down with the horses." He ducked from rock to rock, drew one bullet, seemingly from out of nowhere, but grinned over his shoulder at them as he dropped from sight, heading for the arroyo.
Zimmerman climbed back up to the rocks. He moved with ease despite his size, handling himself without effort. Squatting down, he stuffed his pipe. His jowls were black with beard. "Styles's losin' blood," he said. "I think he's had it."
"Big Maria's working on him," Lonnie said.
"Yeah," Zimmerman struck a light and drew deep on the pipe. "Notice them saddlebags of hers? Mighty heavy, I'd say."
Kimbrough glanced at him. "None of our business," he said.
"Maybe. And maybe I'm curious. Bags that heavy--I'd say they'd have gold in 'em. Maybe they would."
Nobody said anything, and Logan Cates kept his eyes busy searching the desert. He might have guessed Zimmerman would have noticed. There would be trouble now. To a man obviously out of tune with the Army, as Zimmerman was, the gold would offer an escape route.
There was a burst of firing from the direction of the horses, then silence. Later, there was a single shot from where Lugo lay among the rocks.
The sun was up. It was going to be a hot day. Taylor crawled up beside them. "Water's dropped," he said. "Two inches, anyway. Anybody think about that? There's a lot of us here, there's the horses. We use a lot. It won't last forever."
Logan Cates had been thinking about that water. All three tanks were wider at top than at bottom. The lower tank where the horses were watered was very shallow, and although there was water in the other tanks, they had a large party, considering the source of supply, and the water would not last forever.
Could they outlast the Apaches? Knowing them, Cates had no desire to try, and yet there might be no alternative. Zimmerman was hatching some idea in that heavy brain of his, Taylor was surly, and Beaupre was watching Taylor like the tough old wolf he was. Trouble could break loose at any moment. As for Big Maria, she made Cates uneasy, and he could not tell exactly why.
The sun was higher now, and it was hot. He mopped sweat from his brow and cursed the heat, the dust, and the situation, cursed under his breath, for whatever happened he must not let them see anything but a good face and a confident one.
"I wish they'd attack," Kimbrough said.
Cates glanced at him. A little of the polish was gone. Without a shave he looked irritable and somehow weaker than he had. The clothes that had been so dressy now looked worse than his own, and somehow it made the whole man seem shabby, down-at-heel.
The heat waves shimmered in the distance and overhead a lone buzzard wheeled, waiting.
Chapter Nine
Styles was dying, and he was delirious. They all knew he was dying, and by now the Apaches knew it also. Sometimes he cried out, his voice rising in a thin, wavering wail in the still, hot air of the desert. Junie sat beside him, putting damp cloths on his brow and sponging his face at intervals.
Grant Kimbrough paced restlessly. His coat was thrown aside and his shirt sleeves rolled up. The gun he wore was visible now and Logan Cates noticed it thoughtfully. It was a gun that had seen much use. Kimbrough's face was haggard and he was unshaven. There was an impatience in him that had not been obvious before.
The heat, the waiting, the expectation of attack and the cries of the dying man were affecting them all. Overhead the buzzard had been joined by another ... they swept in wide, loose circles against the heat-glazed sky. Nothing happened.
Kimbrough turned suddenly on Cates. "We've got to get out of here!" He was almost shouting. "We can't stay any longer!"
"Sorry."
Kimbrough glared at him, then strode away, his back stiff with fury.
Jennifer came to him from near the fire. "Logan," her use of his first name startled him, "there's not much food left."
"How much?"
"Enough for today, and a little for tomorrow."
He should have been thinking of that. Nobody had