Rojas had waited only for the American to take his turn on guard duty. He got to his feet, pulled out his knife, and moved forward quietly.
In the darkness on the other side of the clearing Nachita had been watching Rojas, and now he called out urgently, “Jordan, watch out!”
Rojas flung himself forward. Dillinger turned, bringing the barrel of the machine gun down across the Mexican’s wrist so that he dropped the knife. They came together breast-to-breast, Rojas exerting all his considerable strength in an effort to wrench the Thompson from Dillinger’s grasp. Dillinger hooked a foot behind the Mexican’s ankle, and they fell together, rolling between the horses into the brush.
Suddenly Rojas released his hold and drew his revolver. As Dillinger pushed him away, the Mexican fired, the bullet ricocheting from the stony ground into the night. As the rest of the party rushed forward in alarm, Rojas ran headlong into the brush.
As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, the others crowded around. “What happened?” Fallon demanded.
“If it hadn’t been for Nachita, Rojas would have put his knife in me.” Dillinger turned to the Indian. “Does the gunshot mean trouble?”
Nachita nodded. “They know where we are. We must be ready for them.”
At that moment, a great zigzag of light struck the rocks, followed moments later by the crash of thunder. The deluge of rain came with a sudden great rush, filling the night with freshness.
Rojas kept running in a blind panic, expecting at any moment to hear shots behind him in the brush. It was impossible to see his hand in front of him. He moved forward, half-crouching, holding his left arm high to protect his face from flailing branches.
Suddenly he tripped over something, lost his balance, and went over the edge of a small gully, the revolver flying from his hand into the darkness. He would never find it now. He could feel the apron of shale sliding beneath his weight, and he clawed desperately for a secure hold. As his hand fastened on a tree root and he pulled himself to safety, rain started to fall.
He had to get off the mountain, that much was certain. He blundered forward into the darkness through the greasewood and mantinilla, losing his balance, stumbling from one gully into another until he had lost all sense of direction.
When he finally paused for a rest, he was hopelessly lost. The rain was still falling heavily, drowning all noise, but behind him loose stones tumbled down the slope. He stood peering into the darkness, his throat dry. As another shower of stones cascaded down, he turned to run.
Someone thudded into his back with stunning force, sending him staggering to his knees. He turned, flailing desperately, feeling hands reach for his throat.
There were hands everywhere, forcing him down against the ground, twisting his arms behind him. He started to scream, and something was pushed into his mouth, half-choking him, leaving only the rush of the heavy rain and the sound of unfamiliar voices.
Cochin said, “If we deliver this one to Ortiz, perhaps it will satisfy him. He was the worst against our people in the mine.”
There was a grumbling from the others, then Chato said, “Only Rivera will satisfy him.”
“Then what are we to do with this one?”
“Glad I brought the Chevy now?” Dillinger asked, with everyone except Nachita crowded under the raised top of the convertible. “Like college kids crowded into a phone booth.”
He didn’t mind, because to make room for the others Rose had to sit on his lap.
“Look at Nachita’s umbrella,” Fallon said.
The old Indian had pulled two flat pieces of what looked like thatch from his pack and had angled them over his head so that they formed a roof-like peak and sloped down to either side.
“He’s got a portable roof,” Dillinger said.
Chavasse chimed in, “You don’t expect Indians to ride around with umbrellas, do you?”
Suddenly all their attempts at humor stopped. The cry of an owl had pierced through the rain.
“That’s no owl,” said Fallon.
“Everyone out of the car, quick,” Dillinger said. “It’s too easy a target.”