I went over to a rock and sat down. For a minute I thought I was going to be sick.
Bama came up from somewhere and sat beside me. Pistols were still exploding every minute or so as wounded horses or Mexicans were discovered and killed.
“I wonder,” Bama said flatly, “what General Sherman would have to say about our little war here today.”
I didn't say anything. The men were cutting the aparejos open, laughing and gibbering and shoving as clank- streams of adobe dollars poured into the dust. I didn't know how much money there was, but I had never seen so much silver before. Twenty thousand dollars, maybe, It looked like that much.
But I was sick, and the thought of money didn't help. The ground was littered with the dead. I had never seen so many dead men before. They lay sprawled in crazy ragdoll positions, smugglers and bandits alike, and the horses, and the gray little mules with the bells around their necks.
“I've seen what they call major battles,” Bama said, “without that many men getting killed.” He stared blankly at nothing. He rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair. At last he got up.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my horse.”
Now I knew why Bama had saved that half bottle of whisky.
Chapter Four
IN THE HOTTEST PART of the afternoon we started back for Ocotillo, what was left of us. Kreyler and the Indian had gathered the silver together and loaded it on pack horses that we had brought along for that purpose. There were several riderless horses, but I didn't take the trouble to count and see how many men we had left back there in the canyon. I guess nobody did. I made the mistake once of looking back, and already the vultures that Bama had talked about were beginning to circle over the battleground. It took everything I had to keep my stomach out of my throat. I didn't look back again.
Bama had finished the rest of his whisky and was riding slouched, chin on chest, deep in some bleary, alcoholic dream. I tried to keep my mind away from the battle, but I kept seeing those brown, grinning faces as they fell away in front of my guns. I wanted to think of my cut of that silver. I tried to remember that killing was necessary sometimes to save yourself—and that silver would save me.
Somehow, we got back to Ocotillo. We split up again when we came to the meeting place, and Bama and I rode back into town the same way we had left it. It was a long ride. Bama still didn't say anything.
It was almost dark by the time I got my horse put away. I went up to my room and fell on the mattress in front of the door. I was dog tired. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest, and every nerve was ready to snap. Then I turned loose with everything I had. I vomited until my guts were sore and there wasn't anything left in me to come up, but still I kept gagging.
When it was over I was soaked in sweat and shaking like a whipped dog. It was all I could do to get off the floor and pour some water in the bowl and wash my face.
It was then that I felt the draft float over the back of my neck and I knew that the door was open and somebody was standing there. I think I knew who it was before I looked up. Sure enough, it was Marta.
“What do you want?”
“I think you need Marta.”
“I don't need anybody. Get out of here and stay out.”
She looked at me for a moment, then turned and went down the hall. In a minute she was back with a pan and some water, and began cleaning the floor.
“I don't know why they bother to put locks on these doors,” I said. “How did you get in here?”
She grinned faintly, took a knife from the bodice of her dress, and showed it to me.
“Is easy.”
“It must be.”
I didn't feel like talking or fighting or anything else. If she wanted to clean up after me, all right. All I wanted to do was rest and try to forget that I had taken part in anything that had happened today.
She worked quietly, not looking at me. After she had finished I could feel her standing beside me.
“You need eat,” she said.
“I need nothing.”
She went out of the room, taking the dirty water with her. I didn't bother to close the door.
Maybe five minutes went by, and then she came back with two hard-boiled eggs and a pitcher of cool beer.
“Here.”
“You're crazy as hell,” I said.
She cracked one, of the eggs and peeled it. I took it and bit into it. It tasted good. I washed it down with some of the beer, then reached for the other egg.
“Good?” she said.
I nodded and had some more beer.
“You sick. Why?”
How could I tell her why I was sick? Maybe I wasn't even sure myself. But somehow I felt that the last
