A small wind blew in through the door, setting the lantern creaking on its chain above the altar, carrying with it the scent of pine, and he could almost hear the stillness.
Chavasse slept peacefully, all strain washed from his face, and Rose lay on a blanket beside the gray ashes of the fire, her head pillowed on one arm. Dillinger stood for a long time looking down at her. Then he filled two canteens at the well, picked up his submachine gun, and went outside.
Nachita was just emerging from the thicket across the clearing, sweat on his brow.
Dillinger crossed quickly to meet him. “You are breathing hard,” he said.
“My horse is breathing harder,” Nachita said, “and he is far younger than I am.” He sat down on a rock.
“Are you angry because I believed Ortiz might be a man?”
“Anger is like rust in the heart. It destroys not the enemy but he who is angry. If I come north to your country, I will trust your judgment about the people. Here, you must trust mine. I bring good news.”
Dillinger offered him one of the canteens. Nachita unscrewed the cap, then drank his fill. “The news,” he said, “is that the others have deserted Ortiz. In his dishonor, he dishonored them.”
“Where have they gone?” Dillinger asked.
“Where has the wind gone? The Federalistas, if they come, will never find them. It doesn’t matter. Ortiz is now alone with the child, on his horse, heading into that part of the desert that is near the great rocks in the direction away from Hermosa. He has no reason to keep Juanita now except as a shield from bullets. Where are you going?”
Dillinger checked his Colt in its underarm holster and swung the Thompson over his shoulder by its strap. “It is my fault he got away. This time he won’t.”
“Come back,” Nachita shouted after him. “You don’t know your way about this countryside. Two wrong decisions do not make a right one!”
But it was too late. The American had rushed downhill too fast to hear his words.
Inside the chapel, Nachita knelt beside Rose and shook her gently. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly, and she gazed at him. In that brief moment of waking she knew at once that something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“He has gone into the desert.”
Her eyes widened. “Alone?”
Nachita smiled. “Men will do foolish things.”
Her nostrils flared, the face becoming hard and full of purpose.
“We’ll go after him.”
“Good. We’ll take the spare horses. We can move faster if we can change mounts along the way.” He looked down at Chavasse. “Shall we wake him?”
Chavasse opened his eyes, blinked. “What is it?”
“Dillinger has gone after Ortiz on his own.”
Chavasse struggled on to one elbow. “The bloody fool. They’ll spread him on an anthill and watch him die by inches.”
Nachita said, “They do not exist. The young Apaches have abandoned Ortiz because he lost his honor. Ortiz is alone.”
“And Juanita?” Chavasse asked, getting up. “Jesus, we’d best move fast.”
…
Dillinger threw the brush and branches off the camouflaged car like a madman. He was sure he could catch up with Ortiz if only he could get going, but it took twenty minutes before the car was clear enough to be carefully backed out of the cave-like crevice. If it shot back in reverse, he’d have gone over the side.
He couldn’t wait till he got it back down on the desert so he could pick up speed.
The desert smoldered in the sun, heat rising from the ground to enfold him, and the bushes seemed to shimmer with fire. He wondered how far ahead his quarry was. If he did not know now that he was being followed, he soon would. The noise of the convertible’s engine echoed back at him from the hills.
He realized how much Ortiz must hate Nachita. The old man possessed the same qualities of strength, courage, and intelligence. He could be cruel, that was true, but only in the way that life itself was cruel. He had fought for his nation and seen it defeated. Still, he had retained his honor, and Ortiz had not.