The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [38]
The moon came up, a horned crescent not yet in its first quarter, only a thin rind; but there were no clouds and the starlight was good enough for tracking. Until they got into the chopped-up rocklands. Here it was all shale and petrified wood and there wasn’t a chance of picking up sign at night. Nye started to curse. “Christ, we know they’re headed north, but northeast or northwest now? That line’s two hundred mile long. They can cross it anyplace.”
“Provo had it planned out this way,” Burgade said. “That’s why he hasn’t covered his tracks before. He knew he’d lose us along here.”
“Bastard,” Nye gritted.
“Let’s get on into Holbrook.”
It was after midnight when they pulled into Holbrook and rode across the Santa Fe tracks. Huge gray moths rustled around the street lamps. The town was asleep. Burgade dismounted in agony and went into the sheriffs office. The place was awake because of the manhunt but the only two people in it were temporary deputies; the permanent staff was out combing the badlands somewhere. Burgade borrowed the telephone and tried to get through to Gallup and Winslow. The line to Winslow was dead, but he reached the telephone exchange in Gallup, which was just over the line in New Mexico, and after some discussion with the switchboard lady in Gallup he finally got a sleepy-voiced deputy U.S. marshal on the line. Burgade identified himself and explained the situation in three or four terse sentences and said, “We’d take it kindly if you’d get on up to Window Rock, Marshal, and try to talk the Tribal Council into giving us permission to come aboard the Reservation to hunt these men down.”
When he concluded the call he went outside with Nye and propped his shoulder against the front of the building. He was too tired to stand up without support. He said, “They cut the lines somewhere between here and Winslow. That’s only a thirty-five mile stretch, so we’ve got a fair idea where they went across the Santa Fe tracks. It’s my guess they crossed over close to the east end of Winslow. Two or three big outfits right around there where they might pick up fresh horses and provisions. From there, on a horseback guess, I’d say they’d go north along the Little Colorado as far as Corn Creek and head into the rough country from there.”
“That’s prob’ly as good a guess as any,” Nye said. “But it don’t make no never-mind now, does it? They bound to be acrosst the line by morning. We ain’t gonna catch them now. Ain’t got a prayer.”
“Maybe. Let’s go down to the railroad depot.”
“Now that’s an idea.”
They commandeered a switching engine and caboose and left their horses behind; they piled into the caboose with their saddles and kit. Burgade stretched out on a trainman’s bunk and went immediately and thoroughly to sleep. Less than an hour later someone shook him awake. He came pawing up out of his coma like a man fighting an ocean undertow. Nye said, “The boys scared us up some horses.”
“What time is it?”
“Little after two.”
“We’ve still got a chance, then. We must have picked up four or five hours on them.”
“Don’t count on nothing, Captain—don’t be gettin’ yo’ hopes up.”
Winslow town was dead asleep. Burgade stepped down off the caboose and saw Hal Brickman waiting with a pair of horses. Everybody else was already mounted. It registered fuzzily on Burgade’s brain that the waiting horse was already cinched-up and ready to ride. Somebody had saddled up for him; they had let him sleep the extra minutes. It made him spiteful: he didn’t want to be humored or pampered. He climbed aboard, compressing his lips and gamely swinging his leg over, trying not to