The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [12]
One of the deputies said, “How in hell’d he find that with all that beef blood all over the place?”
“Used my eyes,” Burgade said shortly. But secretly he was pleased with himself.
“Gun awl,” Nye said. “Like maybe from a riot gun.”
“They were here.” Burgade said. “I’d bet my shirt on it. They got inside at Yuma and hid behind the carcasses. After the train pulled out they shoved the ice blocks outside. You might find out if the Yuma patrols found any big puddles or new-dried mud along the right-of-way this side of Yuma. They were big blocks of ice—it’d take time to evaporate; if anybody comes across it before tomorrow morning it’ll probably still be damp.”
“Aeah,” Nye said slowly, working it all around in his brain. The disfigured face stirred. “Someplace between here and Yuma, they got off this train. How many towns along the line where they’d stop or slow down enough for men to jump off? Welton, Asher, Mohawk, Aztec, Sentinel, Theba, Gila Bend, Mobile, Casa Grande, Arizola, Toltec, Eloy, Picacho, Red Rock, Marana, Rillito, Cortaro, Jaynes, Tucson. I leave anything out?”
“Maricopa,” the deputy said. “And ain’t there a little post office this side of Asher a few mile—Tack Toe, somethin’ like that?”
“Tacna,” said Burgade. “Whistle-stop.”
Nye picked at a lower front tooth with a fingernail. “Lot of towns to cover. Some of them too small to have any local po-lice.” He poked his finger into the deputy’s chest. “You run up to the depot and get on that telephone, Buck. Alert ever’ town down the line from here to Yuma. Get aholt of Captain Rynning in Phoenix and the sheriffs in Pinal and Maricopa and Yuma counties. Tell ’em the convicts was on this train.”
Burgade walked back across town with the sheriff. Over past the Presidio Hotel and down Congress Street, with the morning sun hot on the backs of their shoulders. A light traffic of vehicles and horses fogged the air with dust. Burgade carried the rifle in one fist and drew curious glances from passersby. He muttered, “Think ahead. Think like them.”
“What’s that, Captain?”
He lifted his voice. “What’s their next move, Noel?”
“Hell, they git outfitted, they could head just about any which way.”
“Maybe. But Provo won’t just head them out into the desert. He’s too smart for that. Too easy to track out there. Somewhere they dropped off that freight. If it was before sunup—one of those towns down the Gila—they’re gone from there by now. If it was nearer this end of the line they’ll hole up till dark. Either way, they’ll get guns, food, clothes, horses. They’ll rob a few tills in whatever town they picked and they’ll get a little pocket money that way, but I doubt there’s enough loose cash in any of those towns to satisfy Zach Provo. He never did feel comfortable without a fortune tucked into his britches.”
“Supposedly he’s still got that gold he stole off the Santa Fe Railroad. You never did fand it.”
“That gold’s got to be way up past the Mogollon Rim somewhere. Navajo country. That’s a hell of a long way from the S.P. line.”
Nye replied with enough of a grunt to let Burgade know he was listening, without interrupting Burgade’s train of thought. They stepped down into the powder of Stone Avenue, went across and angled up Maiden Lane alleyway. Burgade was still musing out loud:
“Put yourself in Provo’s shoes.”
“Listen, I’m glad I ain’t in his shoes.”
“Think the way he thinks. He’s got eight toughs tagging along with him. He can’t afford to. split up now, because there’s too much risk one of them would get caught and lead us back to him. He’s got to keep them together. That means he’s got to have something to offer them.”
“Lak what?”
“Money.”
“Maybe I don’t follow you, Captain.”
They came along by the Metropolitan Saloon. “Buy you a beer, Noel?”
“Don’t mand if I do.”
The room was dim, full of dark wood furnishings and the lingering smell of tobacco and whiskey. A few men sat around in boots and cowboy hats. A big Indian-Cavalry battle scene painting behind the bar. Burgade bought beers and propped his rifle muzzle-up against the front face