Elmore Leonard - The Bounty Hunters

"Mostly," Rellis said now, "when I see a pissant like you I just step on him."

"Rellis-" It came unexpectedly, but without alarm.

Bowers' face relaxed, that was the effect, that suddenly, even without looking. But Rellis had to turn his head, sharply, and as he did the grin died on his face.

Flynn stood in from the doorway. He came on a few strides and stopped, his eyes on Rellis, his right hand unbuttoning his coat.

"Frank, I understand you've been looking for me."

Rellis wasn't loose now, though he was in the same position, elbows on the bar. Now he might have been nailed there.

"I…was just asking where you were."

"I heard you asking."

"Listen." Rellis straightened. "I want to get clear with you what happened in Contention. I might have talked out of turn in that barbershop-I'd been drinking and was anxious to ride out." He added quickly, "And that's what I did right after. I rode out a long ways to let my head clear, then camped by water and slept from early right through the night."

"And now you want to buy me a drink."

"That's right."

"You want to drink to what happened at the livery."

"Listen, I didn't have any part of that."

"What?"

"Shootin' that man."

"If you left Contention, how did you know about it?"

"News travels."

"All the way to Sonora?"

"It don't take long."

"Frank," Flynn said quietly, "you're a liar."

"You got no cause to say that."

Flynn moved toward Rellis. "It's said." He paused, watching Rellis' eyes. "I'm going outside. I'll expect to see you within the next few minutes…with your gun in your hand."

Rellis' face was stiff. Then it smiled, forcing the smile wide. "Now wait a minute. You're jumping to conclusions. I swear to God I wasn't near that livery!"

Flynn's eyes stayed on Rellis, though he did not speak. He stared, watching Rellis trying to appear unconcerned, and he became more confident because he knew then that Rellis was half afraid to fight. Rellis would bully Bowers, he thought, because Bowers was young, too new to have experience. Maybe Red could take him with his fists, but he wouldn't have gotten all the way out of the chair to try. This was different. This was something Rellis would want his own way or not at all, and Flynn thought: And you know how that would be. All right, let him have his way. Give him his chance.

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.

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.