Mr. Malson looked up at the sky, squinting and taking his hat off and putting it on again. He took off his coat and held it hooked over his shoulder by one finger, said something, gestured, and he and Mr. Beaudry and Mr. Tanner moved a few yards down the slope to a hollow where there was good shade. It was about two or two thirty then, hot, fairly still and quiet considering the number of people there. Only some of them in the pines and down in the scrub could be seen from where Bob Valdez stood wondering whether he should follow the three men down to the hollow or wait for Diego Luz, who was at the whiskey wagon now where most of the sounds that carried came from: a voice, a word or two that was suddenly clear, or laughter, and people would look up to see what was going on. Some of them by the whiskey wagon had lost interest in the line shack. Others were still watching though: those farther along the road sitting in wagons and buggies. This was a day people would remember and talk about. Sure, I was there, the man in the buggy would be saying a year from now in a saloon over in Benson or St. David or somewhere. The day they got that Army deserter, he had a Big-Fifty Sharps and an old dragoon pistol, and Ill tell you it was ticklish business.
Down in that worn-out pasture, dusty and spotted with desert growth, prickly pear and brittlebush, there was just the sun. It showed the ground clearly all the way to just in front of the line shack where now, toward midafternoon, there was shadow coming out from the trees and from the mound the hut was set against.
Somebody in the scrub must have seen the door open. The shout came from there, and Bob Valdez and everybody on the slope were looking by the time the Lipan Apache woman had reached the edge of the shade. She walked out from the hut toward the willow trees carrying a bucket, not hurrying or even looking toward the slope.
Nobody fired at her, though this was not so strange. Putting the front sight on a sod hut and on a person are two different things. The men in the scrub and in the pines didnt know this woman. They werent after her. She had just appeared. There she was; and no one was sure what to do about her.
She was in the trees by the creek awhile, then she was in the open again, walking back toward the hut with the bucket and not hurrying at all, a small figure way across the pasture almost without shape or color, with only the long skirt reaching to the ground to tell it was the woman.
So hes alive, Bob Valdez thought. And he wants to stay alive and hes not giving himself up.
He thought about the womans nerve and whether Orlando Rincon had sent her out or she had decided this herself. You couldnt tell about an Indian woman. Maybe this was expected of her. The woman didnt count; the man did. You could lose the woman and get another one.
Mr. Tanner didnt look at R. L. Davis. His gaze held on the Lipan Apache woman, inched along with her toward the hut; but he must have known R. L. Davis was right next to him.
Shes saying she didnt give a goddam about you and your rifle, Mr. Tanner said.
R. L. Davis looked at him funny. Then he said, Shoot her? like he hoped thats what Mr. Tanner meant.
You could make her jump some, Mr. Tanner said.
Now R. L. Davis was on stage and he knew it, and Bob Valdez could tell he knew it by the way he levered the Winchester, raised it, and fired all in one motion, and as the dust kicked behind the Indian woman, who kept walking and didnt look up, R. L. Davis fired and fired and fired as fast as he could lever and half aim and with everybody watching him, hurrying him, he put four good ones right behind the woman. His last bullet
socked into the door just as she reached it, and now she did pause and look up at the slope, staring up like she was waiting for him to fire again and giving him a good target if he wanted it.
Mr. Beaudry laughed out loud. She dont give a goddam about your rifle.
It stung R. L. Davis, which it was intended to do.
I wasnt aiming at her.
But she doesnt know that. Mr. Beaudry was grinning, twisting his moustache, turning then and reaching out a hand as Diego Luz approached them with the whiskey.
Hell, I wanted to hit her shed be laying there, you know it.
Well now, you tell her that, Mr. Beaudry said, working the cork loose, and shell know it. He took a drink from the bottle and passed it to Mr. Malson, who offered the bottle to Mr. Tanner, who shook his head. Mr. Malson took a drink and saw R. L. Davis staring at him, so he handed the bottle to him. R. L. Davis jerked the bottle up, took a long swallow and that part was over.
Mr. Malson said to Mr. Tanner, You dont want any?
Not right now, Mr. Tanner answered. He continued to stare out across the pasture.
Mr. Malson watched him. You feel strongly about this Army deserter.
I told you, Mr. Tanner said, he killed a man was a friend of mine.
No, I dont believe you did.
James C. Erin, sutler at Fort Huachuca, Mr. Tanner said. He came across a tulapai still this nigger soldier was working with some Indians. The nigger thought Erin would tell the Army people, so he shot him and ran off with a woman.