Watchman skittered to one side up against a tree but no one answered his fire. The tall man was sagging, cursing in an abrasive voice, and then the other one was going fast through the trees, running in deadly silence: Watchman had a glimpse and then the man was gone, absorbed into the night.
8
The one he had shot in the shoulder had slid down with his back to a tree until he was sitting on the snow. He still had his rifle, clumsily upheld in his left hand, and Watchman spoke to him from cover:
“You may as well drop that thing. I’ve got a bead on you.”
The man thought about it for a while and then threw the rifle down with a grunt of disgust and Watchman approached him cautiously, alert to the threat from that third man who had faded into the timber. He heard soft hoofbeats start up in the snow somewhere to the right, and he stopped and waited while the sound diminished with distance. It could be a ruse. He stood by a pine, his shadow blending into the tree, and said, “Get up on your feet.”
“I don’t know if I can. I think you broke my shoulder.”
“Then roll over on your belly and stick your arms out to the sides.”
He could hear the grate of broken bone ends when the man moved, slowly, bracing himself on his left arm, lowering himself onto the snow. The left arm went out at a ninety-degree angle, cruciform; the right arm was buckled and Watchman made another sweep of the trees before he stepped forward and knelt down and patted the man for weapons. He extracted an automatic pistol and put it in his pocket and stood up. “On your feet now. You can make it. Which one are you, Hargit?”
The man sat up slowly and sneered. “Not fucking likely.”
“Baraclough then.”
“You know everything. You tell me.”
“Come on. Up.” He gave Baraclough a hand.
9
He collected Burt and prodded the two of them down the hill and let his call sing out so that Stevens wouldn’t take a shot at them.
Stevens answered in a weak voice hoarsened by pain and Watchman hurried in alarm.
He found Stevens seeping blood into the snow from a hole in his hip. Stevens tried to grin but agony pulled his mouth awry. “Jesus. You took two of them alive.”
“Roll over and pull your pants down.”
“Now you’re a God damn sex fiend.”
The horse stood ground-hitched in the trees and Watchman went to the saddlebags to get the first-aid kit. When he taped thick gauze bandages on the two holes in Stevens’ hip he said, “Feel like any bones are broken?”
“I can’t feel much of anything down there.”
“That’s shock. It’ll start to hurt after a while.”
“Thanks heaps, kemo sabe.”
Watchman was keeping one eye on the two prisoners. Baraclough sat droop-lidded, ready to pass out, but Burt’s eyes were bright with venom.
Stevens said, “Sam, you take some pretty dumb chances. I suppose you learned that trick of riding the off- side of the horse from your old grandpappy Crazy Horse.”
“Matter of fact I saw John Wayne do it in a movie once.”
“One of those movies where the cavalry wipes out all the Inyuns, I’ll bet.” Stevens pulled his pants up and suppressed a groan. “I take it these two beauties are Baraclough and the Sergeant. Where’s Hargit?”
“Gone.”
“With the money?”
“I heard more than one horse moving.”
“That makes him pretty rich all by himself.”
Eddie Burt tried to say something through his gag.
Stevens zipped up his fly. “Those bastards shoot pretty damn good at night.”
Watchman took the first-aid kit over to Baraclough. Little pulsating jets of blood spurted out of his shoulder; when Watchman cut the coat away the broken bone ends showed white. Baraclough, half-conscious, stared down at the wound with bleak bitterness. Watchman said, “It’s vein blood, not artery.”
“Now that’s sensational.” Baraclough’s eyes lifted to his face. “You’re a God damned Indian, aren’t you. If the Major’d known that…”
“If the Major’d known that, what?”
“Nobody ever took us apart before. But he’ll be back for us. He knows how good you are now and he’ll take you next time. He’s a better Indian than you are.” Baraclough smiled with his teeth.
It reminded Watchman of something Keith Walker had said. A better Indian than you are.
“He’ll be back,” Baraclough said again.
“Don’t count on it.” Watchman dressed the wound as well as he could. While he was pasting the bandage over the sulfa powder Baraclough passed out.
He got Buck Stevens’ handcuffs and trussed Baraclough’s good hand to Eddie Burt’s wrist. When he walked back to Stevens he said, “You’re going to have to stay awake awhile, white man.”
“Going somewhere?”
“Vickers.”
“Oh yeah. Where’d he go?”
“I told him to stay put till we came after him.”
“Okay. I’ll watch them. They don’t look too dangerous right now. How the hell did you do it, Sam?”
“Nothing to it. Genius. A teaspoon after meals and at bedtime.”
“Conceited bastard.”
“Buck.”
“What?”
“Keep your eyes open and use your ears hard. Hargit may come back.”
Stevens’ face changed quickly. “Yeah. Hand me my rifle.”
10
Not knowing where Hargit was made it difficult: he didn’t want to sing out for Vickers and give himself away in the bargain. But if Vickers caught him creeping up Vickers would just as likely shoot him before making sure of his identity.
The thing to do was to make Vickers show himself first. He went up along the aspens on foot and kept close to the tree trunks, resenting the time this was taking; he didn’t like leaving Stevens back there alone with Hargit loose in the woods.
If Vickers had done as he’d been told he would be somewhere around here. Watchman stopped and groped in the ground-snow for a rock. When he found one big enough he gave it a heave. It made a bit of a racket crashing through the twigs and when it landed in the stream it crashed through a film of ice.
If Vickers was here it would draw his attention. But there was no sign of movement.
Twenty paces further he repeated the performance with another rock but it didn’t pull Vickers out of hiding.
