The rancher shrugged. ‘Runnin’ from me, I guess.’
‘That’s right.’ Baum smiled; just a little. ‘An’ a man on the run’s got two places he can hide when he don’t have no friends. He can lose hisself in the open country, or he can hole up someplace there’s a lotta people.’
‘That still leaves it wide open,’ grunted Dumfries. ‘Don’t it?’
‘No.’ Baum shook his head, the smile getting wider on his ruddy face. ‘Breed could lose us in the hills, but the Englishman don’t sound like he knows his pisser from a waterhole. So long as he’s with the half-breed they’re slowed down. I reckon they’ll go on to Lordsburg – if Breed gets the Englishman clear o’ the broncos – on account of Lordsburg’s a fair-sized place, an’ there’s coaches leavin’ fer all over.’
‘So we go to Lordsburg.’ It was a question. ‘That right?’
‘That’s right.’ Baum nodded. ‘We go there an’ maybe meet them comin’ in.’
‘When should we leave?’ asked Dumfries.
‘Now,’ said Baum.
‘Now?’
‘Right now.’ The German stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Christ!’ Dumfries complained. ‘I ain’t yet got my ass unknotted.’
‘You want to find them, or not?’ Baum’s smile went away fast.
‘Hell, yes.’ The rancher climbed to his feet. ‘You know I do.’
‘Then quit belly-achin’,’ grunted the bounty hunter. ‘An’ let’s go.’
‘It ain’t my belly that’s achin’,’ said Dumfries.
But he followed Baum out of the saloon to where their horses waited.
Chapter Ten
BACKENHAUSER BEGAN HIS portrait of Knife-With-Two-Sides the following day.
After Azul had concluded the trade that had bought his life, the artist was brought his materials and allowed the freedom of the camp. Knife was persuaded that work could not begin immediately, because the pinda-lick-oyi required time, and various utensils, to make truly strong medicine. He prowled round with Backenhauser as the young Englishman scoured the hidden canyon for the things he needed.
His baggage contained mostly paper and sketching materials; a comprehensive set of oil paints in tubes and pots, but no useable canvas. There were a few small sheets, but they lacked a frame on which to stretch them, and the time it would have needed to prepare them was too long.
Finally, he decided to try painting on to a sheet of soft doeskin that was hung in the sun to dry. Through Azul, he explained to the bronco leader that the skin was suitable for his portrait, though it would need treating in a special way. Azul added a few words about medicine treatment, and Knife took the skin from the warrior who had planned to make it into new moccasins.
Backenhauser treated the skin with an oil from his case and set it in a shady place to dry. Then he got the Mimbreño to sit still while he sketched him, trying to find a design that would please the bronco. Five attempts were discarded before Knife-With-Two-Sides was satisfied that the drawing held the power he sought. It was a full-face sketch that showed the Apache shouting a challenge, his scar proud as the figurehead of a ship, lips drawn back and hair streaming behind.
Knife decided that he would carry the painting on his war shield.
And Backenhauser sighed and said: ‘That means I have to trim the skin again. Otherwise it’ll break up. Couldn’t he just hang it in his tent?’
‘Why do people have pictures?’ asked Cuervo.
‘I guess they like to see themselves,’ said the artist. ‘Or remind themselves of their ancestors.’
‘I have heard that there are places in your country where all the ancestors are shown,’ said the brujo. ‘Where they decorate their houses with pictures of the ones who went before.’
‘Sure.’ Backenhauser shrugged. ‘That’s history. They have portraits of the people who built their line. But those are hung in safe places.’
‘We don’t have any safe places,’ said Cuervo. ‘Not now. Our history is passed down from father to son, and the painting we do is to make us strong. When you paint Knife-With-Two-Sides’ face on his shield he will carry it into battle to frighten his enemies.’
‘So it gets sliced up.’ Backenhauser frowned. ‘Where’s the point in painting something that’s going to be cut up?’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Cuervo. ‘Knife believes that the shield will take the bullets from his own body. He believes the painting will frighten his enemies and that if they fire, their shots will hit the shield.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Backenhauser. ‘How can a painted shield help him?’
‘Are you religious?’ Cuervo asked, smiling. ‘A Catholic perhaps?’
‘No.’ The Englishman shook his head. ‘I’m Church of England.’
‘Many people believe the cross will protect them from harm,’ said the brujo. ‘Why shouldn’t a picture?’
‘What happens when it’s torn apart?’ Belief, superstition, and professional pride fought together in the artist’s mind. ‘What will he believe then?’
‘No one expects to live forever,’ said Cuervo. ‘When the medicine goes out of the shield, Knife-With-Two-Sides will die. He will take the Star Road to the Land Beyond. He will go there happy.’
‘I don’t understand this,’ moaned Backenhauser. ‘You’re confusing me.’
‘You don’t understand what we believe,’ said Cuervo. ‘But it’s not very different from the other faiths. The god of the Catholics promises an afterlife in return for purity on the Earth. Your faith promises Heaven or Hell. The gods of the Apache say that a man wins his place in the after world through what he does in his life.’
‘But Apaches kill people,’ said Backenhauser. ‘You killed the people on the stagecoach.’
