“Yes, man. It is the only way,” Pablo said. He handed him one of the lead ropes. Primitivo and the gypsy had the others.
“Thou canst come at the end if thou will, Inglés,” Pablo said. “We cross high enough to be out of range of that máquina. But we will go separately and riding much and then be together where it narrows above.”
“Good,” said Robert Jordan.
They rode down through the timber toward the edge of the road. Robert Jordan rode just behind Maria. He could not ride beside her for the timber. He caressed the gray once with his thigh muscles, and then held him steady as they dropped down fast and sliding through the pines, telling the gray with his thighs as they dropped down what the spurs would have told him if they had been on level ground.
“Thou,” he said to Maria, “go second as they cross the road. First is not so bad though it seems bad. Second is good. It is later that they are always watching for.”
“But thou–”
“I will go suddenly. There will be no problem. It is the places in line that are bad.”
He was watching the round, bristly head of Pablo, sunk in his shoulders as he rode, his automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. He was watching Pilar, her head bare, her shoulders broad, her knees higher than her thighs as her heels hooked into the bundles. She looked back at him once and shook her head.
“Pass the Pilar before you cross the road,” Robert Jordan said to Maria.
Then he was looking through the thinning trees and he saw the oiled dark of the road below and beyond it the green slope of the hillside. We are above the culvert, he saw, and just below the height where the road drops down straight toward the bridge in that long sweep. We are around eight hundred yards above the bridge. That is not out of range for the Fiat in that little tank if they have come up to the bridge.
“Maria,” he said. “Pass the Pilar before we reach the road and ride wide up that slope.”
She looked back at him but did not say anything. He did not look at her except to see that she had understood.
“Comprendes?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“Move up,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Move up!”
“Nay,” she told him, turning around and shaking her head. “I go in the order that I am to go.”
Just then Pablo dug both his spurs into the big bay and he plunged down the last pine-needled slope and cross the road in a pounding, sparking of shod hooves. The others came behind him and Robert Jordan saw them crossing the road and slamming on up the green slope and heard the machine gun hammer at the bridge. Then he heard a noise come sweeeish-crack-boom! The boom was a sharp crack that widened in the cracking and on the hillside he saw a small fountain of earth rise with a plume of gray smoke. Sweeish-crack-boom! It came again, the swishing like the noise of a rocket and there was another up-pulsing of dirt and smoke farther up the hillside.
Ahead of him the gypsy was stopped beside the road in the shelter of the last trees. He looked ahead at the slope and then he looked back toward Robert Jordan.
“Go ahead, Rafael,” Robert Jordan said. “Gallop, man!”
The gypsy was holding the lead rope with the pack-horse pulling his head taut behind him.
“Drop the pack-horse and gallop!” Robert Jordan said.
He saw the gypsy’s hand extended behind him, rising higher and higher, seeming to take forever as his heels kicked into the horse he was riding and the rope came taut, then dropped, and he was across the road and Robert Jordan was kneeing against a frightened packhorse that bumped back into him as the gypsy crossed the hard, dark road and he heard his horse’s hooves clumping as he galloped up the slope.
Wheeeeeeish-ca-rack! The flat trajectory of the shell came and he saw the gypsy jink like a running boar as the earth spouted the little black and gray geyser ahead of him. He watched him galloping, slow and reaching now, up the long green slope and the gun threw behind him and ahead of him and he was under the fold of the hill with the others.