He put a pebble on his tongue and smiled. Jay laughed aloud in response. The taste of joy overcame Mackenzie’s weariness: it ran sweet and strong through his veins.
“By damn.” It was an expression his father the silversmith had used. “By damn, Jay.”
“Shouldn’t we get some sleep?”
“Aeah. Go ahead, stretch out. I’ll just have one look down the backtrail.”
It was only an excuse: he was too nervy to remain still-he’d passed beyond fatigue into jittery alertness. He splashed a handful of water over the back of his neck and felt it run deliciously down his spine. Then he climbed out on doddering legs and limped back past the maguey stalk and crouched in a catclaw’s futile shade to look back the way they’d come and try to estimate the distance they’d covered.
They were on high ground here and he had a panorama before him: where the sky touched the earth it was perhaps as much as forty miles away. None of it looked familiar: they’d never looked at any of it from this angle. He saw going down the hill the ragged faint imprint of their foot tracks. The tan-gray slope ran down toward a bottom four or five miles away, tiered ridge below tiered ridge. Then the flats and the serrates of indigo mountains in random crumpled piles. The sky seemed very thin. He counted five vultures above a rock cairn out to the west eight or ten miles from him.
He was looking south toward the mountain clumps; he was thinking about Shirley. Just hold on-another twenty-four hours we’ll have you out. Hold on.
He’d won. He knew it with a sense of savage victory.
He got up to return to the dugouts. As he began to turn away he saw in the far southern distance a hint of risen dust.
He looked away, looked again and it was still there.
He gaped at it, squinting; shaded his eyes with his palm. Dust devil? Windstorm?
It was miles away. But it came straight toward him.
It was Duggai’s truck.
25
He scuttled back to the pits.
From a half sleep Jay roused himself irritably. “What?”
Mackenzie had only to point to the south. His voice broke: “Duggai.”
Jay boiled out of his pit and stood in the hard sun staring at the plume of advancing dust.
Jay’s eyes windowed his terror. “What can we do?”
“Not much.”
“We can hide.” Jay dived back into the pit. “Maybe he won’t see us. Maybe he’ll go right by.”
“He’s following our tracks, Jay. They lead right here. They stop here.”
“For God’s sake we’ve got to do something.”
Mackenzie’s toes curled inside his moccasins. Everything ran out of him: he felt exposed, vulnerable, weak of soul.
“Sam, we can’t just give up.”
“Ambush him,” Mackenzie muttered; he felt a scalp-tingling madness. “Ambush him.”
“With what?”
“Give me your knife.”
Armed with two knives he straightened up and looked down the slope. The truck was out of sight now behind a ridge near the bottom but the dust still hung in its wake.
“Stay here. Distract him when he comes. When he gets out of the truck I’ll jump him from behind.” He knew it wouldn’t work but you couldn’t always go by that: he had to try.
He backed away from the pits and with each step he swept his moccasin back and forth to smooth out the tracks. He made his way to the nearest object that gave enough shadow to conceal him: a creosote bush four feet high. It was ten yards from the dugouts.
Over his shoulder he looked through the notch in the ridge and saw a string of cars pass across the horizon.
That’s how close we got.
Jay stood up in his hole. “Maybe we should run?”
“No.”
“I’m frightened.”
Jay’s head disappeared. Mackenzie got down behind the creosote. He made himself small and clutched both knives. Maybe this could work after all. Maybe this would end it.
He waited for the truck.
He heard the straining engine and then he saw it come. It emerged over the last ridge and lurched right toward him. When it was still a hundred feet away he made out Duggai’s big face through the dusty windshield.
They’d made a confusion of tracks in the area with their digging and eating and exploring. The truck went right on across it, right to the top of the ridge. For a moment Mackenzie thought it would keep going right by. But Duggai stopped the truck.
Mackenzie shrank. The truck’s door opened. Duggai stepped out, shook one leg out and pulled the Levi’s down from his crotch; he hitched at them with the flats of his wrists and reached into the truck. Mackenzie saw him lift out the rifle.
A pair of binoculars hung by a strap from Duggai’s thick neck. His filthy shirt clung to him like the skin of a prune. His dark wax face was neither angry nor anxious: it had a strange vacancy. The eyes were opaque. The desert had exacted a price from Duggai as well.
It was dazzling hot. Mackenzie itched horribly. He squatted motionless against the bush. Through its tangle of little leaves he had a fragmentary picture as Duggai walked to the tailgate of the truck and examined the area. Duggai took his time, knowing they were right around here somewhere.
He must have seen those open trenches we left. He must have picked up our tracks by the water hole.
One more day and we’d have beat him to the highway.
Duggai went back toward the driver’s door. It heartened Mackenzie: he waited for Duggai to get into the truck.
But Duggai only opened the door to toss the rifle inside. Then Mackenzie saw him lock the door. Duggai came away from the truck lifting the big Magnum revolver out of his belt.
He knows we’re not far enough away for him to need the rifle.
Duggai went prowling around very slowly. He didn’t go near any bushes from which he might be jumped. He stayed in the open and kept moving around to see things from new angles. He took his time: he had plenty of it. He tipped the hat back on his head.
The silence made it that much more unbearable-that and the flat expressionlessness of Duggai’s high cheeks. The twanging stillness brought the hairs erect on Mackenzie’s neck. The knives grew slippery in his fists.
Duggai would stand motionless for minutes at a time, jaw slack agape, nothing moving but the eyes set back in their deep weathered folds. Then he would move ten feet and search again. He would examine the earth right around his boots and then he would enlarge the circle.
Mackenzie breathed shallowly in and out through his open mouth. He remembered attacking the javelina. Just give me one chance, Duggai. One chance is all I need.
Terror got all mixed up in him with raging hate. He was willing, eager to kill.
Duggai moved so slowly. He was reading the things that the earth had to tell him. Sorting out tracks. By now obviously he knew exactly where the dugout pits were. He hadn’t approached within twenty feet of Jay yet. But he knew the excavations were there: he kept looking back at them.
The slow circles of Duggai’s progress hadn’t brought him near Mackenzie; Duggai now stood beyond the pits. He was looking the other way. If I had a gun I could blow his head off.
Mackenzie glanced at the truck. The rifle.… But he’d seen Duggai lock the door and pocket the key. What about the other door? No-Duggai wasn’t careless.
Get around behind the truck, he thought. Duggai’s got to come back to the truck eventually. Jump him then.
But Duggai would spot him if he moved.
Now Duggai turned and searched again, facing Mackenzie. After a time he seemed to satisfy himself that he knew the placement of things. He walked straight over to the pits and aimed the revolver down. Mackenzie thought he was going to fire.
Duggai jerked the barrel in a peremptory upward gesture and reluctantly Jay appeared, head and shoulders. His trembling was visible. Duggai jerked again. Jay, never taking his eyes off the gun, climbed quaking out of the pit and stood up.