Elmore Leonard - Escape from Five Shadows

Karla’s gaze moved from Bowen and Salvaje to Pryde and the Mexican, then raised to the two Mimbres standing behind them. To no one in particular she said, “No guards? I’m surprised at Mr. Renda.”

Squatting at the edge of the pool, the Mexican pushed up his hatbrim with his thumb. “These barbarians are guards enough.”

“I’m still surprised,” Karla said. Her eyes returned to Bowen and Salvaje. “I’m delivering mail to the camp, but I might as well leave it with you.” She looked directly at Bowen. “You’ll see that Mr. Renda gets it?”

Bowen nodded. “Sure.” He started to rise and Salvaje stepped in front of him.

“Your friend understands English?” Karla said.

Bowen glanced at Salvaje. “Very well.”

Karla was looking at the Mimbre now. “I’ll give it to this man-Bowen.”

Salvaje shook his head.

“We’re missing two horses,” Karla said evenly. “Both of them wearing a Double-H brand. Would you like the San Carlos man to visit your ranchería?”

The Mimbre stared at her, not answering.

“Mr. Bowen,” Karla said. “You’ll find the mail in the left-hand saddlebag.”

Bowen hesitated. He walked around the pool then, past the team horses, feeling Salvaje and the others watching him. He saw Karla leaning close to the horse patting its neck, but as he came around to its off side she straightened up and moved toward him.

“Let me help you.”

“What’re you up to?”

Close to him she began unbuckling the flap of the saddlebag. “Just listen to me.”

“They can hear us!”

“Then don’t talk!” Her voice dropped to a half-whisper as she said, “I heard from the lawyer in Prescott. He’s agreed to look into your trial, but he wants a few things cleared up.”

Bowen frowned. “Why should he help me?”

“Because I asked him to!”

“He can’t-”

“Be quiet and listen!” She spoke rapidly then, her voice a soft, hoarse whisper. “Think back and don’t waste words when I ask you a question. Mr. Martz says there’s little mention of the bill of sale in the court records. Was it shown as evidence?”

“It was shown for a minute.”

“Did Manring admit forging Mr. McLaughlin’s signature?”

“That didn’t come up.”

“But it was a copy of McLaughlin’s style of writing.”

“I think so.”

“Then why didn’t they try to find out who filled out and signed the bill of sale?”

“The judge assumed it was Manring.”

“How would Manring know how McLaughlin wrote?”

“McLaughlin claimed Earl worked for him three years before.”

“And he’d remember McLaughlin’s script?”

Bowen hesitated. “Wait a minute. You’re assuming Earl forged the receipt…that he stole the cattle!”

“Mr. Martz is assuming it. He knows McLaughlin well, a man with a good reputation. He’s never done anything like this in his life. He’s never had to. With the land he has, taking a few hundred dollars from Manring wouldn’t be worth the bother.”

“If Earl forged the receipt, I don’t know how he did it.”

“Neither does Mr. Martz. That’s the first thing he has to find out. Next…was the bill of sale made out on plain paper?”

“No, it had McLaughlin’s letterhead on it.”

“His regular stock-sale receipt?”

“That’s what it looked like.”

“Where did Manring get it?”

“All I know is what he told me. McLaughlin gave it to him.”

“Which isn’t true.”

“Your lawyer friend’s doing a lot of assuming.”

“It’s his business. This isn’t something new to him.”

“He’s sure about McLaughlin?”

“Of course he’s sure! He’s lived in Prescott for twenty years and has known Mr. McLaughlin longer than that.” Karla pulled a bundle of letters from the saddlebag and pushed it at Bowen. “Manring couldn’t have known enough about McLaughlin’s handwriting to copy the signature himself. He wasn’t in a position to pick up a blank bill of sale form. So…who did?”

“Maybe I’d better ask Earl.”

Karla shook her head. “Don’t do anything until I hear from Mr. Martz again.”

“There’s not a lot I can do.”

“Talking to Manring could lead to a fight.”

“That might be all right.”

“That would be fine. You’d end up out of reach in the punishment cell. What if Mr. Martz wanted information from you?”

“All right.”

“Don’t do anything!” Karla turned from him. She picked up her reins, mounted and rode into the trees without looking back.

Pryde, sitting next to the Mexican at the edge of the pool, watched Bowen come back toward them. He saw him hand the bundle of letters to Salvaje who took them but said nothing.

“Corey, you know that girl very long?”

Bowen looked down at Pryde. “I guess long enough.”

The Mexican shook his head, grinning. “Too bad we couldn’t hear.”

When they returned with the team horses, Bowen watched Salvaje ride over to Renda and hand him the mail. They spoke for less than a minute and, watching Salvaje ride off, Bowen was sure he had not told Renda about it. They had not talked long enough.

His spirits rose. He ate his jerky and pan bread, drank the lukewarm coffee and thought about Karla Demery: picturing her, going over and over again in his mind what she had said; then projecting from there: seeing her again, this time telling him the lawyer had found something, something, whatever it was, that proved his innocence; then later, on an evening, Karla and the lawyer-Martz?-riding into the convict camp, the lawyer handing Renda a signed release and Renda standing, taking it, reading it with his mouth open.

Hit him then, Bowen thought.

No, you can’t have everything.

And don’t count on it, he thought then. What is the something the lawyer finds? The odds are against your getting out of here. Even with an A-1 Prescott Hatch & Hodges lawyer…and Karla Demery.

But even as he told himself this, his hopes were up and he went back to work almost eagerly-and with something of a feeling that he should be working harder since Karla and the lawyer were doing so much to get him out.

Pryde said nothing more to him about the girl. But after they had pulled out the first pinyon stump and the Mexican was dragging it off to the fire, Chick Miller said, “I hear you got a sweetheart.” He looked at Bowen slyly, one eye almost closed beneath the cocked brim of his straw hat.

“Is that what you hear, Chick?”

“From a little bird,” Chick said, grinning.

“From a little Mex bird,” Pryde said.

Chick looked at him as if surprised. “What, it’s supposed to be a secret? You can’t stand talking close to a girl in broad daylight and expect it to be a secret.”

“She was giving me the mail,” Bowen said.

“To you, not to the Indian.”

“Maybe she’s the kind,” Pryde said, “who figures you can’t trust a ’Pache.”

“Sure,” Chick nodded, grinning again. “Corey, you must’ve known her before.”

“She was giving me the mail,” Bowen said again.

Chick winked at him. “I’d let her give me the mail anytime.”

“Be careful now.”

“I didn’t mean any offense.”

They moved on to the next stump and when the Mexican returned Pryde said, “You talk a hell of a lot.”

“Me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I told that the girl spoke to Bowen,” the Mexican said. “What about it?”

“He didn’t tell me what was said.” Chick shook his head. “Not one word.”

“Because I didn’t hear,” the Mexican said. “I didn’t hear anything they were saying.”

“Let’s drop it there,” Bowen said. He looked from Pryde to Chick to the Mexican. “All right?”