Elmore Leonard: The Bounty Hunters

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 closed 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, "Senor 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 allThe 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-

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.