The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [53]
“George Weed,” Burgade said. “Stand up and walk over by the blankets.”
Weed got to his feet, surly and sullen. He didn’t talk. He went into the clearing. The buttstock of Hal’s rifle protruded from its saddle boot and Burgade saw Weed eyeing it. “Go ahead. Pick it up and try for me.”
Weed shook his head. “You’ve unloaded it.”
“Sure.”
“So you wouldn’t of shot me. You was bluffing. You wouldn’t of done it.”
“But you would have.”
“You bastard, Burgade. You motherfuckin’ bastard.” Weed turned around and pulled the crotch of his Levi’s down and said, “All right, hell, you got me, now what you going to do with me?”
“Tie you up,” Burgade said. “Hold my gun on him, Hal. If he tries anything, shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.” Hal’s voice was without tone. Burgade sat Weed down on the ground and tied his hands together behind his back with a rawhide piggin’ string. He tied the ankles together and used Weed’s own belt to hook the ankles and wrists together so that Weed couldn’t straighten out. Burgade kept one eye closed during the entire business and when he had tested the knots and found them secure, he stood up, still with his eye shut, and held his hand out to the side, and spoke to Hal behind him: “Now hand me back my gun and go douse that torch in the stream.”
The torch moved away from his back, throwing his bobbing shadow longer along the ground and then fading back among the trees. When he heard it sizzle in the water, he opened the eye he had kept closed. It had not been blinded by the light and now, with the one eye, he could see Weed well enough. He slid the revolver into leather and walked back across the tripwire to the spot where he had waited in ambush; picked up his rifle and brought it back into camp. Hal had come back from the creek, still carrying the soaked torch for some reason—Burgade said dryly, “You can throw that away now.”
Weed said, “What you expect to get out of this, anyway?”
“You were supposed to be a stalking horse, George. You were supposed to let me spot you and then you were supposed to lead me back into Provo’s ambush. Fine. Now you’re going to tell me where that is.”
“Stick it up your ass, Burgade. You don’t get nothing out of me. Nothing, motherfucker, nothing.”
Burgade ran his hands quickly over the man’s pockets. Nothing in them but odds and ends. But in Weed’s boot he found a sheath knife. He slipped it out and tested its blade with his thumb. It was a squat heavy knife, made for animal-skinning, not for fighting. It had gone rusty and a little dull. He locked its handle in his fist to weigh the knuckles and suddenly clouted Weed across the side of the face.
Weed’s head rocked back against the ground. Burgade heard Hal gasp.
A few tiny raindrops came down through the trees. Burgade felt one strike the back of his hand. His knuckles began to hurt. “I can beat on you for a while, George, until my hands get tired. And then I can start cutting you up with this rusty knife of yours. I don’t mind if you bleed to death.”
He heard Hal’s taut breathing, full of disapproval, but he didn’t look around. He only said, in the same calm voice, “Now, you know Provo doesn’t give a damn about you, George. He picked you to come out here because he figured you were the most expendable of all of them. When you don’t come back he’ll know I’ve got you. But it won’t worry him. He won’t do anything about it. You don’t owe him anything, George. And you may as well forget about that buried gold of his, because you’ve got no chance to get at it now. Either I slice you up and leave you here to bleed to death, or you tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you tied up until I’ve done my business here and then we’ll take you back to the law. That’s your choice.”
“Choice between you killing me and the law hanging me? Hell, Burgade, you got to do better’n that.”
“Maybe if you tell me what I want to know, Provo’ll kill me. Then all you