and Rojas went backwards into the street.
For a little while he lay there and Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went round to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.
Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. His hand moved in a single smooth motion and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.
There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes and he felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.
He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, 'Come on, you bastard. If that's the way you want it.'
Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife to hands not knife to knife, stumbled away into the darkness.
Dillinger swung round, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.
Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.
She was still crying and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and got the door open, his face ablaze with excitement.
'Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart.'
'Johnny?' It was Rose's voice. 'I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?'
He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly, and tried to speak and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.
This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.
'You've got a pretty good fix on him.
The man said, 'He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevvy convertible in Doc's barn. If Doc didn't take it to Florida, maybe Dillinger took it south.'
'You think it's Mexico.'
'Mr Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country.'
'OK. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous.'
8
The desert was a dun-coloured haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.
Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.
'How do you feel?' Rose asked.
'I guess I'm not very handsome today.' The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.
'Do you think it was worth it?'
He shrugged. 'Is anything?'
She said to Fallon, 'Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?'
'Only on his bad days,' the old man replied.
The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a narrow canyon. In the centre it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again before emerging once more into the plain.
At this point the track branched off in two directions and Rose halted. 'There is where I leave you. I'm going straight to the mine. Father Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and
For a little while he lay there and Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went round to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.
Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. His hand moved in a single smooth motion and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.
There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes and he felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.
He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, 'Come on, you bastard. If that's the way you want it.'
Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife to hands not knife to knife, stumbled away into the darkness.
Dillinger swung round, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.
Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.
She was still crying and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and got the door open, his face ablaze with excitement.
'Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart.'
'Johnny?' It was Rose's voice. 'I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?'
He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly, and tried to speak and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.
This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.
'You've got a pretty good fix on him.
The man said, 'He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevvy convertible in Doc's barn. If Doc didn't take it to Florida, maybe Dillinger took it south.'
'You think it's Mexico.'
'Mr Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country.'
'OK. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous.'
8
The desert was a dun-coloured haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.
Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.
'How do you feel?' Rose asked.
'I guess I'm not very handsome today.' The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.
'Do you think it was worth it?'
He shrugged. 'Is anything?'
She said to Fallon, 'Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?'
'Only on his bad days,' the old man replied.
The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a narrow canyon. In the centre it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again before emerging once more into the plain.
At this point the track branched off in two directions and Rose halted. 'There is where I leave you. I'm going straight to the mine. Father Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and
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