The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [37]
“Looking for Zach Provo, Dutch.”
“I didn’t get their names,” the old man said dryly. “They were eight or nine of ’em. Scairt the pants off me, as you can plainly see.”
Sheriff Nye said, “It was them shot you?”
“Yair, I sure as hell don’t go round shootin’ myself.”
“Why’d they do it?”
“I guess to keep me from walkin’ into Snowflake and telling the law they was here,” Rinehart said, with an amazing lack of rancor. “I only had but six or seven head of horses here but they tooken off with ’em all. You catch ’em, Sam, I’d be obliged if you get me my horses back.”
Burgade had climbed down; he walked up onto the porch and said, “Better let me have a look at that, Dutch.”
“No, never mind. If you happen to ride through Snowflake you might ask Doc Travis to drop out here.” Rinehart waved him away. “Shit, I’m all right. Take more’n a forty-five-caliber hole in the leg to do me much damage. It went clear through—bullet’s in that wall over there. I stuck a hot running-iron through it. Cauterized up fine.”
Behind him, Burgade heard young Hal Brickman whisper an oath in amazed horror. It made Dutch Rinehart grin. “These young ones ain’t got no i-dee what tough is, do they, Sam?”
Burgade’s face had closed up tight. He said in a taut hoarse-weary voice, “They had a girl with them.”
“Yair. Sure was a looker.”
“Was she all right, Dutch?” Burgade had to lick his dry, cracked lips.
“I guess. Hell, she was alive. She didn’t look as if she cared much if she was alive or dead. Like she just didn’t give a shit either way. But I guess she was all right. Why?”
“She’s my daughter.”
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ, Sam, I am sorry.”
“How long were they here?”
“Long enough to rope out all my horses. Listen, you get your hands on them, my Rocking Chair brand ain’t hard to pick out. I’d be obliged.”
“How much of a jump have they got on us?”
“Six, maybe seven hours.” Rinehart spat an amber stream at the ground. His lips peeled back in a mostly toothless smile. “They the toughest bunch I seen in a good spell. That skinny little Mex didn’t bat an eye when he shot me. Just took aim, casual like, as if I was a tin can for practice. I swear I didn’t really think he was gonna do anything until the damn gun went off. He wasn’t even mad. Jesus, I’m sorry about your girl, Sam. I hope you run them down.”
“I will,” Burgade said. “Thanks for your time, Dutch.”
“Hell, I wisht you could set a spell. You and me ain’t jawed in years, we got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Take care of yourself. We’ll send the doctor out.” Burgade went to his horse and climbed up, anguish in all his joints. He turned the horse and heard Nye say behind him, “One little thing, Mr. Rinehart—you happen to notice which way they headed?” Nye’s voice was dry and Burgade didn’t miss the implied rebuke. Getting rattled, he admitted to himself, but he kept right on going and barely heard Rinehart’s reply:
“Northeast. You want to watch out for them hard cases, mister, they don’t—”
Burgade rode out of earshot. Past the deputies and Hal Brickman with his sunburnt, bleak, tired face, and kept on riding, not waiting for the others, angling out to the northeast and scanning the ground for sign. There was an urgency in him and Nye remarked it when he galloped up: “Easy, Captain, let’s don’t windbreak these horses.”
“Another day and they’ll be across the line, Noel.”
“Then let’s get ourselves on into Snowflake and make a few telephone calls, get a couple posses moving out of Winslow and Holbrook to head them off this side of the line.”
But the phones were dead in Snowflake, as might have been expected: the wires had been cut outside the town at both ends. They dispatched the doctor to Rinehart’s and rode on into the dusk.
They had been fifty-six hours on the trail now. Time and heat and jurisdiction boundaries had pared the posse down and changed the personnel: only one of Nye’s deputies was still with them; the rest had gone back to Pima County to be replaced by men from Coconino