The Bounty Hunters

by Elmore Leonard

  He moved toward Rellis until only a stride separated them and suddenly, abruptly, he swung a fist up hard against Rellis’ jaw. A brittle smacking sound, boot scuffing, Rellis hitting the bar, sliding back off balance, but not going down. An arm caught the bar edge. The hand moved down, but jerked back and he hung there, breathing with his mouth open, watching Flynn.

  “I’ll say it once more,” Flynn said. “You’re a liar. If you don’t come out in five minutes I’ll come back inside to kill you.”

  Flynn turned and moved toward the door. Now it’s coming. Wait for Bowers. He was tensed. You’ll hear it. One word. One word is all it will be and…

  “Dave!”

  He wheeled, drawing, thumbing the hammer, aiming with his eyes, firing. He fired once.

  Rellis went to his knees, holding his chest, the uncocked pistol dropping from his other hand and he was dead as his face struck the floor.

  16

  Lew Embree placed his palms flat on the table, looking past Warren who was too drunk to know what had happened; then Lew pushed his weight on his hands, rising unsteadily. He moved between the tables, chairs scraping in the semi-stillness to make way for him, and when he stopped he was looking down at Frank Rellis.

  Flynn’s pistol pointed at Lew momentarily as he slipped it into the shoulder holster. “Take your friend out of here,” Flynn said.

  Embree looked up. “He’s no friend of mine.”

  “Take him out anyway.”

  Embree shrugged. “If you hadn’t done that, somebody else would’ve. The only trouble is somebody’s got to bury the son of a bitch.”

  “You’ve buried men before, haven’t you?”

  Embree looked up again. “Sure.”

  “Then no one has to tell you how.”

  Flynn looked at Bowers who was next to him now. He motioned Bowers ahead of him and they went out of the mescal shop, then along the adobe fronts toward Hilario’s street, Bowers leading his horse.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” Flynn said. “It was one of those things that had to come and now I’m glad it’s over with.”

  “It took some nerve to do it that way,” Bowers said.

  Flynn glanced at him, the smile at the corners of his eyes. “Red, I was counting on you for the signal.”

  “What if I’d been looking the other way?”

  Flynn hesitated. “You can’t think of everything at once.” He said then, “How did you make out with Santana?”

  “He’s no soldier,” Bowers answered. “He doesn’t know the first thing about conducting a patrol…but he hates the bounty hunters. And he hates Duro even more.”

  Flynn nodded thoughtfully. “Santana’s our man.”

  “But hating them,” Bowers said, “doesn’t make him sympathetic. I saw something called ley fuga. I don’t know what it means, but I saw it…coming back from Alaejos.”

  “It’s not something new…the law of flight. If a prisoner attempts to escape, take the opportunity to shoot him…it saves the cost of a trial.”

  “That’s what Santana said.”

  “He was explaining the practical side.”

  “I suppose forcing the man to escape is practical, too.”

  “As far as Duro is concerned it is,” Flynn said. “But it’s happened too often now…even right here in Soyopa at Duro’s direction. These people have taken a lot from him…one injustice after another since the day he arrived. His men are bad, but it’s easier to hate one man…the one who gives the orders. And now they’re going to do something about it.”

  Bowers looked quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “Hilario has figured it out. He says Duro must have known the scalps Lazair gave him were not Apache…that time, or times before. He blames Duro more than he does Lazair because Duro is Mexican, even if he is a rurale. I asked him to wait until I’d located you and then we’d talk about it. He has some people at his house; they’re ready now to face. Now,” Flynn said thoughtfully, “if Santana were to throw his weight against Duro…”

  “Only that would be mutiny,” Bowers said. “If it didn’t work, he’d be shot.”

  “What do you think would happen to Hilario?” Flynn went on. “Put yourself in his place…his entire family was massacred, his daughter was forced to live with the men who did the killing. Lazair is out in the hills somewhere, that’s something to think about later; but Duro, the one whobought the scalps, is here, probably on his bed drunk. Now what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose look for some guns.”

  Flynn half smiled. “They need more than guns. Right now they’re up in the air. Hilario’s been talking to his friends all morning. Between them they’ve got a few old pieces that wouldn’t shoot across the square; but that doesn’t matter now. What happened to Hilario’s family does. They’d throw rocks if that’s all that was handy. Still, more than guns they need timing, and somebody looking at this who isn’t so close to the forest…”

  It was clear to Bowers the moment they entered Hilario’s adobe.

  Hilario Esteban with the tightness in his face—sharp-featured now, the look of an old man gone from his eyes—and his hand holding the rusted Burnside .54 muzzle up, the stock resting on the floor. Hilario stood by the window. Five, six other men were there—threadbare white peon clothes and rope-soled shoes, patient faces that were now tired of being patient, but knew no other expression. Three of them were armed with old model rifles, older than Hilario’s whose carbine had seen at least twenty years of service; and the remaining three carried knives—long-bladed knives ideal for cutting mesquite branches for cook fires, but knives that could hack through other things equally well. An old woman in black, her head covered, stooping in front of the hearth, stirring atole…because even when men made war, even when they were at the end of their patience, they still had to eat. A young girl was next to the old woman. That must be Nita. And as she looked up, hearing them enter the room, Bowers thought: No wonder Flynn went back alone to get her.

  La Mosca stood up now in front of the smoke-blackened hearth. She looked at Flynn and said, “During the night I examined Hilario’s daughter. There is no sign that she was molested and she is in good health.”

  Flynn noticed Bowers’ quick, surprised glance, and feeling the warm flush over his face he saw the others looking at him also. Why the devil is she telling me that! The curandera, he thought, must be looking into the future again. He nodded to La Mosca and then looked quickly toward Hilario, saying, “I’m glad you haven’t done anything yet. Now we can talk it over and do the right thing.”

  Hilario shook his head. “We waited because you asked us to. But the time for that has passed. We have been waiting a long time for this Duro to become a human being; now we have proof it could never happen to him.”

  “Duro has a force behind him, well armed,” Flynn answered. “That’s why I say wait and go about this cautiously.”

  Hilario nodded to one of the men. “At the home of Ramón’s brother, others are waiting, most of them with arms. In the space of minutes we can call dozens more.” He shook his head doggedly. “This has been going on too long, Davíd.”

  Flynn nodded. “All right. But losing more lives is not the way to avenge those already dead.”

  “Listen,” Hilario said. “We have been thinking about this. It isn’t something of a rash moment.” He went on, carefully, as if to make sure the men present would remember. “Listen. I am going to Duro’s house. To his face I’ll accuse him of what he’s done and ask him to surrender to the people of Soyopa. Now our men will be watching from the square. If he demonstrates in any way, or, if I do not return, then our men will attack the arsenal beneath Duro’s quarters. Then we will be ready for Duro’s rurales should they object. After this, the first thing will be ridding Soyopa of the men of Lazair.” He said this very simply as if it involved merely asking them to leave.

  Flynn was about to speak, but Hilario held up his hand and said, “Now you would ask, ‘But what of the governm
ent? What will they do?’ All right. Porfiristas will come from Mexico City to investigate. What will we tell them? The truth. What Duro is doing is unlawful. Stopping him would be acting in behalf of the government.”

  Flynn said quietly, “All right. But you’re not going to see Duro alone.”

  “Davíd, this is my problem, as alcalde.”

  Flynn smiled. “You make things sound more simple than they are. I would say there are other interests involved now.” He looked at Nita Esteban who was watching him and their eyes met and held. He had said it naturally, thinking the words only as he said them, as if instinctively, and he thought, smiling within: Maybe La Mosca has cast a spell. Well—

  He heard Hilario say, “All right. First we will eat and then we will finish with this.”

  Hilario leaned the Burnside against the wall and turned nodding to Nita and La Mosca to serve the atole and as he did this they heard the shot. It sounded muffled, far away, from off the square somewhere.

  Bowers looked up and at Flynn. “What was that?”

  “A pistol.”

  There was silence in the room. Then, as they moved toward the door there was a flurry of shots—muffled, then louder, echoing through the square and with the gunfire the sound of a running horse.

  They were outside now, all of them except the women who stood in the doorway. The sound of horses reached them again a minute later, but none were seen passing the end of the street.

  A man rounded the corner from the square and ran toward them. Nearing them, he cried, “It is done! The rurales and the hunters of Indians are at war!”

  Hilario said, “Man, speak calmly now and tell what happened.”

  The man was breathing hard with the excitement of what he was about to tell and now he inhaled slowly to calm himself, taking his time, because waiting for news makes it the more delicious when it comes.

  “The one this man shot,” he said, indicating Flynn, “was carried out of the shop by two of his friends, but one remained, the one called War-ren, because he was too drunk to move.”

  Hilario interrupted, “Who was this you shot?”

  “I’ll tell you after,” Flynn said. And to the man, “Go on.”

  “The one called War-ren remained, lying with his head on the table, unable to raise it, it seemed.” The man smiled as he said, “Now Sergeant Santana was there and he noticed this one. He looked at him for some time and you could see that he was thinking. Some of his rurales were there and he told one of them to bring a riata from his saddle and when he was back with it, they took the one called War-ren, who was still not conscious, to the small closet in the rear of the room, and somehow, with the rope, they secured him upright so that he appeared to be standing up, though his arms and his head hung limp.”

  The man’s smile broadened, saying, “Now Sergeant Santana returned to a table and within a few minutes the two friends of War-ren returned. They couldn’t have buried the one who was shot, they returned so soon, but must have thrown his body somewhere. They stood at the bar, unmindful that War-ren was no longer present and now Sergeant Santana approached the one called Loo and he said, ‘Listen’—the man attempted to imitate Santana’s tone of voice—‘that American was a good shot…’ meaning you, señor,” he said to Flynn. “Then Santana said, ‘Are all Americans that capable with firearms?’ Now these two Americans winked at one another and the one called Loo said, ‘I saw your men shoot that Apache boy in the courtyard. If I could not outshoot any of them I would quit.’

  “Now Santana said, ‘Listen. You didn’t see me shoot the day. I think I am better than the others.’ And the one called Loo replied, ‘I doubt it, but if you want a little match, let us go outside.’ And Santana said, in a tone which was a monument to tranquility, ‘Why not have it right here, out of the sun’s heat?’ To which the American agreed.

  “Now Santana boldly walked to the end of the room, bringing a chair and a tumbler with him. He placed the chair with its back rest against the closet door and balanced the tumbler so that it rested on the chair but leaned against the door. Then, walking back to the American he said, ‘After you…’ with the politeness of a gachupín caballero. The American nodded and with that, raised his pistol, aimed and fired.”

  The man paused, looking around the group. Dramatically, hushed, he said, “The glass shattered.”

  “That was the first of the shots we heard,” Hilario said.

  The man scowled at the alcalde, the scowl turning to a smile as he said, “Now listen. Santana turned to the man congratulating him and then said, ‘Perhaps we should look in the closet to make sure there is nothing breakable inside of it.’ The one called Loo said, ‘What difference does it make?’ And Santana shrugged saying, ‘Merely as a courtesy to the owner of Las Quince Letras.’

  “Now we watched closely as they approached the closet. Santana’s gun was out of its holster for he was to shoot next. He moved the chair. The one called Loo opened the door and at that moment you should have seen the look on his face! He had holstered his pistol and suddenly he attempted to draw it, but Santana’s pistol was pointed directly at this one’s stomach and with a coolness that made us shudder, he pulled the trigger once and then again as the man fell.

  “The other American was still toward the front at the bar. He drew his pistol and fired, missing, then ran for the door. Santana and his rurales followed him to the door, firing their pistols, but that one reached his horse and escaped.

  “Then Santana began gathering bottles of mescal from the bar, telling his companions to do the same, all of the time shouting, ‘Now it is done! The time has come! First the gringos and then Duro!’ And then he described Duro in the vilest language saying, repeating, his time had come. They rode away then and I saw them stop before the Lieutenant Duro’s house, but they remained there only for a moment, taking a horse which the rurale who was on duty there mounted and rode after them down the street toward their camp…I assume, now, to gather the others.”

  The man had finished. Looking at Hilario, Flynn said quietly, “Santana has said it for us. The time has come—”

  17

  Curt Lazair reined in, holding his mount within the shadow of Santo Tomás’ east wall, and from there watched the rurale patrol swing into the square, seeing most of the horsemen riding out again by way of the street that led to their camp. He saw Bowers then, dismounting with those who had remained, in front of Las Quince Letras.

  Flies buzzed at the canvas bag that hung from Lazair’s saddle horn. He waved his hand at them idly and, still watching the men in front of the mescal shop, he sniffed as the rancid odor of the scalps rose from the bag. He did this instinctively, as an animal sniffs the air, still, he was not fully aware that he had done so. There was a question in his mind and the answer to it could be a hell of a lot more dangerous than the smell of day-old scalps. And now, suddenly, he thought he was looking at the answer—

  A rurale patrol…been out in the hills…that shavetail with them…he knew where the camp was, because he’d been there. That must be it!

  Lazair had been thinking about it all the way in…calmly at first, because that was the best way to go about things like this; go over it slow and everything will fall into place…then he had found Sid’s body—not all of it because the buzzards had found Sid first—and the calm thinking ended then and there.

  Two dead, one wounded. And not even the wounded man—who was shot clean through a lung and wouldn’t last another day—or the man who had brought him in, the only one of the four who was still healthy, had seen who had done the shooting. That didn’t happen every day: three men shot up and not even knowing who did it.

  But now it was plain to Lazair. Bowers and the rurale patrol…it couldn’t be anyone else!

  He crossed the square along the east side, following the adobe fronts around to Duro’s house. The rurale guard sat leaning against the door to the arsenal. He was asleep and did not look up even as Lazair rode up close to him and dismounted.

  Lama
s Duro jumped with the abrupt sound of the door opening. Sitting behind the desk he stiffened, looking up with startled wide-eyed surprise, and a roll of silver coins spilled from his fingers to the desktop. The coins scattered, rolling into silver pesos already stacked in neat columns on the desk, ten coins to a column, 100 pesos in each.

  Lazair stood in the doorway, confidently, defiantly, the way a man stands who has two Colts strapped to his thighs. One hand rested idly on the handle of the right pistol; the fingers of the other hand were curled in the drawstring of the canvas sack. His eyes held on Duro, coming to conclusions then and there, seeing the money, the look on Duro’s face, the way he was dressed—ready to travel—jacket, scarf, gun belt and the Chihuahua hat at one end of the desk.

  “Where’re you going?”

  It was still on Duro’s face, the shock of seeing Lazair suddenly in front of him, but now he tried to smile. “It’s time for a patrol.”

  “Your sergeant just come off one.”

  “This is a different kind.” Duro smiled. “I am going to ride out alone. Perhaps one man can find out more than twenty.”

  “About what?”

  “Apaches.”

  Lazair was silent, his eyes remaining on Duro. Suddenly, “You’ve had enough, so now you think it’s time to haul out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You should have waited for a report before you started counting your money.”

  “I was just putting aside the amount owed to you from the last time,” Duro explained.

  “Not when you never expected to see me again you weren’t.” Lazair moved toward the desk, his hand still on the pistol butt. “That boy-cavalry-soldier told you where we lived…so you got it in your head: Hit ’em…sometime after it’s dark and it will save passing out muchos pesos.” Lazair said again, “You should have made sure before counting your money.”