Elmore Leonard - The Bounty Hunters

"If you get them in the open."

"Yes." Santana's voice was lower, the word part of his breath. Then he said, again excitedly, "Listen, tomorrow with the sun I am taking a patrol toward the pueblo of Alaejos. That is a good direction for Apaches. You come with us. Then, if we see Apaches down from the hills, I'll show you something, man, to tell them back home."

"How long would we be gone?"

"We would return the following day…in time for the fiesta. Dia de los Muertos-"

Santana took one more drink, repeating that he had only a moment, then left the mescal shop.

Red Bowers exhaled slowly, a long sigh. Flynn had it right, Bowers thought. Santana arouses easily, and he hates Lazair's men. This could be all right. This could work, if it's handled properly. Just take it slowly. This could be like war from a general's saddle-moving troops, but only hearing the gunfire in the distance. Here's some practice for you. And then there's Duro…something for his ear.

He paid the bartender and started for the door.

"Boy…you goin' to wait for Frank!"

Bowers glanced back at the table where Embree and the other sat. He hesitated, then went out without bothering to answer.

He crossed the square toward Duro's house, leading his mount, hoofs clopping behind a thin shadow with legs twice as long as they should be. The square was still vacant; the two rurales who had been in front of Duro's were not in sight.

He mounted the stairs heavily, slowly. If he were interrupting anything Duro would hear him and have time to clear away whatever it, or she, might be. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. But when he reached the veranda there was no sound from within. He called the lieutenant's name through the partly opened door. He waited, then pushed in when there was no answer. Calling again, he moved to the bedroom doorwayDuro was on the bed, sprawled on his back. A fly buzzed close to his face, close to his open mouth. The mescal bottle was on the floor, but Duro still clutched the glass he'd been holding when he passed out.

"Officer and gentleman," Bowers said half aloud. He left then.

Lazair counted the scalps again as they returned to camp. He knew there were eight, but there was no harm in a recount. His hunch had paid off. With the rain the streams had filled. He had located his men at three watering places on the chance Soldado's people would come to one of them. And they had.

The second evening they came-seven women and two old men to protect them. And now they had eight scalps. One woman had gotten away. It was almost dark, but best to return to camp now than wait for a war party to come storming back for revenge. You could always pick off a few if you found the right water holes, that was the way to do it; but God, don't try and hit the whole bunch!

He'd sent a man to gather the ones at the other two places, and some men were bringing up the rear to cover sign as best they could in the fast-falling dark. Well, it was a worthwhile two days. He'd get a good rest, maybe have a little talk with Nita, and take the scalps in in the morning. A good day to go to town…there was supposed to be some kind of fiesta.

We are all afraid of death, Lamas Duro thought, but one admits it only to himself. He was standing on the veranda of his headquarters, watching the straggle of villagers coming now and then from the side streets, crossing the square in the direction of the cemetery.

In company we can be brave. We proclaim this festival, Dia de Los Muertos, to celebrate on the grave stones and joke at death and tell him we aren't afraid…but these are only outward signs. With some of the people it takes a full bottle of mescal before they are at ease in his presence. And with others it takes even more. And he thought: Like yourself…it takes a bottle every day. Did you know that? For you, every day is Dia de Los Muertos.

Looking across the square, he watched one group pass into the midmorning shadow of the church. They moved along the west wall, carrying their homemade wine and mescal, and lunches of bread-small loaves baked in the shapes of death's heads for the occasion.

Take a bite of death on the grave of your father.

Death and the devil are one. Show him you aren't afraid and he'll stay in hell where he belongs. But take another drink before it wears off and he comes leaping out.

Lamas Duro smiled. Children of the ignorant whore Superstition. But he thought: You believe in nothing, now; yet you conduct yourself in this manner every day. What does it mean?

He looked out over the square, at the shadow of the obelisk which was the only thing about the square that ever changed, and made the scene seem more monotonous because the change itself was a dull, inching thing that wasn't worth thinking about.

It means you're sick of life…but afraid of death, so you take the in-between, and that's mescal. You didn't begin that way. Even a year ago there was no fear, but that was before Diaz…and his rurales…his bandits, which is what they are.

It came suddenly, and he wasn't aware of the reason-though it must have been the picture of himself as he had once been, for that flashed in his mind, differently than it had the many times before, for consciously now he saw himself as he had been and, at the same time, as he was now-and he knew then that he would leave.

And the plan of what he would do fell into place quickly…remembering the bounty money in his possession and Lazair away from the pueblo and Santana due in from patrol that morning but being weary should be in the mescal shop or at camp and the entire population of Soyopa celebrating Dia de Los Muertos… No one, no one would notice alone rider leaving Soyopa!

He would ride north…across the border. That was it. Living among the Americans would be something to get used to, but at least the bounty money would make the getting used to it less unbearable. And it now seemed so simple, so elementary, that he wondered why it had not occurred to him before this. He inhaled deeply, feeling his shirt tighten against his chest, then moved away from the veranda railing and went into the office.

A half-full mescal bottle that he had started only that morning was on the desk. He picked it up by the neck and was smiling as his arm swung wide and let it go. The bottle smashed against the far wall-shattering, flying glass and the liquid burst of it beginning to run down to the floor.

Entering the square, Bowers glanced at Santana. "What was that?"

Santana smiled through the sweat-streaked dust on his face. "This is a feast day. Many bottles are opened, some of them are dropped."

They were passing Duro's house, less than a hundred feet away, and nodding toward it Bowers said, "Sounded like it came from there."

Santana answered, "Lieutenant Duro has never dropped a bottle in the entirety of his life."

They stopped in front of Las Quince Letras, Bowers and Santana, with a few of the rurales pulling even with them now. Most of the rurales had swerved from the square down the street leading to their camp.

Bowers came off the saddle stiff-legged. It seemed a long time since dawn; riding steadily for hours with nothing happening made it seem like days. There were no Apaches, not even a pony sign all day yesterday or that morning. But the thought was in Bowers' mind all during the patrol that probably it was just as well. Santana wouldn't have been ready for Apaches had they appeared. He allowed his patrol to stretch thin. There was more than just talking in ranks-loud laughter, even drinking. Almost, it seemed to Bowers, as if their purpose was to ride through the brush to flush out game for a hunting party ahead. Santana failed to send out flankers. He kept two men riding advance, but each time the twenty-man patrol caught up with them they were dismounted, lying in the shade, if there was shade, or else with sombreros tilted over their faces. When they reached Alaejos, two men were missing. The two straggled in almost an hour later, and Santana said nothing to them. In more than a dozen places along the way, three Apaches could have annihilated a good half of the patrol. Bowers kept his thoughts to himself. By the time they had reached Alaejos, that afternoon, he realized it wasn't a lack of discipline; Santana didn't know what he was doing…in spite of his years in the army. He thinks he's a soldier, Bowers had thought, but he isn't even close to being one.