The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [26]
Menendez kicked his horse up alongside. “Who’s the spare horse for, Zach?” It was a question but Menendez spoke it flat, as a demand.
“Burgade set this up against us,” Provo said. “Time to start knocking Burgade down.”
“The horse is for Burgade?”
“Not hardly,” Provo said, and flicked a thin smile at him.
They worked their way wide around and headed back down toward Tucson. Crossing the Santa Cruz they picked up Will Gant where he was waiting by the severed telephone wires. The six of them trotted up the riverbank in the trees, past the quiet old quarter of town. If anyone noticed them there was no alarm. Sunlight filtered down through the treetops, dappling the ground. Behind the bulk of a freight warehouse Provo called a brief halt.
“I’ll take Will and the spare horse. Menendez, you take the rest of them on up to the Rillito and cut for Rose Canyon. Shelby and Quesada ought to be back there by now. Hole up and wait for us—we’ll be along directly.”
“What the hell you op to, Zach?”
“You’ll see. On the run, now.” He leaned out of the saddle to pick up the reins of Lee Roy’s riderless horse from Taco. Will Gant pulled off the track and let the others ride by. Provo waited until Menendez had taken them north out of sight in the trees; then he said to Gant, “Just back my play, Will, this won’t take but a minute.
Gant grunted incuriously and adjusted his great bulk on his saddle. Provo turned right past the warehouse and rode past freight corrals and a mechanics’ shop and on through a district of adobe shacks toward the big trees of the old residential district. He knew the route as if a map were engraved on his eyelids. They passed a few pedestrians who glanced at them and noticed nothing amiss and went on about their business.
North on Main Street and east on Third, left on Meyer Avenue, around past the old McKinney place and onto the quiet tree-shady street. His pulse started to pound when he drew rein in front of the house. “Step down and hold these horses, will you? I’ll be right out.”
“Nice and peaceful here, ain’t it, Zach?”
“Sure is,” he said, feeling grim and jumpy. He walked up the tile-bordered walk to the screen door, trying to look calm and businesslike. Rapped the brass door-knocker and saw movement through the screen. He put one hand inside his duster through the slot pocket and drew his revolver, holding it down against his leg, concealed by the coat.
She came to the door drying her hands on a towel. A stray lock of brown hair had fallen across her face from under her sunbonnet; she tossed it back with a shake of her head. She was a tall girl in a homespun dress. Provo’s eyes followed the lines of her body as she approached the screen door. Provo put a polite smile on his face.
She stood just inside the door. “Yes?”
“Miss Susan Burgade?”
“Yes,” she said, puzzled.
“Your daddy asked me to come over, make sure you’re all right. Expecting some hard cases in town this morning, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, not altogether sure of him. “I did hear something a little while ago. Is my father all right?”
“He’s fine, ma’am. You mean that explosion—doing some blasting up to the smelter, I think. Nothing to fret yourself about. Look, ma’am, you mind if I come inside? Your daddy asked me to keep an eye on you until this business is over with. You never know what those hard cases might try.”
She didn’t open the door. “I’m afraid I don’t know you.”
He didn’t want to show his gun out here in broad daylight. He gave her a broader smile and tipped his hat back with his left hand. “I just come down to help out with this trap of his. Sam and me go back a long way together—I worked for him back when he was heading up the railroad’s security branch. Name of Carlos O’Neill, maybe you heard him mention me.”
“I can’t say I have,” she said, and unlatched the door hesitantly. “But I’m sure it must be all right. I’m sorry to seem so standoffish, Mr. O’Neill, but this whole thing troubles me, you know—I’m worried