The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [29]
“They’re on horseback,” Burgade said slowly, weighing his words. “You can’t hope to block off the roads and railroads and catch them that way. They’ve got to be tracked, the old way, by men on horseback. That’s how I tote it.”
The mayor said, “But is that wise, Sam? If they catch sign of pursuit won’t it put Susan in danger?”
“She’s in danger with them at all times,” Burgade said in a flat voice. “They expect to be tracked. Provo’s not a stupid man. He took my daughter because he wanted revenge against me—a personal thing. But he also took her because he wanted a hostage, and that means that wherever he’s planning to go, he realizes he won’t be able to hide his back trail. If he planned to head directly into Mexico and hide out in the Sierras he’d have killed Susan by now—she’d only slow him down. No, he——”
“Wait, Sam,” the prosecuting attorney said “I don’t know how to put this so it won’t twist the knife. But how do we know they haven’t already killed Susan?”
“They made her pack several changes of clothes.”
“Is that conclusive enough?”
“It is to me. Provo wants to keep her alive. He knows if we find her dead, nothing on earth will stop me from finding him and putting him to the most painful death it’s possible for a man to have. No. She’s alive. As long as she’s alive with him, I bleed and he knows I’m bleeding and he also knows I’ve got to keep my distance.”
“The goddamned bastard’s clever,” the mayor said. “As clever a fiend as——”
“Let’s not waste time calling him names.” Burgade’s eyes were flinty, glittering, unfathomable: he kept his feelings strictly to himself. His voice was level, under total control. “There’s no reason why any of you should abide by my judgment any longer. I’m the one who created this disaster. I’m responsible for what’s happened this morning—Susan wouldn’t be gone and the smelter office wouldn’t have been blown up if my scheme hadn’t drawn Provo here. Replacing that vault will cost thousands—you might advise the manager that I’m prepared to make restitution to whatever limits my savings can cover. Now, as to the——”
“Nonsense,” the mayor exploded. “You can’t possibly be held to blame for the mindless animal savaging of these beasts. If anything, the smelter’s in your debt—you advised them to postpone their payday, otherwise the vault would have been full of cash.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Burgade said. “We’re getting off the point. I don’t have the power to insist that anybody heed my advice after what happened this morning, but what I’m going to do is provision myself with a horse and some weapons and get on Provo’s track. I intend to stick to the track until I can get my daughter out of their hands and then I intend to kill Provo and his crew the way you’d kill a pack of rabid wolves, I’m speaking for myself. I’d be obliged for company but I’ve got no authority to ask for it.”
He put his hands on his knees and stood up slowly, feeling old in his joints, feeling as if a fist had slammed him low in the belly and crumpled him. Dry-eyed, he walked to the door.
He hired the best horse Ochoa had in the stable and a good solid double-rig saddle with plenty of concho strings and a leather rifle boot and a long skirt behind the cantle across which provisions could be strapped. He had to hold in the nervous prancing gelding on his way down the crowded streets; the horse danced along half-sideways. He tethered it to the gatepost in front of his house and went inside to make up a field pack for himself.
He chose each item with studied care. A lightweight rawhide rope, sixty feet long, coiled in a tight ring. A two-quart water canteen. Blanket-roll and rain slicker. Folding pocket knife and a nine-inch fighting knife in a leather scabbard slotted for threading over a gunbelt. Antiseptic and bandage cloth. A folding razor, not for whisker-shaving but for use