The Bounty Hunters

by Elmore Leonard

  Flynn waited. Come on. That’s one of your brothers in trouble. Come on and find him. Still there was no sound, but at that moment he felt the movement; he sensed it and from the corner of his eye there he was, the Mimbre, crouched low, moving toward Three-cents. Wait. Nothing sudden. Let him get past you. Joe’s seen him too. Joe probably smelled him.

  The Mimbre stopped. In the moaning tone, a word in the Mimbreño dialect came from Three-cents. And in the corner of Flynn’s eye the Mimbre moved again. All right, get him.

  But as he rose, Madora was suddenly, silently behind the Mimbre and the next moment his arms were around him, forearm viselike against the throat and hand clamped over the mouth, dragging the warrior to the ground with him. Three-cents stood over them. Without hesitating he pushed his knife into the Mimbre’s chest.

  They went on, carrying the Apache, for he could not be left there for the others to find. When it’s light, Flynn thought, they’ll read the signs. That will make it harder to get back. But what might happen after sunup was something to think of then. They moved on through the darkness.

  Three-cents signaled when they neared the place where the others were. A soft low whistle…silence…then an answering whistle and within a minute there were Coyotero scouts all around them.

  “Where is he?” Flynn said to Madora. Here was another pine stand and in the darkness he could see only the Coyoteros standing close by.

  Madora pointed. “He was right over there before.”

  “You’d think three men walking in at night would interest him.”

  “He’s got enough troubles without looking for more.”

  “Joe, there’s another problem now we didn’t count on before.” He indicated the dead Mimbre. “Tonight they’ll miss him; tomorrow they’ll be getting in each other’s way looking for him.”

  Madora nodded. “I agree.”

  “So,” Flynn went on, “if we’re going back to the village, it’s got to be tonight or not at all.”

  “But,” Madora said, “you got to convince Deneen crawling through their line’s the thing to do—anytime.”

  “I’ll convince him,” Flynn said, and looked at the Mimbre again. “We’d better get rid of him.”

  “We’ll bury him.”

  “When we go back it should be in two or three groups. What do you think?”

  Madora nodded. “I’ll work it out with Three-cents, you go talk to Horse’s-ass.”

  Colonel Deneen was lying down, head on his saddle bag and a blanket covering him as Flynn entered the small clearing Deneen had reserved for himself; but in one abrupt movement the blanket was thrown back and he was sitting up, pointing a pistol at Flynn.

  “Who is it?”

  “Flynn.” He started to explain, “Madora brought me out…” but he stopped. God, he should know that much.

  “Well, goddamn it, sit down! I don’t care for you standing there looming over me!”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t frighten me, I assure you. Where’s Bowers?”

  “Soyopa.”

  “Why didn’t he come?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Sitting down, Flynn studied the man, trying to see the face clearly in the darkness. The face had changed, but he could not make out details other than it being in need of a shave, perhaps drawn. Bluntly now, Flynn asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “It’s less than four hours to daylight.”

  “So?”

  “We killed a Mimbre on the way out. As soon as it’s light they’ll be looking for him.”

  “So?”

  “So we’ll have to start back to the village now while it’s still dark,” Flynn said patiently.

  “And since I happen to command, and don’t choose to go to the village, what then?”

  “It would be better if you went.”

  “Are you threatening me, Flynn?”

  God, he’s sitting on the edge of his nerves! “Of course I’m not threatening. I’m reminding you that with the sun something’s bound to happen. It would be too late then to get back to the village and those people might need all the help they can get.”

  Abruptly then, in a tone intended to sound calm, natural, Deneen said, “I suppose you were surprised to find me here.”

  Flynn nodded. “Somewhat.”

  “The general decided I had better look into this myself, since it has possibilities of an extensive border campaign. It’s been my argument right along, one push from both sides of the border will squeeze every Apache man, woman and child out of the hills right where we want them.” As he said this, his voice sounded natural.

  He’s been rehearsing this one, Flynn thought.

  Deneen went on, “I’m contacting the local rurale officer first…at my own time. Do you know him?”

  Flynn nodded.

  “There in that village?”

  Flynn nodded again.

  “Well goddamn it speak up! What’s his authority!”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “What!”

  Flynn’s voice was calm. “Look, there are only a few hours until light. I think it would be wise if we started back right now instead of sitting here playing games. I know why you’re here. Everyone does, and you know it. And I’ll tell you this…I don’t give a good damn what happened between you and the general. That’s past history, to me it’s as dead as what happened that night at Chancellorsville. You’ve made that one live on even when I was trying to forget it, and now you throw this border campaign nonsense in my face and expect me to swallow it, pretending you’re on a secret mission…like I’ve been doing with Bowers for the past week—trying to act like this is an honest-to-God assignment; half wanting to help him keep his faith in the army, half wanting to tell him what a real son of a bitch you really are, but not having the heart because to him a colonel, even you, is a rank that takes time, guts and a military mind.” Flynn stopped, but abruptly he added, “Why did you send him?”

  Deneen stared with the rage plain in his face, even in the darkness, and he was not able to speak.

  “Maybe I can answer it myself,” Flynn said, watching Deneen closely. He started out slowly, “Bowers’ father, the brigadier, was there. Maybe he saw you do it…or he was in the medical tent after and could tell gunshot from shrapnel and had time to figure where a doctor there wouldn’t. Either way, you were aware of his knowing. Perhaps you’d forgotten it over the years, but when the boy showed up at Whipple there it was again and you took it for granted the brigadier had told his boy about the cowardly act of a Captain Deneen one night at Chancellorsville. If Bowers knows about it, he’s not saying, but the chances are remote that he even does, because his father wasn’t the kind of man to let it get beyond him. But maybe he should have told…and had you drummed out of the service. No, you should have resigned yourself. But instead you stuck it out, because after the war there wouldn’t be any more Chancellorsvilles…and now some men have paid with their lives because you’re a rotten officer and not honest enough to admit it…because two men you think know about a mistake you once made, you conclude the only thing to do is get rid of them before everybody knows.” Flynn paused. “Your big mistake was pointing that pistol at your foot—you were about five feet too low.”

  “Is that all you have to say, Flynn?” Deneen kept his voice calm.

  “One other thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “You’re going to the village.”

  “At the point of a gun?” Deneen half smiled. “I think not. And we’ll stay as long as I choose to.”

  “If you do, you’ll stay alone.”

  “Madora is under my command. If I stay, he’ll stay…and with all of his men!”

  Turning to go, Flynn said quietly, “Ask him.”

  20

  They waited in the darkness crouched low in the mesquite, watching the pines off across the clearing. Clouds had formed in the
night sky and now the moonwash was a soft haze that barely outlined the dense shape of the trees.

  Madora said, “How long now?”

  “About twenty minutes,” Flynn answered.

  “That’s not so good.”

  “Maybe they’re close and he can’t move.”

  Deneen, crouched at Flynn’s right, moved his leg and his boot scraped the loose sandy rock.

  Madora’s head turned. “Why don’t you ring a bell?”

  Deneen began, “Madora, you’ll be sorry you ever…”

  “Damn it—shut up!”

  Indicating the pines across the clearing, Flynn said, “That’s where the Mimbre was killed…maybe he’s run into something.”

  “Like the other two,” Madora said.

  Flynn glanced at Madora. “If he doesn’t show soon, we’d better start thinking. What about the rest of your trackers?”

  “They’ll wait a good hour before following: give us plenty of time. If something happens, they’re on their own.”

  But a moment later, Three-cents appeared, crawling, squirming into the mesquite. He told them that two Mimbreños were among the trees looking for the one who had disappeared, feeling through the pines carefully. “They will look only a short time more, searching a wider area. Then they will go to inform the others.”

  “Which means,” Flynn said, “we go now or never.”

  “What did he say?” Deneen whispered, demanding, not merely asking.

  “He said it’s empty; we could drive a wagon through,” Madora told him.

  “That’s not what he said!”

  Madora did not bother to reply; he moved out and they crawled single file after him across the clearing, moving more quickly through shoulder-high brush hands and knees again across another open stretch and then into the pines. They waited, listening to the silence, then deeper among the trees they could hear crickets. They sing if nothing’s disturbing them, Flynn thought. But even a cricket wouldn’t hear a Mimbre. They moved on, creeping through the trees, brushing pine needle branches, holding them from swishing…and three of them gritted their teeth and felt needles down their spines as Deneen’s boot snapped a rotted tree limb. They stopped where they were and dead silence followed.

  Three-cents looked at Madora and when the scout nodded he moved off, disappearing into the darkness.

  The clasp knife is in the left side pocket, Flynn thought, and his hand moved against the cloth feeling the shape of it. He could feel the weight if the pistol beneath his left arm. But no shooting, he reminded himself. He smelled the cold fresh smell of the pines and suddenly he realized there was no longer the sound of crickets. A movement in the tree darkness flicked in his vision.

  He saw it again, a short quick shadow movement, and held his gaze on it, waiting for it to show again. When it did, he knew that it was a man, and almost instinctively he knew it was not Three-cents.

  He glanced at Deneen. He hadn’t seen him. The shadow moved again, coming closer cautiously, taking the definite shape of a man. It went through Flynn’s mind: Joe’s closest. It’s up to him. Now he could see the shoulder-length hair and the colorless gray of the breechclout. He knew Madora, a few feet in front of him, was ready; but now he thought of Deneen, behind, slightly to the side, and he wanted to warn him not to move, but he knew it was too late. Joe—get the mouth. Whatever you do, don’t let him yell. Let him take a few more steps—

  “Oh God!” and the pistol shot slamming the stillness on top of the words.

  Deneen held the pistol out in front of him…the Apache was on the ground…but suddenly another shape was coming out of the trees…his thumb hooked the hammer and he fired at it…the figure hung motionless and he pulled the trigger twice again until the shape dropped to the ground.

  Madora’s voice suddenly—hoarse, urgent, “Stop him!”

  Flynn was moving…one hand gripped the gun barrel, wrenching it from clawed fingers…the other tightened in uniform cloth to drag Deneen to the ground.

  “Get off of me!”

  The face beneath him was tight with panic, ready to scream again. Flynn pushed his palm down viciously over the mouth, holding it there, seeing the eyes stretched open—

  Madora was next to him. “He shot Three-cents!”

  “What!”

  “The second one…It was Three-cents! The crazy son of a bitch killed him!”

  Looking down, seeing the eyes, Flynn’s hand tightened over the jaw. And one of the flashes in his mind, coming through the shock of Madora’s words, said: This would be easy. But it was momentary. Ten years on the frontier was telling him something else, something undeniable, urgent…and he leaped up to follow Madora who was already moving, running through the trees. They reached the end of the trees together and paused, drawing their pistols. Then they were in the open—five, six, seven strides—and suddenly the gunfire broke, coming from three sides, pinpoint bursts of flame, stopping them in their tracks, forcing them back crawling, lunging into the cover of the trees.

  Minutes later, after the firing had stopped, Deneen appeared. He said it once. “Goddamn it they all look alike. How did I know who it was?” That, by way of an apology.

  Flynn could still feel the hot anger and he thought: Now that he’s said that, he can forget about it. He’s explained and apologized in one. Life is very simple. Why do you let it get so complicated—just look at it the way Deneen does. And within the first few minutes he also thought: Take your anger and use it now against these Mimbreños. But he felt the closeness of the trees. No, it would be all right if you were fighting them in the open, with fists; but there’s no place for anger here. They’ll come at dawn and if you’re still excited, two minutes later you’ll be dead.

  They moved a few yards to where there was more protection—the brush was heavier and a fallen tree formed a natural barrier on the side that faced deeper into the trees, and out from it there was a fifteen foot clearing to help some. The other side looked out on the open meadow they had started to cross. Flynn remembered that the next trees were about two hundred yards off, with Soyopa’s cemetery beyond them. The threat was not from the open side.

  Madora moved next to Flynn.

  “They’ll come soon as there’s a hint of light.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “How would you figure it?” Madora said.

  “Come from the inside, through the trees. If they can count to five three times they’ve got us.”

  “Be all over before we could reload.”

  “Did you take Three-cents’ gun?” When Madora nodded he said, “That’ll help some. How many rounds you got?”

  “About thirty, plus the loads in Three-cents’ gun.”

  Flynn patted his coat pocket. “That’s about what I got. Will they count shots?”

  “Hell yes. What side do you want?”

  Flynn was closest to the fallen tree. He said, “Well, now that I’m here.” He glanced at Deneen who looked away quickly.

  “Then you get this,” Madora said, handing him the extra pistol.

  “If you want to use it sometime, it’s all right.”

  “Maybe next week,” Madora said.

  Now Flynn was looking out past the fallen tree, his eyes probing the darkness and the trees. There! Did you hear it? There must be a lot of them if they make a noise. The Coyoteros will be pinned down; there aren’t enough of them to do anything. Twice he thought he saw movements, but he held his fire. Wait for the real thing, that will come soon enough. The time was passing and he knew it would not be very long and he was as certain as he could be that he would die within the next hour. You have to have time to reload. O my God I’m heartily sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace—

  There!

  His left pistol came up and fired. Count them! One. Another shape coming across the cle
aring, stumbling with the report. Two. A Mimbre darted from one tree to another and he missed him. Three. Don’t throw them away! The same one came on, in view for a longer time, and he knocked him flat. Four. Madora’s firing the other way. Don’t look around. There…off left! The slamming report and powder smell. Five. Now wait…you’re starting to reload…here they come!

  He stood up suddenly, pointing the other pistol, firing, seeing them go down…four blasts from the pistol and two Mimbres dropped, one hit twice. Others were coming out of the trees! No…split-second indecision and they were going back in. Hurry up, reload! He inserted two cartridges, looked up, and when there was no movement he loaded three more; then the other gun.

  The firing had stopped on both sides. “What did you have, Joe?”

  “Ponies. Didn’t you hear them?”

  Flynn shook his head.

  “They were for attention,” Madora said. “Your side’s the one.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “You want to trade off?”

  “I’m used to it now.”

  Turning toward Deneen, Madora said, “You want to help out next time?” He stopped, his eyes narrowing into a frown. “You feel all right?”

  Flynn looked over. Deneen was crouched with his back against the base of a pine, half hidden by the branches, clutching the pistol in a tight-knuckled, close-to-chest, protecting way as if it were the only thing that stood between him and the end of his world. And the picture of that night at Chancellorsville flashed through Flynn’s mind—the darkness and the dripping pines and almost the same tight-jawed wide-eyed expression frozen on his face—and Flynn looked away, back to Madora.

  “We’re not going to get any help from him,” the scout said. He looked out over the meadow in the dawn light. Flynn moved back to the fallen tree, but as he did Madora called, “David, look-at over there.”

  His eyes followed Madora’s outstretched arm through the early morning haze, out across the meadow. There, at the edge of the trees two hundred yards off, stood three Mimbreños. They were looking toward the pines; then one of them motioned and others appeared, carrying something.