Cima Quaine walked over to him when he saw the boy look up quickly.
Dave Fallis looked anxiously from Patman's motionless form up to the chief scout who now stood next to him where he knelt.
'I saw his eyes open and close twice!' he whispered excitedly. The scout hunkered down beside him and wrinkled his buckskin face into a smile. It was an ageless face, cold in its dark, crooked lines and almost cruel, but the smile was plain in the eyes. He was bare-headed, and his dark hair glistened flat on his skull in the lantern light that flickered close behind him on the table. 'You'd have to tie rocks to him and drop him in a well to kill Virgil,' he said. 'And then you'd never be sure.' He glanced at the boy to see the effect of his words and then back to Patman. The eyes were open now, and Patman was grinning at him.
'Don't be too sure,' he said weakly. His eyes went to Fallis who looked as if he wanted to say something, but was afraid to let it come out. He smiled back at the boy watching the relief spread over his face and saw him bite at his lower lip. 'Did you get him?'
Fallis shook his head, but Quaine said, 'Vea Oiga was crawling up to take the horses when De Sana ran into the corral and took one without even waiting to saddle. He shot at him, but didn't get him.' He twisted his head and looked up at one of the Apaches standing behind him. 'When we get home, you're going to spend your next two months' pay on practice shells.'
Vea Oiga dropped his head and looked suddenly ashamed and ridiculous with the vermilion sergeant stripes painted on his naked arms. He shuffled through the doorway without looking up at the girl who stepped inside quickly to let him pass. She stood near the cupboard not knowing what to do with her hands, watching Dave Fallis. One of the half-dozen Coyotero scouts in the room moved near her idly, and she shrank closer to the wall nervously picking at the frayed collar of her dress. She looked about the room wide-eyed for a moment, then stepped around the Apache hurriedly and out through the doorway. She moved toward the leanto, but held up when she saw the three Apaches inside laughing and picking at the strips of venison that were hanging from the roof to dry. After a while, Fallis got up stretching the stiffness from his legs and walked to the door. He stood there looking out, but seeing just the darkness.
Cima Quaine bent closer to Patman's drawn face. The ex-trooper's eyes were open, but his face was tight with pain. The hole in his side had started to bleed again. Patman knew it was only a matter of time, but he tried not to show the pain when the contract scout lowered close to him. He heard the scout say, 'Your partner's kind of nervous,' and for a moment it sounded far away. Patman answered, 'He's young,' but knew that didn't explain anything to the other man.
'He's anxious to get on after the man,' Quaine went on. 'How you feel having an avenging angel?' Then added quickly, 'Hell, in another day or two you'll be avenging yourself.'
'It's not for me,' Patman whispered, and hesitated. 'It's for himself, and the girl.'
Quaine was surprised, but kept his voice down.
'The girl? He hasn't even looked at her since we got here.'
'And he won't,' Patman said. 'Until he gets him.' He saw the other man's frown and added, 'It's a long story, all about pride and getting your toes stepped on.' He grinned to himself at the faint sign of bewilderment on the scout's face. Nobody's going to ask a dying man to talk sense. Besides, it would take too long.
After a silence, Patman whispered, 'Let him go, Cima.'
'His yen to make war might be good as gold, but my boys ain't worth a damn after dark. We can pick up the man's sign in the morning and have him before sundown.'
'You do what you want tomorrow. Just let him go tonight.'
'He wouldn't gain anything,' the scout whispered impatiently. 'He's got the girl here now to live with long as he wants.'
'He's got to live with himself, too.' Patman's voice sounded weaker. 'And he doesn't take free gifts. He's got a funny kind of pride. If he doesn't go after that man, he'll never look at that girl again.'
Cima Quaine finished, 'And if he does go after him, he may not get the chance. No, Virg. I better keep him here. He can come along tomorrow if he wants.' He turned his head as if that was the end of the argument and looked past the Coyoteros to see the girl standing in the doorway.
She came in hesitantly, dazed about the eyes, as if a strain was sapping at her vitality to make her appear utterly spent. She said, 'He's gone,' in a voice that was not her own.
Cima Quaine's head swung back to Patman when he heard him say, 'Looks like you don't have anything to say about it.'
At the first light of dawn, Dave Fallis looked out over the meadow from the edge of timber and was unsure. There was moisture in the air lending a thickness to the gray dawn, but making the boundless stillness seem more empty. Mist will do that, for it isn't something in itself. It goes with lonesomeness and sometimes has a feeling of death. He reined his horse down the slight grade and crossed the gray wave of meadow, angling toward the dim outline of a draw that trailed up the ridge there. It cut deep into the tumbled rock, climbing slowly. After a while he found himself on a bench and stopped briefly to let his horse rest for a moment. The mist was below him now, clinging thickly to the meadow and following it as it narrowed through the valley ahead. He continued on along the bench that finally ended, forcing him to climb on into switchbacks that shelved the steepness of the ridge. And after two hours of following the ridge crown, he looked down to estimate himself a good eight miles ahead of the main trail that stayed with the meadow. He went down the opposite slope, not so steep here, but still following switchbacks, until he was in level country again and heading for the Escudillas in the distance. The sun made him hurry. For every hour it climbed in the sky lessened his chance of catching the man before the Coyoteros did. He was going on luck. The Coyoteros would use method. But now he wondered if it was so much luck. Vea Oiga had told him what to do.
He had been leading the horse out of the corral and down through the timber when Vea Oiga grew out of the shadows next to him, also leading a horse. The Indian handed the reins to the boy and held back the mare he had been leading. 'It is best you take gelding,' he whispered. 'The man took stallion. Leave the mare here so there is no chance she will call to her lover.'
The Apache stood close to him confidently. 'You have one chance, man,' he said. 'Go to Bebida Wells, straight, without following the trail. The man will go fast for a time, until he learns he is not being followed. But at dawn he will go quick again on the main trail for that way he thinks he will save time. But soon he will tire and will need water. Then he will go to Bebida Wells, for that is the only water within one day of here. When he reaches the well, he will find his horse spent and his legs weary from hanging without stirrups. And there he will rest until he can go on.'
He had listened, fascinated, while the Indian read into the future and then heard how he should angle, following the draws and washes to save miles. For a moment he wondered about this Indian who knew him so well in barely more than an hour, how he had anticipated his intent, why he was helping. It had made no sense, but it was a course to follow, something he had not had before. The Apache had told him, 'Shoot straight, man. Shoot before he sees you.' And with the boy passing from view into the darkness, Vea Oiga led the mare back to the corral, thinking of the boy and the dying man in the hut. Revenge was something he knew, but it never occurred to him that a woman could be involved. And if the boy failed, then he would get another chance to shoot straight. There was always plenty of time.
The sun was almost straight up, crowding the whole sky with its brassy white light, when he began climbing again. The Escudillas seemed no closer, but now the country had turned wild, and from a rise he could see the wildness tangling and growing into gigantic rock formations as it reached and climbed toward the sawtooth heights of the Escudillas.
He had been angling to come around above the wells, and now, in the heights again, he studied the ravines and draws below him and judged he had overshot by only a mile. On extended patrols out of Thomas they had often hit for Bebida before making the swing-back to the south. It was open country approaching the wells, so he had skirted wide to come in under cover of the wildness and slightly from behind.
A quarter of a mile on he found a narrow draw dense with pines strung out along the walls, the pines growing into each other and bending across to form a tangled arch over the draw. He angled down into its shade and picketed the gelding about halfway in. Then, lifting the Winchester, he passed out of the other end and began
