The bullets stopped punching holes in our door.
“The boys have got their heads together,” Milk River guessed. “They can’t have a hell of a lot of caps left if they’ve been snapping them at ’Nacio since early morning.”
I found a white handkerchief in my pocket and began stuffing one corner in a rifle muzzle.
“What’s for that?” Milk River asked.
“Talk.” I moved to the door. “And you’re to hold your hand until I’m through.”
“I never seen such a hombre for making talk,” he complained.
I opened the door a cautious crack. Nothing happened. I eased the rifle through the crack and waved it in the light of the still burning fire. Nothing happened. I opened the door and stepped out.
“Send somebody down to talk!” I yelled at the outer darkness.
A voice I didn’t recognize cursed bitterly, and began a threat:
“We’ll give yuh—”
It broke off in silence.
Metal glinted off to one side.
Buck Small, his bulging eyes dark-circled, a smear of blood on one cheek, came into the light.
“What are you people figuring on doing?” I asked.
He looked sullenly at me.