A man's voice came from the lighted tent. The sound of a word, then laughter, faint sounds far away.

Flynn raised himself slowly and edged along the rock outcroppings that rimmed the pocket. Nearing the cave, a vertical crack of light now showed along one edge of the blanket that covered the entrance. And then he was up the slight rise under the shelter.

Now, very quietly, he thought. Take all the time you want because you'll do this just once. He put his hands into his coat and dried them against his shirt. He wiped his face with a bandana then drew his pistol and wiped it carefully.

The voice sound came from the tent again and Flynn could feel it inside of him tightening his chest. He pictured the men in the tent. He pictured four of them for some reason. I could go down there and empty this into the canvas and get all of them, he thought. Then: Don't be foolish. Come on now.

Cocking the pistol he brushed aside the blanket covering and the next moment was inside the cave-in high, room-size dimness, a line with clothes hanging from it, bedding along one wall, and in a corner, crouched beside the coal-oil lamp turned low, was Nita Esteban.

Flynn put one finger to his mouth. Then, "Don't speak out loud," he said softly.

The girl looked up at him, her body tensed. She was kneeling on a blanket, sitting back on her feet. Her hands held the blanket tightly and no part of her body moved.

Close to her, Flynn dropped to one knee. "Nita." He put his hand on her shoulder and took it away feeling her body shudder. "I'm not one of them." He touched her again, gently. "Do you remember, six months ago I came through Soyopa and stayed at the house of your uncle. I was a friend of his, David Flin."

Her eyes held his-searching, deep black eyes that were not sure. And then they were sure. Then they remembered and the dark eyes in the drawn face were suddenly glistening with tears. Flynn brought her to him gently and heard and felt the muffled sob against his chest. Her shoulders quivered and he held her close to him, awkwardly with one hand because the pistol was there, now moving the other hand up to stroke her hair, with much the same feeling you stroke a child's head.

Lowering his face he said to her ear, "How many are there?"

The sobbing stopped. "Most of them left during the afternoon. There would not be many now. One of them came here not long ago. I thought you were he when you entered."

"There is a light in only one tent."

"They are the only ones," she said. "Perhaps three, or four or five. The one who was here came for a bottle of something to drink." She hesitated. "He said I should go with him, but I refused and he said that when he came back I would be sorry."

Flynn rose, bringing her up with him. She wore a skirt to her ankles and a man's shirt buttoned high and the shirttail hanging to where her knees would be.

"Lazair keeps his clothes here, doesn't he?"

She nodded, but did not look at his face.

"Put another shirt on."

He moved to the blanket covering as she did this and stood listening. There it was again; one of them laughing. Then another sound-close!

He had time to warn the girl only with his eyes. She saw him flatten against the wall. A leather coat was hanging there from a nail and he drew the coat in front of him, though he still could be seen.

Then the blanket cover was whipped back and a man stood in the entrance, weaving, his eyes narrowing on Nita Esteban, then smiling.

"You must a been coming to see us. Nowhere else you could go." Mescal was in his voice and in the half-open eyes. He had come from the tent bareheaded and now his hair was shining, plastered close to his skull. He had brought no hat, but he was armed. He chuckled and turned to the wall where Lazair's gear was, where the mescal was kept.

He was about to say something more to the girl but the words caught in his mouth. He could see Flynn, and the pistol pointed toward him.

The man wheeled. In split-second surprise he wheeled toward the cave entrance.

Flynn held back, then there was no choice and he felt the.44 jerk with the exploding sound.

The scalp hunter stumbled, rolling to his side. His hand waved, slapped against his holster…the glint of metal coming up with the hand…then a second report, ear-splitting in the closeness, and the man fell back and did not move.

They were over him, past him, almost the same moment. Flynn holding the girl's arm, brushing aside the blanket, then out into darkness running for the scattered rimrocks. And as they reached cover the other men were coming out of the tent, furiously at first-the canvas shaking, something kicked over, glass breaking, curses-then the light was extinguished and the men were outside. Now they made no sound. Now it was realization of what they had to do and they approached toward the cave slowly, fanning out, as Flynn and the girl crept to the defile and made their way through the blind narrowness of it.

There were four of them-it went through Flynn's mind-now only three, but you can count on them coming, coming quick!

His hand was tight clutching Nita's arm and he ran with her through the swishing wet wound of the sabaneta grass, holding himself to run at the girl's speed.

There was his mount, where he had left it. Hide glistening wet, skittering nervously at the abruptness of their coming into the trees. Flynn mounted, now reached for the girl and swung her up behind him and felt her arms holding as he wheeled the horse off through the trees. They descended, following the trail in his memory, crossed a flat stretch on the dead run then climbed again into timber before stopping to listen.

At first it was only the sound of Nita's breathing, then far off, faintly, he could hear the horses.

They're close, he thought, straining to listen, now conscious of his own breathing. They've figured it out. Somebody from Soyopa since it was not Apaches. So they're running hard in the direction of Soyopa. If they don't overtake someone they'll double back and in the morning spread out and start looking.

The sound of running horses was louder now. They had reached the flat stretch below them. Still mounted, unmoving, with the girl's arms tightening about him, they heard the horses pass, carrying their sound with them into the distance again. The girl's arms relaxed.

"We'll have to wait until it's light," Flynn said. "In the darkness we could run into them." He looked over his shoulder and saw her head nod.

Higher up in the timber they dismounted. Flynn kindled a low burning fire, without worrying about it being seen. A brush rimmed pocket shielded them on three sides. The fire might be visible from the fourth, but a man would have to be standing less than twenty feet away to see it and if he were that close, fire or no fire he'd know they were there.

They sat close over the mesquite twig fire letting their clothes dry on them. The girl's were not so wet, but Flynn's were stuck cold to his body and it was some time before the fire warmth penetrated enough for him to feel it on his body.

Later on, they lay close to each other to sleep.

"Nita."

The girl's face turned to his and was only a few inches away.

He said in Spanish, softly, "I offer my sorrow for what has happened, though the words do little good."

"There is nothing one can say," the girl answered.

"Your father is well."

"Will you take me to him?"

"Of course. When it is light. When we can go without the fear of coming onto those without seeing them."

She's calm, Flynn thought. Even after all she's been through she has control of herself and can speak without her voice giving it away. She's a woman of Mexico, used to the sight of death-but that's a lot of nonsense. No, it's not callousness. It's faith. God is God and He lets things happen and that's all there is to it. But He has reasons, and His reasons for something happening would be more important than a man's reason for questioning whatever it might be. That's how she has probably looked at it and it has taken some of the sting out. Not all, some.