ran down his body.

  Flynn leaned closer to him, and as if the Indian could feel his presence he looked up slowly. It was Matagente, his face beaten almost beyond recognition.

  Flynn said gently, in Mimbreño, “What do they do to you?” But the head went down and the Apache did not answer.

  He heard someone say, “Who are they?” and he looked up to see the guard shrug his shoulders; then, past him, he saw a man standing in the cave entrance, holding the blanket covering aside, watching them. Flynn rose and now saw the blanket hanging smooth again and the man was not there. But in a moment he reappeared and now came from the shelter toward them.

  Lazair said nothing, studying them, then glanced toward the guard. “Who’s on watch?”

  “I am.”

  “You ain’t going to see a hell of a lot from here.” He waited until the guard moved off before returning his gaze to Bowers and Flynn. “Well?” he said.

  Flynn nodded to Matagente. “What happened to the others?”

  “Dead,” Lazair said. He eyed them coldly, his face shadowed beneath a willow-root straw. The brim curled, pointed low over his thin nose. He stood in a half-slouch, his shirt open almost to the waist, but the bright red kerchief tight about his throat. He said, “How’d you know there were any more?”

  “That one had us when you hit him,” Flynn said.

  “Small goddamn world. My boys brought him in yesterday.”

  “What are you doing to him?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Asking him where the old chief lives.”

  “You don’t expect him to tell you?”

  Lazair shrugged. “No skin off my tail. It’s up to him. He tells or he wakes up dead.”

  “I hear the old man’s got five hundred pesos on his head,” Flynn said.

  “You heard wrong. It’s eight hundred now.” Lazair nodded toward Matagente. “His lieutenant’s got three hundred.” He smiled faintly. “The price of fame, eh?”

  Flynn said quietly, “How much is your hair worth?”

  Lazair studied him. “You can talk plainer than that.”

  “I’ve seen your picture somewhere…on a dodger.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “Cibucu, Fort Thomas, somewhere like that.”

  Lazair grinned. “You’re Army, eh? Goddamn Lew was right…for once in his life. You’re a little out of your territory.”

  Bowers said now, “So are a few Mimbreño Apaches.”

  Lazair looked him up and down, noticing the issue belt and holster and the high boots. “Where’s your uniform?” he said. He smiled again pushing back the straw from his forehead. “They sent the two of you all the way down here after Apaches?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s the goddamnedest thing I ever heard. What do you expect to do?”

  Flynn said, “Talk that old Mimbre into being a farmer.”

  Lazair shifted his eyes to him. “You think he’ll mind?”

  “He might.”

  Lazair shook his head again, because he still couldn’t believe it. “You mean to tell me they sent just two of you?”

  Bowers said, “That’s right.”

  “Christ, I’ve got fourteen men and we’ve never laid eyes on him!”

  “He’s seen you, though,” Bowers said. “He was talking about it yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Not far from here,” Bow
ers said.

  “If your men weren’t so gun-happy,” Flynn said, “they could have followed that one,” he nodded toward Matagente, “right to the ranchería.” He looked at the men standing off from him. “He had my guns with him—a Springfield swing-block and an altered .44, the ramrod and lever off, with an ejector on the right side of the barrel.”

  Lazair’s men returned his stare silently, hostilely.

  He looked at Lazair. “D. F. was carved on the stock of the Springfield. Do I look for them, or do you tell somebody to hand them over?”

  Lazair picked a cigar from his shirt pocket and as he lighted the end his eyes remained on Flynn. He exhaled the smoke leisurely. “Maybe we’d better wait,” he said.

  “Long as I get them.”

  “Where’d the old man say he was going?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “But he was going to come home and tend to you later, eh?”

  Flynn nodded.

  “Maybe,” Lazair said grinning, “I ought to just follow you around if I want to find old Soldado.”

  Bowers looked surprised. “You’re not holding us?”

  “Why?”

  “We might be cutting into your business.”

  “Do I look worried to you? Hell, you can go any place you like…even give you a couple of mounts to use. Anything to help the Army.” He smiled sardonically, his teeth clenched on the cigar. “Goddamnedest thing I ever heard of. You’re down here hunting him against the law ’cause you’re on the wrong side of the fence, and I do the same thing and get paid for it ’cause I’m in a legitimate business.”

  “We’ll have to have a drink over that sometime,” Flynn said.

  “Next time I’m in Soyopa.”

  Flynn glanced toward the cave. “Don’t you have anything?”

  “Not today,” Lazair said. “You going back now?”

  Flynn nodded.

  “There’s a friend of yours in town,” Lazair said. “Matter of fact he was the one ambushed those Indians yesterday. Brought in this one ’cause he was still alive, then rode out this morning for Soyopa. One of the boys saw you in town and this one thinks he might know you.” He watched Flynn slyly. “Name of Rellis. That ring any bells?”

  Flynn hesitated and his face showed a natural surprise. “Frank Rellis…I’d like to see him again.”

  Lazair prompted, “He didn’t say where he knew you.”

  “In Contention.”

  “Nice place…I’ve been there.” Lazair glanced at his men. “Who’s got this man’s guns?”

  No one spoke.

  His eyes went over them. “Sid?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Goddamn it I’m talking to you!”

  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:

  Aquí yace Anastacio María Esteban Vencino de Soyopa Matado por los barbaros el dia 26 de Octubre del año 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 Tomás de Aquín. 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, “Señores, 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, Señor Flín 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, w
ould 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?”