6
The target had disappeared and Eddie Burt turned his head to scan the shadows, suddenly afraid.
A rifle started talking in hard echoes down toward the creek, inside the pines somewhere, and the Major was up on one knee, rifle lifted, answering that fire. Burt could hear Baraclough’s rifle above him and he swung his own weapon toward the gun by the creek but then he caught a tail-of-the-eye movement imperfectly and wheeled.
It was a horse. Riderless, whipping erratically through the pines.
A decoy, Burt decided instantly. The stupid cops had driven the horse toward them to draw their fire. He wasn’t going to fall for that one.
He held his fire and switched his attention back to the bottom of the hill. The rifle had moved down there; it spoke again, three times quickly-or was that another rifle? Probably; it was too far to the right, the first man couldn’t have moved that far in these few seconds. All right, two of them down there. Where was the third one? Burt waited for one of the rifles to speak again, to give him a target. He kept the running horse in the edge of his vision. It was beginning to lose momentum, starting to drift; it wandered forward on a tangent that would take it past him, behind him.
In the pines below him a rifle barked and Burt put the horse out of his mind, steadied his aim and squeezed a shot. The buttplate jarred his shoulder and he had the satisfaction of hearing a man’s brief cry: he had scored a hit.
The riderless horse had turned and was bearing down on him. Burt chambered a shell and threw an irritated glance at the horse. If the damned animal got in his way he’d have to shoot it. Then the rifle by the creek opened up again: either there were two of them down there or he hadn’t hit the guy very badly. He shouldered his weapon again and fired another one.
Then the horse was wheeling right past him and he looked up in time to see a shadow drop free of the stirrup-right on top of him.
7
The man was trying to work his rifle bolt but Watchman was too close. He dropped on the man and when the rifle went off its muzzle was up in the air somewhere, harmless.
The man had the body of a heavy-duty shock absorber and Watchman felt the muscles twist and tense under him when he rolled for purchase: the man was flexing his arm like an expert who’d had plenty of practice on bricks and two-inch pine boards and Watchman had no liking for that kind of contest. When the man stabbed at his eyes with spread rigid fingers Watchman whammed his fist against the man’s plunging wrist to deflect it and let himself fall across the man with his forearm against the man’s Adam’s apple; he jammed two fingers into the man’s mouth and clenched them down against the mandibular nerve under the tongue. His father had taught him that: it was an unbearably painful grip, it paralyzed the mouth and jaw so that the man couldn’t bite his fingers, it made the man go limp with agony. On the reservation his father had subdued belligerent drunks effortlessly with it. Watchman lifted the service revolver in his free hand and showed it to the man and held it against the man’s throat while he took his fingers out of the man’s mouth and got his handcuffs.
It had taken only a few seconds. The horse was drifting on past him, screening him from the two men higher on the hill. He cuffed the man’s hands together behind the back and gagged the man with his own scarf. The horse was still moving and someone a few yards uphill in the snow said, “Sergeant?”
“Yessir,” Watchman whispered. His prisoner was Burt, then. He put Burt’s hunting cap on his own head and pushed Burt into a drift of snow that had piled up against a tree trunk. When he came up on his knees he had Burt’s rifle.
The racket of shooting had died away. The horse was going back into the woods at a frightened trot. When Watchman looked uphill he saw one man moving across his line of vision, threading the trees; he couldn’t spot the second man. He flattened himself in the snow and brought the rifle up and when the man in the trees stopped to search the forest Watchman had a perfect target, range not more than thirty yards. He worked the action to load the breech and heard a voice somewhere above him to the left: “Steve? Where do you think you’re going?”
It turned the man’s head and that was when Watchman shot him. He aimed for the right shoulder and the spinning 180-grain plug of lead snapped the man’s body around under its impact.
Watchman skittered to one side up against a tree but no one answered his fire. The tall man was sagging, cursing in an abrasive voice, and then the other one was going fast through the trees, running in deadly silence: Watchman had a glimpse and then the man was gone, absorbed into the night.
8
The one he had shot in the shoulder had slid down with his back to a tree until he was sitting on the snow. He still had his rifle, clumsily upheld in his left hand, and Watchman spoke to him from cover:
“You may as well drop that thing. I’ve got a bead on you.”
The man thought about it for a while and then threw the rifle down with a grunt of disgust and Watchman approached him cautiously, alert to the threat from that third man who had faded into the timber. He heard soft hoofbeats start up in the snow somewhere to the right, and he stopped and waited while the sound diminished with distance. It could be a ruse. He stood by a pine, his shadow blending into the tree, and said, “Get up on your feet.”
“I don’t know if I can. I think you broke my shoulder.”
“Then roll over on your belly and stick your arms out to the sides.”
He could hear the grate of broken bone ends when the man moved, slowly, bracing himself on his left arm, lowering himself onto the snow. The left arm went out at a ninety-degree angle, cruciform; the right arm was buckled and Watchman made another sweep of the trees before he stepped forward and knelt down and patted the man for weapons. He extracted an automatic pistol and put it in his pocket and stood up. “On your feet now. You can make it. Which one are you, Hargit?”
The man sat up slowly and sneered. “Not fucking likely.”
“Baraclough then.”
“You know everything. You tell me.”
“Come on. Up.” He gave Baraclough a hand.
9
He collected Burt and prodded the two of them down the hill and let his call sing out so that Stevens wouldn’t take a shot at them.
Stevens answered in a weak voice hoarsened by pain and Watchman hurried in alarm.
He found Stevens seeping blood into the snow from a hole in his hip. Stevens tried to grin but agony pulled his mouth awry. “Jesus. You took two of them alive.”
“Roll over and pull your pants down.”
“Now you’re a God damn sex fiend.”
The horse stood ground-hitched in the trees and Watchman went to the saddlebags to get the first-aid kit. When he taped thick gauze bandages on the two holes in Stevens’ hip he said, “Feel like any bones are broken?”
“I can’t feel much of anything down there.”
“That’s shock. It’ll start to hurt after a while.”
“Thanks heaps, kemo sabe.”
Watchman was keeping one eye on the two prisoners. Baraclough sat droop-lidded, ready to pass out, but Burt’s eyes were bright with venom.
Stevens said, “Sam, you take some pretty dumb chances. I suppose you learned that trick of riding the off-side of the horse from your old grandpappy Crazy Horse.”
“Matter of fact I saw John Wayne do it in a movie once.”
“One of those movies where the cavalry wipes out all the Inyuns, I’ll bet.” Stevens pulled his pants up and suppressed a groan. “I take it these two beauties are Baraclough and the Sergeant. Where’s Hargit?”
“Gone.”
“With the money?”
“I heard more than one horse moving.”
“That makes him pretty rich all by himself.”
Eddie Burt tried to say something through his gag.