Rellis eased down next to him and the other spread out along the rocks.

"We ought to have somebody over on the other side," Lew said, "but it's too late now."

"Where are they?" Rellis said.

"They'll show any minute." Lew pointed with the carbine barrel. "Come out right over there and pass within a hundred feet."

Rellis said, "Five against six," considering this.

"They won't have a chance."

"What's this about two of them wearing hats?"

"They was way off when I spotted them but that's what it looked like."

"I never heard of that."

Lew said, "I seen reservation 'Paches wearing hats." He raised himself on his elbows and looked toward the others down the line then to Rellis, "If we do this right," he said, "we got us six hundred pesos in the bank."

Rellis said nothing. He had both a carbine and a shotgun with him, and now he was examining the shotgun. At this range the shotgun would be better, especially if they rode close together.

Suddenly he heard Lew whisper, "Here they come. Get ready."

A lone Apache came out of the trees slowly, cautiously. He rode directly up the middle of the draw, holding his pony to a walk. Near the rise, he angled toward the far side and as he reached the slope, two more appeared from the trees coming out into the open. They scanned both sides of the draw as they drew closer to the rise. One of them rode straight ahead, urging his pony up the rise. The other followed for a short distance, then veered abruptly, coming toward the near side. He stopped suddenly and his eyes crawled over the rimrock.

Rellis whispered to Lew, "Take him. I'll get the one on the rise." His head turned to Warren. "The one on the other side. Tell the others."

"That's only three of them," Lew whispered hoarsely.

"We can't wait forever…take him!"

Lew squinted down the short barrel as Rellis swung the shotgun toward the Apache who had stopped at the crest of the rise.

Flynn felt his horse's head jerk suddenly and saw that the Apache was leading them off to the side toward the hill slope. A line trailed from the Apache's horse, back through the bit ring of Flynn's bridle to Bowers' and was tied there. Their hands were lashed to the saddle horns. Ahead, they could see Matagente and the two other Apaches disappearing into the trees.

Bowers said, "Did you make out what he told them?"

"He said they'd go on up to that rise…see it way up there over the trees?…and signal for us to follow."

"Doesn't take any chances."

"They never do," Flynn said.

The Apache, with one of their Springfields across his lap, was looking intently toward the rise. He glanced toward them then and muttered gutturally.

Bowers said, "What was that?"

"Mimbre for shut-up," Flynn said.

They kept their eyes on the rise. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile above them, but seemed much closer because of the height. Then one of the Apaches was visible past the dense tops of the trees, a small speck moving gradually up the slope. They watched him reach the crest and stop there, and he seemed to wait there uncertainly before turning his mount to face back down the draw.

He sat erect on the pony's back and raised his hand to shield the glare from his eyes, looking over the trees below him. Then the other hand raised a carbine high overhead and waved it once in a long sweeping motion. And as if on the signal, gunfire cut the stillness, echoing down the draw.

The Apache clung low to the pony and started to move off, but he was sliding to the side and as the horse broke he fell, grabbing wildly for the mane, and rolled down out of sight. There were more shots, but from below they could see no one.

The Mimbre did not hesitate. Flynn swore. Bowers yelled as he cut past them suddenly. The lead rope turned their horses abruptly, jerked from standstill to dead-run as he swerved out into the draw and back down the way they had come. They dodged after the Mimbre through the scattering of trees and brush scraping mesquite thickets, riding head-down, unable to raise their arms against the branches. The lead rope would slacken, then tighten suddenly to stagger their mounts off balance, though neither of them went down. When they reached open country the Mimbre paused to listen, but now there was no sound of firing. And he moved off again at a sharp right angle, skirting the base of the hills. Soon, though, he angled into the hills again, now leading them much slower.

"You never know, do you?" Bowers said.

"Not in this country."

"It's either rurales or this Lazair," Bowers considered, and when the scout nodded, he said, "Where's he going now?"

"He'll want to take a look before running for home."

"With us along?"

"Maybe he's got plans for us," Flynn said.

They moved up into high country behind the Apache who would stop frequently to listen; climbing slowly because there was no trail, winding into natural switchbacks where the ground rose steeper, transforming itself into jagged rock formations. But always there were dense pines scattered, straggling over the slopes, and they kept to the dimness of the trees most of the time. The sunlight clung to the open areas, coldly reflecting on the grotesque stone shapes-shadowed crevices and the brush clumps that stirred lazily when the wind would rise.

And over it all, a stillness.

For a time, as they climbed, the cry of a verdin followed them. But when they looked up into the trees the bird was never there-hidden against the flat shade of a tree limb. A thin, bodiless cry in the stillness. Just before they stopped they saw the verdin suddenly rise from a cholla bush and disappear into the glare, and they did not hear him again.

The Mimbre led them into a hollow that was steep on three sides with shelf rock, ending abruptly only a dozen yards beyond the brush fringe of the entrance. He dismounted, dropping the Springfield, and approached Flynn's horse.

He looked up at the scout steadily for a moment then moved in close and quickly unstrapped the latigo. He grabbed Flynn's leg suddenly and pulled, dragging him down with his saddle. He moved to Bowers then and did the same thing, and now both of them were on the ground still astride their saddles. If they were to move, they would have to drag the saddles between their legs. The Mimbre picked up the Springfield, then glanced at them once more before disappearing through the brush.

Rest easy, Flynn thought. He saw Bowers begin to strain at the rawhide that was squeezing his wrists and he said quickly, "Not yet!" Bowers looked up and he added quietly, "He's watching us. Give him time to calm down and get out."

"How do you know?"

"Wouldn't you?" Flynn said.

Bowers relaxed, squatting hunched over the saddle, and his fingers moved idly against the saddle horn. It would be easy to drag the saddle over and untie Flynn's hands, since his fingers were free, and he could not understand this. Finally he said, "We can get out of this. Why didn't he tie us to a tree?"

"Because he'd have to free our hands to do it," Flynn said. "He didn't want to take a chance, and this is the next best thing. He's more concerned with those others over in the draw-close friends, maybe a brother."

"Why didn't he kill us?"

"I don't know. Maybe for the same reason Soldado did not."

Bowers frowned. "Which was what?"

"You'd have to ask an Apache," Flynn said.

Bowers said nothing now, listening to the silence, staring up at the shelf rock and the sky directly above them and over the brush fringe at the entrance. The hollow was in deep shadow because now the sun was off to the west. After a time he shook his head wearily.

"It's a god-awful poor way to fight a war," he said.

Flynn looked at him. "What war?"

"Whatever you want to call it then," Bowers said irritably.