The sun beat down mercilessly, but Dillinger obstinately refused to put the top up. He drove down into a shallow depression and up the other side, pausing to reach for his canteen. He tilted his head, the cool liquid spilling across his face. As he straightened, the desert seemed to move and the mountain to float before him.
There was no sound. Only a great silence. For a moment Dillinger was part of it, fused into a single whole. He sat at the wheel as if turned to stone, hardly daring to breathe. Then there was a slight rattle, the faintest of sounds, as a lizard passed between two rocks. Life in a barren wilderness, the second time such a thing had happened to him. If Rose had been there, she would have taken it as an omen.
He didn’t realize that Ortiz could observe him. But in fact Ortiz was only six hundred yards from the car, about a hundred and fifty feet higher among the rocks that bordered the desert. He had been giving his horse a rest. The child was asleep on the ground, exhausted. But he had his energy still, and his pride, and now, in his sight, the white convertible, standing still.
Ortiz leaned his left elbow on the rock to steady his arm as he sighted along the top of the rifle. It was too far for accurate fire, but if he hit the car at least, the stupid American would drive closer, close enough perhaps for Ortiz to put a final bullet between his eyes.
Carefully, Ortiz squeezed the trigger.
Dillinger jumped in his seat instinctively when the bullet hit the hood ornament and ricocheted into the right side of the windshield, spidering the glass. In an instant, he turned on the ignition, accelerated like a demon, and became a fast-moving target. But no further shots came.
His hatred for Ortiz doubled because of the damage to the car. It was as if the car’s virginity had been taken. It would need a new hood ornament. It would need a new windshield. And where in all of Mexico would he find someone who could make it new without asking too many questions? Damn.
Ortiz saw the car moving fast in his direction and kept his finger ready on the trigger. Suddenly, the car disappeared from his view. He frowned, then seeing that the child was still asleep and his horse safely tethered, he moved quickly toward a new position. And sure enough, within minutes, looking between two large rocks, he saw the Chevrolet, not racing as before, but parked, its engine still running, the sound of it now echoing. But of Dillinger there was no sign.
It had been a momentary flash of scarlet from the rocks that had warned Dillinger of Ortiz’s new position. He’d parked the car, left the engine running, and got out carrying his Thompson. He figured he’d have to climb two hundred feet to get well above Ortiz, so the hunter could become the hunted.
Rose, Chavasse, and Nachita had been able to make faster time down the mountain than Dillinger, aided by the old Apache’s unerring eye for the trail. Once on the plain, they had ridden hard, changing mounts when the horses tired.
It was Rose who spotted the stopped Chevrolet. Nachita had motioned them to slow down, then stop also. It was then that they heard the shot, and even from that distance they could see that the car had been hit.
Rose didn’t know whether Dillinger had been hit or not, but when that shot rang out, she was certain she loved this man who led an impossible life.
Nachita also decided on the advantage of the higher ground, and so they tethered their horses and started to climb. Soon they reached a flat outcrop, and Nachita motioned Chavasse and Rose to lie flat. He crawled forward, then motioned them to crawl forward too.
He pointed. They saw Ortiz’s tethered horse and something very small just waking up. “Juanita!” Rose’s heart sang.
“Careful,” Nachita cautioned, pointing to a position in the rocks almost directly below them. Ortiz was in a sniper’s position, waiting. They could not see Dillinger anywhere.