“Someone must have forgotten to tell the Apaches,” Chavasse said grimly, and he turned to Rivera. “There are seventeen of them up there. Long odds for a dark night on a mountainside with a storm brewing. Nachita knows what he is doing. What he says goes as far as I am concerned.”
“And that stands for the rest of us,” Fallon put in.
Rivera turned and faced them. “So it would seem I am not in command here?”
“You never were,” Dillinger said softly.
For a long moment there was silence as thunder rumbled overhead, the sound of it rolling heavily across the mountains. Rivera abruptly started to unsaddle his horse.
They tethered the horses at the edge of the small plateau. Chavasse and Villa beat among the bushes for snakes. Rose moved to the rear seat of the Chevrolet so she could stretch out. The others grouped around her, chatting, except for Rivera, who sat in lonely isolation on the far side of the clearing, and Rojas, who seemed to prefer the company of the horses.
They talked quietly, their voices a low murmur on the night, occasionally choking back laughter as Chavasse bantered gaily with Fallon.
Rose knew that the men were deliberately trying to relieve the tension, to make her feel more secure, and she was filled with a sudden rush of tenderness for all of them. And then a match flared in the night in the direction of the horses. Rojas had lit a cigarette.
Chavasse stifled a cry of dismay and rose to his feet, but Dillinger was already halfway across the clearing. He swung backhanded, knocking the cigarette from the Mexican’s mouth, sending him off balance into the brush. As Rojas started to get up, Villa pushed him back down and held a knife under his nose.
“One more thing as stupid as that, amigo, and I shall cut your throat.”
He stood up and Rojas got to his feet, glaring at them, a sullen, dangerous animal about to explode. Rivera saw what was happening, took three quick paces forward, and struck Rojas heavily across the face. “Idiot! It is not just us you endanger. You risk the life of the child.”
Rojas turned without a word and stumbled into the brush.
“He will do as he is told from now on, I will see to that,” Rivera said, and returned to his place. At least he could be in command of Rojas, if of no one else.
Nachita moved to the edge of the clearing and stood listening, head turned slightly to one side. “Any harm done?” Chavasse said.
Nachita shook his head. “We are well hidden here. We must post a guard, though.”
Chavasse volunteered to take the first watch. Rose curled up in the rear seat of the Chevrolet. Dillinger made himself as comfortable as he could on the front, and the others bedded down in the brush around the car. It still hadn’t rained. As Dillinger closed his eyes, a great rush of tiredness swept over him, and he slept.
He was awakened by Fallon shortly after 3 A.M. “Your turn, friend. Better take your poncho. I think we might get rain soon.”
Dillinger checked to see if Rose was okay in the back seat. She looked like a little girl, asleep with her hands under her cheek. He then went to sit on a boulder beside the horses, his rolled-up poncho under him, the Thompson across his knees. There was a dull ache just behind his right eye. He could have used some more sleep.
No more than ten feet away, Rojas sat glaring at him through the darkness. He was no coward, and yet he had seen what Ortiz was capable of. He was not here for sentiment, but because the patron had ordered him to come. Now, for the second time, he had been publicly humiliated.
His last shred of loyalty to Rivera had vanished with that smack across the face. An hour earlier he had made his decision. To hell with them. He would ride out, taking the other horses with him. If the others had only the stupid convertible for transportation, they couldn’t all fit in. Some would have to go on foot. If the Apaches caught them, his revenge would be complete.