“Get thee dressed,” he said to Maria.
Overhead he heard the noise of a plane flying very high. Through the trees he saw where the gray horse had stopped and was standing, his rider still hanging face down from the stirrup.
“Go catch that horse,” he called to Primitivo who had started over toward him. Then, “Who was on guard at the top?”
“Rafael,” Pilar said from the cave. She stood there, her hair still down her back in two braids.
“There’s cavalry out,” Robert Jordan said. “Get your damned gun up there.”
He heard Pilar call, “Agustín,” into the cave. Then she went into the cave and then two men came running out, one with the automatic rifle with its tripod swung on his shoulder; the other with a sackful of the pans.
“Get up there with them,” Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. “You lie beside the gun and hold the legs still,” he said.
The three of them went up the trail through the woods at a run.
The sun had not yet come up over the tops of the mountains and Robert Jordan stood straight buttoning his trousers and tightening his belt, the big pistol hanging from the lanyard on his wrist. He put the pistol in its holster on his belt and slipped the knot down on the lanyard and passed the ioop over his head.
Somebody will choke you with that sometime, he thought. Well, this has done it. He took the pistol out of the holster, removed the clip, inserted one of the cartridges from the row alongside of the holster and shoved the clip back into the butt of the pistol.
He looked through the trees to where Primitivo, holding the reins of the horse, was twisting the rider’s foot out of the stirrup. The body lay face down in the snow and as he watched Primitivo was going through the pockets.
“Come on,” he called. “Bring the horse.”
As he knelt to put on his rope-soled shoes, Robert Jordan could feel Maria against his knees, dressing herself under the robe. She had no place in his life now.
That cavalryman did not expect anything, he was thinking. He was not following horse tracks and he was not even properly alert, let alone alarmed. He was not even following the tracks up to the post. He must have been one of a patrol scattered out in these hills. But when the patrol misses him they will follow his tracks here. Unless the snow melts first, he thought. Unless something happens to the patrol.
“You better get down below,” he said to Pablo.
They were all out of the cave now, standing there with the carbines and with grenades on their belts. Pilar held a leather bag of grenades toward Robert Jordan and he took three and put them in his pocket. He ducked into the cave, found his two packs, opened the one with the submachine gun in it and took out the barrel and stock, slipped the stock onto the forward assembly and put one clip into the gun and three in his pockets. He locked the pack and started for the door. I’ve got two pockets full of hardware, he thought. I hope the seams hold. He came out of the cave and said to Pablo, “I’m going up above. Can Agustín shoot that gun?”
“Yes,” Pablo said. He was watching Primitivo leading up the horse.
“Mira qué caballo,” he said. “Look, what a horse.”
The big gray was sweating and shivering a little and Robert Jordan patted him on the withers.
“I will put him with the others,” Pablo said.
“No,” Robert Jordan said. “He has made tracks into here. He must make them out.”
“True,” agreed Pablo. “I will ride him out and will hide him and bring him in when the snow is melted. Thou hast much head today, Inglés.”
“Send some one below,” Robert Jordan said. “We’ve got to get up there.”
“It is not necessary,” Pablo said. “Horsemen cannot come that way. But we can get out, by there and by two other places. It is better not to make tracks if there are planes coming. Give me the bota with wine, Pilar.”