The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [47]
Hal didn’t speak unless spoken to. It was a silent ride for the first hour, and then, partly to keep himself awake, Burgade began to talk. “Can you use that gun?”
“I said I could, sir.”
“I know what you said.”
“I’m a good target-shooter. I’ve never shot at a man.”
“Think it over, then. If the toughs see you with a gun in your hand they’ll assume you know how to handle it. It’ll only encourage them to use theirs first.”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t imagine they’ll need much encouraging from me.”
“Yes, I expect that’s so,” Burgade said. “Look, they’re on the run from the hangman. They killed two prison guards and left a man dead at the smelter. That makes them all equally guilty of first-degree murder in the eyes of the law. Now, even leaving Susan aside, you know what that means.”
“Yes, sir. I have a pretty good idea what they’ll do to anybody who gets in their way.”
“Keep your head down, then, and don’t smile at any strange faces. These men are quick and they’re short-fused.”
About four in the afternoon they found tracks. Burgade didn’t dismount for a close-up look. Hal said, “How do we know these are the right tracks?”
“Not likely to be more than one party this big out here today.”
“Maybe they’re older—maybe they’re from a week ago. How can you tell?”
“By the amount of dust the wind’s blown into the prints. These are only a few hours old. Look there at the horse droppings.”
There was a line of muffin-droppings, undoubtedly still soft and warm: they were still green.
The tracks went straight into the northwest. They kept moving into the waning afternoon. To keep from falling asleep Burgade told Hal everything he could remember about Provo and those of Provo’s men he had known. Hal seemed to take it all in—Portugee Shiraz’s fondness for knives, George Weed’s extraordinary skill with guns, Provo’s weakness for unnecessary complexities in trying to outguess his opponents. It was the bewildering intricacy of Provo’s scheme that had tripped him up twenty-eight years ago. “He’d have got away clean if he hadn’t tried to be quite so tricky. He may be making the same mistake this time.”
“What was his mistake?”
“He didn’t run for it when he should have. He decided to bluff it out.”
“I never did hear about that. How it really happened, I mean.”
“The Santa Fe trains used to stop for water west of Winslow on the way up the Flagstaff grade. Provo planted a whacking big charge of blasting powder along the ties where he knew the express car would stand. He didn’t know much about explosives but he didn’t take any chances. Blew up the whole car—disintegrated it sky-high. There were several guards inside, it blew them all to pieces. Provo picked up the gold while the smoke was still settling and inside of three or four minutes he was headed out on his horse. He had a bandanna mask and he didn’t figure on anybody recognizing him. He shouldn’t have taken that chance. If he’d been a little smarter he’d have sent his wife away before he robbed the train, and he’d have met her in Mexico later on. We’d never have found him.”
“But you did. How?”
“Three or four people on the train recognized him.”
“Even with a mask on?”
“Two of them were Indians. They’d known him for years. He’s got a hunched way of moving, very quick, tense. And they recognized his horse and his clothes. There wasn’t any mistake about the identification.”
“But how’d you catch him?”
“He walked into it. He spent five or six days back in the redrock country—up where he appears to be headed now. He buried the gold somewhere back there and then he went right back home to his hogan down near Salina Springs. We were waiting for him.”
“Wasn’t his wife killed?”
The sun dried the spit in Burgade’s mouth. It was a moment before he answered. His words had a dry rustle. “She was.”
“I understand he blames you for that.”
“It was my bullet that killed her.”
Hal didn’t say anything. He looked sorry he’d asked the question. They went down the steep bank of an arroyo, leaning far back in their saddles.
Burgade said, “Provo was being clever. When we