The Bounty Hunters

by Elmore Leonard

  “That makes no sense,” Duro said slowly and now the question furrowing his forehead was genuine. “Who hit your camp?”

  Lazair smiled faintly. “You’re getting better.” He said then, “Your sergeant’ll be coming in pretty soon…he’s over to the cantina now. When he gets enough brave juice in him he’ll come and tell you how they got only two for sure ’cause somebody couldn’t hold his nerves and started shooting before they found out hardly nobody was home.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Duro said, still frowning. “Got two of what?”

  “Two of my boys!”

  Duro’s features relaxed with amazement. “No!” and then the smile began forming slowly, curling the corners of his mouth. “Santana did that!” The smile widening, “I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t have the nerve.”

  “He got it somewhere,” Lazair said. “My men followed and he ambushed them.”

  Duro shook his head slowly, considering this. “No…it could not have been Santana.”

  “You know goddamn well it was!”

  “I swear I know nothing of this!”

  “Who else is there?”

  “Apaches.”

  “They’d a been messier.”

  Duro was silent, his eyes roaming the room slowly, but picturing other things. He said suddenly, bringing his palm down slapping the desk. “The other American! He’s not been here for two days!”

  “One man couldn’t have raised all that hell.”

  “Maybe we don’t know him,” Duro said thoughtfully.

  Lazair half smiled. “But I know you…and I’ve got eyes…counting your money…all dressed up for a trip….”

  “Listen…I swear on the grave of my mother I know nothing of this! I am counting this now to pay you what is owed…putting it aside to have it ready for you…you come at odd times, so I considered: The next time he comes it will be ready—” Duro hesitated and smiled at Lazair confidently. “Look…this is silly what you’ve been thinking. Let’s have a drink now, together, and then I’ll finish counting this.”

  He nodded to the sack in Lazair’s hand. “You have more. Good. I’ll pay you for those too; and then the account will be up to date. How many do you have there? No—wait until after we have a drink. This is a feast day, we should have a drink together.” He looked suddenly in the direction of the square then back to Lazair. “Was that a shot?”

  Lazair did not move. “That one was off somewhere. It’s the one that rings in your ear for half a second that you worry about. Then it’s all over.” He said it with his hand on the gun butt and the meaning was clear.

  “Everyone talks of death today,” Duro said, and made himself laugh. “But look, even with the talking of death there is an equal amount of drinking.” He said then, winking, “You know you can frighten the devil only so long. When there is no more mescal he comes and inserts a demon in your head. Now the demon hates this confinement and he runs from one side to the other butting at the sensitive walls of one’s head.” He raised a hand to his forehead and the fingers spread over the shape of it delicately. “Señor,” he said, smiling through a frown which was meant to indicate a headache, “would you kindly consent to a glass of something?”

  Lazair did not smile. He looked at Duro silently and his contempt for the rurale lieutenant was in his eyes, in the features that did not move, and grimly evident in the hard line of his mouth. “Get your drink,” he said curtly. Duro started from the desk and Lazair added, “I’m right behind you.”

  He stood in the doorway to the sleeping room and watched Duro take a fresh bottle of mescal from the cupboard next to the bed, then stepped aside as Duro passed him, going to the desk again. Duro sat down and as he opened the desk drawer, Lazair said, “If you’re smart you’ll just come out with glasses.”

  Duro looked up. “Of course.”

  They drank in silence, Duro filling the glasses quickly as they were emptied; Lazair watching him, in no hurry, wondering what Duro would do, willing to take all the time necessary to find out.

  Duro looked up suddenly. “Did you hear it? Another one!”

  Lazair was half sitting with his left hip on the edge of the desk, resting the mescal glass on his thigh. He looked down at Duro calmly. “You hear all kinds of noises during a fiesta.”

  But with the sudden bursts of gunfire that followed, Lazair came off the desk. He moved to the door quickly, still holding his drink, still half watching Duro, and as the rurale lieutenant started to rise, Lazair snapped, “Stay where you are!”

  He opened the door and the sound of a running horse rose from the square. He saw the rider, one of his men, reaching a side street and the rurales in front of the cantina firing after him.

  The glass flew out of Lazair’s hand shattering against the desk and in that instant a pistol was in his right hand pointed at Duro. “You didn’t know!”

  He wanted to pull the trigger. It rushed to his mind, but a judgment was already there; it had prevented him from killing Duro before and now it was there again with its cold reason making him slow down, making him grip the pistol tighter. If he killed Duro he would be through. Not just in this part of Sonora, but everywhere in Mexico. He’d have to go back to the States, where he was wanted, and spend the rest of his life on the dodge. He’d have to take his chances in the States because if he were caught he’d be better off than if he were pulled in by the Mexican authorities. That’s what stopped him. Don’t throw away a good thing: a safe place to live and a profitable business just because of one man. But it occurred to Lazair then, at that moment, that Duro was through. The only thing was, this wasn’t the time or the place.

  More calmly he said to Duro, “You didn’t know, eh…?”

  “I swear to Almighty God I didn’t! What happened out there?” Duro was rising again.

  “Stay put!” Lazair snapped. He looked at Duro and then out again. He kept his eyes on the front of the mescal shop and when Santana and two rurales came out, shouting, mounting their horses, Lazair pulled the door quickly, almost closed, and watched them through an inch opening. They came toward the house, shouting something. When they were directly below, Lazair could not see them, but he heard Duro’s name and suddenly they were riding away—four of them now, the last one, the rurale who had been on guard, on Lazair’s mount.

  Lazair looked at Duro and his gaze held steadily. “Something’s going on. Santana and the two with him had a jug of mescal in each hand. They stopped here then rode off toward the rurale camp.”

  “They always drink after a patrol,” Duro said.

  “They were hollering something about you.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t make it out.”

  “Perhaps calling out to me.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  Duro hesitated. “No…”

  “Something’s going on,” Lazair said again. He waited, watching the square, feeling a tension that he could not understand. After a few minutes it occurred to him to run over to the mescal shop to see what had happened, then keep going to camp and move it someplace else before doing anything. There would be time enough to pay back Duro.

  Looking out over the square he saw them as soon as they appeared from the side street and started across the openness. He was not sure how many there were at first, because they seemed to be all wearing peon clothes with so much white blending together, from this distance a crowd of white cotton with darker spots that were faces and straw sombreros. Then he realized there were not as many as he thought. Perhaps ten altogether. And—the two cavalrymen! He squinted, watching them come closer, making sure, and when he was certain they were coming here he glanced at Duro.

  “Come here…you’ve got company.”

  Duro rose, hesitantly now. “Who? I don’t hear anyone.”

  “You will.”

  “Who is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Lazair opened the door, taking Duro’s arm, and pushed him suddenly out to the veranda. He clos
ed the door again, seeing Duro, seeing Duro’s eyes as he turned. Lazair pushed his pistol threateningly through the door opening and Duro turned back toward the square.

  Hilario pointed with the Burnside. “There he is.”

  Bowers said curiously, “Was that someone behind him?”

  “It looked like it,” Flynn said. He looked up, watching Duro, noticing the man’s hesitancy, his reluctance to stand at the rail and look down at them.

  “He seems afraid,” Hilario whispered.

  “He should be,” Flynn said. “If he heard Santana.”

  Watching Duro, Hilario said, “If I were to raise this barrel two inches, and pull the trigger, it would be accomplished.”

  Flynn said, “You know better than that.”

  “I wish I did not,” Hilario answered. And now he called out, “Señor Duro, we would speak with you.”

  They heard Duro’s voice faintly. “Come back another time.”

  “This will not keep,” Hilario called. “Already too much time has passed.”

  Duro hesitated. Then rested his hands firmly on the railing and looking down now he seemed suddenly more sure of himself, as if the mescal he had drunk was now making his head lighter, his senses keener. He said, “Listen, alcalde, when I want to speak to you, I’ll send rurales. You’ll come at that time and at no other. Now go home…and take your friends with you.” He started to turn.

  “Duro!” Flynn called the name sharply and the rurale lieutenant turned back again. “We’d like to speak to you.”

  Duro looked down at them coldly. To Flynn he said, “I have invited you before to come to my house, thinking you would come as a gentleman…but when you accompany animals, then perhaps you should be treated as one.”

  Flynn could feel the sudden heat on his face, but he restrained the impulse to raise his voice and he said mildly, “What happened to your manners?”

  “There’s no need for them since you are neglecting to use your own.”

  Flynn smiled to himself. Now it comes out: the real Duro. But why the change of face all of a sudden? Maybe Santana scared him into reality. He’s so busy thinking what he’s going to do next, there’s no time for the polite front. He heard Bowers saying, in a low voice, “He doesn’t want us to come up there.”

  Flynn called up, “Hilario Esteban has something to say. He’ll do all the talking.”

  “Then why are you here,” Duro returned, “if this doesn’t concern you? And if I choose not to speak to him at this time, that doesn’t concern you either.” Flynn felt his patience ebbing; but he would try it once more. He began, “Lieutenant…” but that was all—

  The gunfire came suddenly, a scattering of rifle shots off beyond Duro’s house. Flynn looked at the others; they were standing still, wondering; then some were moving hurriedly to the head of the street that led to the rurale camp. Now, from the other direction, came faintly screams and shouts and a few people were reaching the square coming from the streets on both sides of the church, some of the people who had been celebrating the fiesta at the cemetery. They were calling something. The sound of horses now from the street siding Duro’s house and a half-dozen rurales were galloping into the square. Their cries were shrill, unintelligible with the sharp clatter of the hoofs…then one word was clear…and it was a shriek that hung hot in the air like a knife blade raised in the sunlight—

  “APACHES!”

  18

  It is always the same when you hear it…a feeling you can’t describe…and right away you are picturing them, even if you’ve never seen one, and nine times out of ten the cry comes after they’ve gone—Apaches!…A dust cloud in the distance if you’re quick, if you get there soon after; but usually the sign is cold and the man lying there, the survivor, cannot tell you which way they went…not with the sun scalding fire-red inside of his head because the Apaches have taken his eyelids…and other parts of him. First patrol…and the heavy flat sound of the sergeant’s revolving pistol finishing off the buck who had been shot through the legs.

  Apaches! Again and again and again…and the instantaneous tight throb that the word brings never changes because it is not something a man gets used to. But the reaction that comes a split second later, that changes. In a short time it changes from natural panic to trying to remember everything you know about the Apache in a few seconds; and after a half dozen years of it, when it’s your business, your reaction instantly eliminates what will not help you here and now and you think of the Apache as pertaining only to this particular place, this particular time.

  And that’s what Flynn was doing—picturing the south side of Soyopa, where the rurale camp was, where the firing was coming from—it was open country for miles, stretching, curving east and west. So the main threat was not here, even though the firing was coming from that direction now. No, the north side, beyond the cemetery, there it was close with brush, uneven country.

  And now, running to the head of the street where most of the others were, Flynn glanced across the square and saw more people coming hurriedly along both sides of the church.

  Now it’s Soldado’s turn—it went through Flynn’s mind. Something has stirred him up good.

  Past the end of the street, beyond a rise a good two hundred yards off, the bleached tops of the tents were visible. There was smoke and scattered gunfire and suddenly, coming up the rise, up into the street, were the rurales, Santana with them, and as they rode into the square Santana was shouting for them to fan out in a circle, on all sides of the pueblo.

  “Sergeant Santana!” Hilario ran close in front of the sergeant’s horse as he reined in. “What is it?”

  “The Anti-Christ! What do you think!”

  “But how did they come?”

  “Suddenly…as they always do!”

  “Did you lose men?”

  “Several,” Santana answered, swinging down, breathing hard, watching his men disappear down the streets on all sides of the square. “They struck suddenly, riding almost directly through our camp; then they were gone, leaving some of the tents afire, moving out, away, but seeming to circle to the other side of the pueblo.”

  Flynn said, “You’re going after them?”

  “After them! Soldado Viejo is here in force. He would like us to come out after him…so he can cut us to pieces. He is here with men! Something has happened to his thinking. Before he would raid perhaps smaller pueblos, but most of the times herders and then with never more than two dozen men. Now he has over a hundred!”

  “See that your men are circling the entire village,” Hilario told him, looking about anxiously.

  “I know my job!”

  Bowers was looking across the square toward the church where more people were entering the square. “You hear them? They’re yelling Apache. God, they must be close…”

  “That’s the side,” Flynn said. “They can come up close because of the brush…that’s where most of them will be. The strike at the rurale camp was to finish them off quick, but it didn’t work.”

  Hilario’s head turned about, wide-eyed. “We should go over there, then.”

  “What about Duro?” Flynn asked, turning, looking up at him. The lieutenant stood holding tight to the railing, looking, staring across the square.

  “Ah, Señor Duro,” Hilario said. “I remember his own words once…let me see…” And then he called out, “Duro!” The lieutenant’s gaze dropped down to Hilario, surprised, as if he had forgotten they were there. “Duro! Stay in your house until we return. There will be a man here. If he sees your head come out of the door, he will shoot it!”

  As they passed the church, many of the people were crowding into its wide doorway which the Franciscan padre stood holding open. Flynn saw him wave to them as they passed and then they were hurrying down the side wall shadow of the church and beyond, deserted now, they could see the cemetery—the rows of wooden crosses and mounds of stones and scattered here and there the remains of the fiesta which would not be finished today: mescal bottles, olla
s, plates of pottery and on three or four of the crosses hung sombreros. These moved. As the faint breeze came down from the hills it stirred the wide hat brims, turning them lazily, and this was the only movement now in the deserted cemetery.

  Beyond, scattered mesquite thickets began their creeping in from the wild country and beyond the brush were piñon and scrub oak, then jackpine as the ground rose to deep-green and brown-green hills and over all of this nothing moved.

  He’s smart, Flynn thought, thinking of Soldado. If a white man had the upper hand he’d stand out there showing himself, defying you to come out. Soldado’s smart. He makes you think he’s gone, and when you go out…then he has you.

  They stood in the backyard of the adobe which was across the road from the church, looking out over a low wall. Bowers’ eyes were half closed as his head swung slowly, squinting into the brush shadows, seeing nothing. “They’re gone,” he said finally.

  Hilario shook his head, disagreeing. “Why should they go?”

  Bowers said, “Dave, what do you think?”

  “I think Hilario answered it,” Flynn replied. “Why should they go?”

  “You don’t see them!”

  “When did you ever?” Flynn spoke quietly, staring out at the thickets. “Something has aroused Soldado…” He hesitated. “Maybe Lazair stumbled onto his rancheria while the men were away…whatever the reason, it must be a good one to make him throw his men at an entire village. He attacked when he was hot, and it wasn’t successful, but now he’s cooled off. Whatever he came for, he must still want, because he didn’t get anything. There’s no one here who’s going to go out after him, so there’s no reason for him to leave. He has all the time in the world…good cover…and he’s Apache. Now you tell me what he’ll do.”

  Bowers said, after a silence, “And what are we going to do?”

  “Wait.”

  “For how long?”