The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [28]
Billy Guay stood indolently with his thumbs hooked in his gun belts. He took a few steps in Angsman’s direction and pushed his hat to the back of his head, though the sun was beating full in his face. He was half Ed Hyde’s age, a few years or so out of his teens, but there was a hardness about the eyes that contrasted with his soft features. Features that were all the more youthful, and even feminine, because of the long blond hair that covered the tops of his ears and hung unkempt over his shirt collar. Watching Angsman, his mouth was tight as if daring him to say something that he would not agree with.
Angsman walked past him to Ed Hyde. He was about to say something, but stopped when Billy Guay turned and grabbed his arm.
“The dust cloud was buffalo like I said, wasn’t it?” Billy Guay asked, but there was more statement of fact than question in his loud voice.
Angsman’s serious face turned to the boy, but looked back to Ed Hyde when he said, “There’re two Indian women out there cleaning up after a hunting party. The dust cloud was the warriors going home. I suspect they’re the last ones. Stragglers. Everyone else out of sight already.”
Billy Guay pushed in close to the two men. “Dammit, the cloud could have still been buffalo,” he said. “Who says you know so damn much!”
Ed Hyde looked from one to the other like an unbiased spectator. He dropped the long buffalo rifle stock down in front of him. His worn black serge coat strained tight at the armpits as he lifted his hands to pat his coat pockets. From the right one he drew a half-chewed tobacco plug.
For a moment Angsman just stared at Billy Guay. Finally he said, “Look, boy, for a good many years it’s been my business to know so damn much. Now, you’ll take my word that the dust cloud was an Indian hunting party and act on it like I see fit, or else we turn around and go back.”
Ed Hyde’s grizzled head jerked up suddenly. He said, “You’re dead right, Angsman. There ain’t been buffalo this far south for ten years.” He looked at the boy and spoke easier. “Take my word for it, Billy.” He smiled. “If anybody knows it, I do. Those Indians most likely ran down a deer herd. But hell, deer, buffalo, what’s the difference? We’re not out here for game. You just follow along with what Angsman here says and we all go home rich men. Take things slow, Billy, and you breathe easier.”
“I just want to know why’s he got to give all the orders,” Billy Guay said, and his voice was rising. “It’s us that own the map, not him. Where’d he be without us!”
Angsman’s voice was the same, unhurried, unexcited, when he said, “I’ll tell you. I’d still be back at Bowie guiding for cavalry who ride with their eyes open and know how to keep their mouths shut in Apache country.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but turned and walked toward the dun-colored mare. “Ygenio,” he called to the Mexican still sitting cross- legged on the ground, “hold the mules a good fifty yards behind us and keep your eyes on me.”
EIGHT DAYS OUT of Willcox and the strain was beginning to tell. It had been bad from the first day. Now they were in the foothills of the Mogollons and it was no better. Angsman had thought that as soon as they climbed from the dust of the plains the tension would ease and the boy would be easier to handle, but Billy Guay continued to grumble with his thumbs in his gun belts and disagree with everything that was said. And Ed Hyde continued to say nothing unless turning back was mentioned.
Since early morning their trail had followed this pine-covered crest that angled irregularly between the massive rock peaks to the south and east and the white-gold plain to the west. Most of the ways the trail had held to the shoulder, turning, twisting, and falling with the contour of the hillcrest. And from