“Jesus Christ,” Sundeen said, “down Lanoria.”
“You were grown then, too, you dirty pervert.”
“Yeah, I believe I recall that-hit me with a big goddamn rock.” He looked at one of his riders who was wearing a vest and derby hat. “Thing musta weighed five pounds. Hit me square on the forehead with it.” Sundeen nudged his horse forward. “So you're the one, huh? You should've give in that time and seen the elephant at an early age.” Still coming toward her. “Or I could give you another chance while we're waiting around.” He pulled in then. “Hey now-but you better throw that gun down first.”
Kate raised the .38 from her lap. “Or I could put a hole in the other side of your face, match the one you already got.”
“Sweetheart,” Sundeen said, “before you could aim that parlor gun I'd have sent you off to the angels. Now let it fall.”
Of course, the man was thinking of his wife. Ruben Vega realized this. He should have realized also-knowing something about Moon-the man would control his emotion and not ride blindly up the ravine to be shot from his saddle. So Ruben Vega was able to catch up with the man once they were in the high rocks, somewhere north of the ravine, perhaps on an approach to the side or back of the house; Ruben Vega wasn't exactly sure where they were when he reached Moon. Or when the Apache appeared ahead of them, waiting in the trail. One moment the steep terrain ahead empty, the next moment the dark little half-naked man standing there with a carbine and a cartridge belt around his skirt. A headband of dark wool, as dark as his dark-leather face; he could be an old man, or any age.
The Apache, Red, motioned and went off through the towering outcropping of rocks, through a seam that became a trail when they dismounted and followed, winding, climbing through the rock and brush until the trail opened and the entire sky seemed to be close above them, a very clear soft blue. A beautiful day to feel good and be alive, the Mexican was thinking. Except for the situation, the man's wife-Moon and the Apache, and now three more Apaches who had appeared from nowhere, were looking down the wall of rock…as though from the top of a church steeple, the Mexican thought, seeing the stone side of the house below, the thatched roof of a barn, a corral, riders in the front yard…the glint of the woman's blonde hair in the sunlight close to Sundeen…Yes, it was Sundeen and two others…four more coming from the corral side of the house…the rest of them out by the adobe wall, watching the approach from the ravine.
A good day, the Mexican thought, feeling alive and yet calm inside. A day he would mark in his mind, whatever the date was. He would find it out later.
He said to Moon, “Is there a way down from here?”
Moon looked at him. The man could skip all the questions in his mind and trust him or not.
Moon said, “You go down…then what?”
The man was open. He had nothing to lose by listening.
“You stay behind me, out of sight,” Ruben Vega said. “Come in close as you can when I talk to him.”
“Tell him what?”
“I don't know. What comes in my mind. He'll be curious a few minutes-where have you been, partner? All that. Then you have to be close. I can talk to him some more, but it comes out the same in the end, uh? He isn't going to say to your wife, go on, stay out of the way. So-” the Mexican shrugged.
“Thirteen of them,” Moon said.
“More than that last night at the J-L-Bar. He hired some more maybe he send someplace else, I don't know.” Moon was staring at him again and Ruben Vega said, “I never done this before, but it's a good day to begin. Now, how do you get down from here?”
There were ten at the adobe wall now, dismounted. One with a derby hat sat his horse in the middle of the yard, a Winchester across his lap, squinting up at the high rocks. One on the porch was holding a coffee pot. Sundeen, still mounted, was gazing about, looking up at the rocks trying to see something, nervous or not sure with that high ground above him. Moon's wife was still on the palomino: as though Sundeen hadn't made up his mind yet, keep her here or take her somewhere, or trying to think of a way to use her.
Good, Ruben Vega thought, approaching the yard from the corral side of the house, almost to the yard before they saw him. Very good.
“I think you need me,” the Mexican said, “for eyes. Man, I ride up, you don't even see me.”
Sundeen gave him a patient look, shaking his head. “Where the hell you been?”
“I went to Benson to go to church,” Ruben Vega said.
“Yeah, I know, piss all your money away and come back for some more, haven't you? Well, make yourself useful, partner. Ride on down a ways and see if he's coming.”
“I already did,” Ruben Vega said. “He's coming up pretty soon, over there,” pointing to the wall where the shooters were waiting with their rifles, not wearing their suitcoats now, several of them with straw hats pulled down low.
The one in the derby hat rode over that way and Sundeen sat for some moments twisted around in his saddle, looking toward the wall.
Now, the Mexican thought, right hand on his thigh, inches from his revolver.
But he couldn't do it and the next moment it was too late. Sundeen was turning back to him.
Ruben Vega looked away. He saw the revolver on the ground next to the palomino. Moon's wife sat still, though her eyes moved and she listened. Of course, she listened. He wished he could tell her something: Be ready. Be watching me.
“Alone?”
“What?” the Mexican said.
“Was he alone?”
“Yes. Maybe they can see him now,” the Mexican said and looked toward the wall again.
But Sundeen didn't turn this time and the Mexican had a strange feeling of relief, not having to decide in that moment to pull his gun…not wanting to shoot the man from a blind side, but not wanting to die either. So how was he supposed to do it? Thirty-seven years doing this, carrying a gun since he was fourteen years old, not worrying before about killing a man if he believed the man might kill him first. Why was he thinking about it now? Because he was getting old. Sundeen would say to him, you're getting old; and he would say, yes, because I'm still alive. It was a beautiful day and if it was going to be the one he'd remember he'd better do it now. Without thinking anymore.
But he thought of one more thing.
He said, “I'm taking the woman.”
Alerting her with his words.
But alerting Sundeen also-seeing his expression only for a moment puzzled.
His hand going to his holster, to the hard grip of the .44, the Mexican saw Sundeen's hand moving, and knew he shouldn't have said anything and now was going to lose…But the woman was moving, kicking her palomino around…as Sundeen's revolver cleared and he was firing and firing again…and, Christ, it was like being punched hard, hearing himself grunt with the wind going out of him and the .44 in his hand, trying to put it on Sundeen…ughhh, grunting again in the noise of something hard socking him in the chest…firing as he saw the blue sky and felt himself going back, falling-
Sundeen had several thoughts in the next moments:
That was a good horse, Ruben's, not to have moved under all that commotion, the horse standing there, his old segundo gone crazy and now dead on the ground.
Everybody back there see it? It was time he showed them something.
Three snap shots dead center. Any one would have killed the crazy Mexican.
Three shots. Two left in his Peacemaker-that thought hitting him all at once as he saw the movement, as he saw the Apaches first, Apaches, a bunch of them off in the scrub, and Moon appearing at the corner of the house, Moon yelling his wife's name. Moon blocked out for a moment as the palomino shot past him-the woman's blonde hair in the horse's blonde mane. Sundeen extended his Peacemaker and fired, saw Moon again, there he was, and tried to concentrate his aim on Moon with one load left-and the heavy fire came all at once from the scrub. Sundeen fired at Moon suddenly moving-shit-yanked his reins to get out of there, yelling, “Get'em, goddamn it…get'em!”