He swung onto the back of Pace’s pony, nodded to the others and led the way up into the canyon.
By noon the party from Hermosa had moved into a broken wilderness of rock and sand, crisscrossed by dried-up water courses. Despite the lack of wind, hot air rose to meet them like the blast from a furnace door, lifting the sand into dust devils.
The line of riders was strung out along the trail, their faces covered by scarves against the dust, Dillinger for once, leading the way. The grisly discovery in the clearing had had a chastening effect on everyone. Even Chavasse, whose high spirits were normally well in evidence, was strangely subdued as he rode, lolling in the saddle, half-asleep.
Dillinger couldn’t get his mind off Fallon. He’d gotten to like the old guy without ever knowing much about him. He wondered if Fallon had any relatives back in the States. He had to have somebody, a son or a daughter someplace, a cousin, a niece or nephew, somebody. Nobody would ever know he had died, or where. Maybe he could be reburied when this was all over, with a proper marker. Shit, what a lousy way to go.
He glanced back at the others. The trail was much better now as it descended. On impulse, he increased speed and went off after Nachita who scouted in front.
He came over a small rise and went down to a sloping plateau of sand and shale dotted with mesquite and cactus trees. Several hundred yards away a shoulder of the mountain lifted sharply toward the vast, sprawling peaks of the sierras.
On one side a canyon cut through sand-polished stone. On the other the slope was open to the desert, dropping through the tangle of catclaw and brush over shale and tilted slabs of rock to the desert below.
Nachita had dismounted below the shoulder of the mountain. When Dillinger drove up in the white convertible, which now had a film of sand and dirt on it, Nachita was squatting on his haunches beside his pony, examining the ground. Dillinger and Rose both got out of the car.
The barren soil was crisscrossed by tracks. Dillinger dropped to one knee and frowned.
“They have separated,” Nachita said. “Nine of them have gone through the canyon, the others down to the desert.”
“Why would they split up?”
Nachita shrugged. “Perhaps they have quarreled. Some of the young men, remembering what they have done, will already be afraid. Chato and Cochin confided in me. They think Ortiz is mad to go back to the last century, always fighting, always on the run. If Ortiz kills, they can be punished, too.”
Dillinger took out a pack of chewing gum and offered a stick to Nachita, who shook his head. “Which way has Ortiz gone?” Dillinger asked.
“Into the desert. His pony has led all the way. Its tracks are easy to recognize.”
The others rode up and dismounted. Rivera came forward, beating dust from his coat. “What has happened?”
“They’ve split up,” Dillinger told him. “Ortiz and a party of six have ridden down into the desert. The rest have gone through the canyon. God knows where it leads to.”
“How will we know which party Juanita is with?” Rivera asked.
Nachita said, “With Ortiz. He is no fool.”
“I’ve been this way before,” Villa said. “A long time ago. An old pack trail goes over the mountains. It’s hardly used these days. There’s a little chapel in the pine trees on top. Santa Maria del Agua Verde, it’s called. Our Lady of the Green Water, because of the spring that bubbles up inside. It’s the nearest water for forty miles.”
Nachita shook his head. “There is water not a dozen miles from here where the foothills of the mountains run into the desert. Once there was small rancheria there. Now there are only adobe walls and a well.”
“And that is where Ortiz is going?” Rivera asked.
Nachita nodded, and Chavasse said, “It makes sense. He’s obviously made those who refused to follow him any longer take the tougher trail. Their tongues will be hanging out before they reach Agua Verde.”