Elmore Leonard: The Bounty Hunters

That's how it started in his mind, the plan. Just from remembering something Flynn had said, and in the next few minutes the plan began to develop, began to grow into something that might work.

A man crouched next to him in the darkness, startling him.

"What passes?" the man said. "Hilario Esteban relieved me and told me to come here."

Bowers nodded, "It is still quiet," and then quickly, unexpectedly, he asked, "Have you seen the rurale, Santana?"

The alcalde, Hilario Esteban, stood beneath the veranda of Lamas Duro's house, and with the Burnside.54 cradled in his arm he looked out over the dark stillness of the square. Far across loomed the dim outline of Santo Tomas and creeping in a wide circle toward him on the two sides were the low, shadowed adobe fronts of the buildings that faced the square. There were no horses in front of Las Quince Letras.

This is the first time in six months that the cantina has been empty, Hilario thought. The time before was the day everyone remained in their houses. The day the rurales came.

But it was just the one day that there was no business, his thoughts continued, for the rurales were inside the cantina as soon as their camp was erected. And soon after, within three days, the people were beginning to go there again; quietly at first, once in a while, then soon with the same frequency as before…having adjusted themselves to our new neighbors.

A man can adjust himself to anything.

Still, there is a limit. He thought, now we have reached the limit. We could go on pretending that Lamas Duro is not here, but in doing so we would also be pretending that such a thing as honor still remained. If a man must make excuses for himself, continually argue with himself that he is a man, then he is better off dead. And then he thought: Why do I think about this one man when our worst enemy now surrounds the village? He shook his head faintly. No, Lamas Duro is more the Anti-Christ than Soldado Viejo. He whispered, half aloud, "Saint Francis, help us."

Now and then his eyes would go up the stair-ways that came down from both ends of the veranda above him, angling toward the center where he stood.

He would look up as the sound came from the room: walking, a squeaking board, and sometimes he thought he heard talking; but he told himself, if so Lamas Duro was talking to himself to keep his spirits up.

And finally it occurred to Hilario: Why not talk to him now? Waiting until Soldado left would be reasonable if you were occupied elsewhere, but here you stand. Go up and talk to him…no, tell him…and get it over with.

He started up the stairs on the left. Halfway up he stopped, holding himself still. The door above had opened. Slowly, with a long, low squeak. He heard footsteps on the veranda now. Three steps, then silence. Now three more, moving to the other side of the veranda.

Hilario turned slowly, crouching, and eased down until he was sitting on the steps. He raised the Burnside carefully and pointed it toward the opposite stairway. Cocking it will make a noise, he thought, hearing and feeling his heart beating through his body. So don't cock it until you are ready to fire…if firing is necessary. But, Saint Francis, don't make it necessary. Make Senor Duro go back inside.

He heard the footsteps again, at the top of the stairs now. Then they were coming down. Hilario held himself tense, squinting in the darkness, and now he could see the dim outline of a man. He waited, holding his breath, watching the figure reach the bottom. Then another sound, above…another man was on the stairs!

Two of them…how can that be!

His eyes fought the darkness, studying the second dim shape almost at the bottom of the stairs now. That one is Duro! I know it is!

Hilario Esteban rose suddenly, bringing up the Burnside, pulling back the hammer. "Senor Duro-stand where you are!"

And with the suddenness of this the first man was running. Hilario ignored him. Duro stood at the bottom of the stairs looking across and up at him.

"Who is it!"

"Hilario Esteban!"

He could hear the sound of the other man on the hard-packed square and suddenly the shadowy form of Duro was not in front of him, but running, sprinting into the open darkness of the square.

"Senor Duro!"

Quick, rapid-sharp boot steps in the openness…

"Senor Duro! Halt!"

A dim form growing dimmer…fifty, sixty, seventy feet…

The Burnside came up, cheek level. "Senor Duro!…"

Eighty…

"Saint Francis help me!" And with it the heavy dull explosion of the Burnside.

Lamas Duro took six more strides, though he was not conscious of them…for he was dead the instant the heavy ball slammed into his back.

"Here he comes," Madora said.

"He's half animal," Flynn whispered, belly-down next to Madora in a shallow gully, watching the dim form creeping noiselessly toward them through the brush.

"He's all animal," Madora grunted and rolled to his side to face Three-cents as the Coyotero dropped into the gully with them. They were returning the same way Madora and the Coyotero had come-Three-cents going ahead to see that the way was clear, then either signaling them on or crawling back to get them if he considered an audible animal-sound signal dangerous. This way, if they ran into Soldado's Apaches, Three-cents would meet them first, and there was the chance they would think him one of their own. Even recognizing him as not a Mimbreno would take time and Three-cents would have his chance to act.

In his own language, but with a word here and there of Spanish, he informed them that Mimbres were just ahead.

"There are three," he told them. "They stand listening. Then two will move in opposite directions, but always one remains in the same place."

"Like army pickets," Flynn whispered.

Madora muttered, "They've been doing it for five hundred years." They were silent then, thinking, but finally Madora said, "Well, let's go take him."

"Who's doing the honors?"

"Whoever sees him first."

They crawled out of the gully one at a time, Three-cents leading, and kept to the brush patches as they went over the flat ground. Just ahead now they could make out the dense blackness of trees, a soft crooked line against the night sky, and when Three-cents glanced back at them they knew that there the Mimbre waited.

They moved up on both sides of the Coyotero and he said, with his mouth close to the ground, "Thirty paces into the trees he stands. The two come out to the edge before going opposite ways." They were silent again, watching, and then Three-cents muttered, "There," pushing his arm out in front of him on the ground.

It was visible for a moment, like an off-white speck of shadow and then gone.

"He's sure of himself," Madora grunted, "wearing a white breechclout at night." They waited several minutes, giving the two Mimbre vedettes time to move off, out of hearing; then they crawled toward the trees.

Pines. The scent was heavy. Flynn could feel the needles in the sand beneath his hands and knees, and now a branch brushed his face. He had not brought the Springfield. It would be in the way. But he could feel his pistol under his left arm and a clasp knife was in his pocket.

Watch Three-cents now, Flynn thought. He'll call it. They waited for the Mimbre to move, to cause a sound that would tell where he was, but no sound came and as the minutes passed they knew they would have to bring the Mimbre to them.

Three-cents rose silently and moved off from them a dozen steps before sinking down, huddling close among pine branches. A low moan came from him then, in the stillness a long low gasp of pain.

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.