The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [56]
Provo stood a little distance from the rest of them. He was in his shirtsleeves, hatless, the wind blowing through his raven-black hair. He had a rifle in both hands, not pointed anywhere in particular but ready for use. “Let’s don’t fool around,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. A little mutiny in mind. You don’t like sitting around here right out in bare-ass daylight and not doing anything. You want to grab your gold and go. All right, I don’t blame you for that, but we made a bargain and I kept my part of it. I kept you out of the hands of the law. Now you’re going to keep your part of it. You’re going to help me punch Sam Burgade’s ticket for the promised land. As soon as that’s done, you’ll get your gold and you can go.”
Mike Shelby said slowly, “Listen, Zach, I can’t talk for anybody else, but the way I see it, either we get Burgade quick or we forget it. Burgade’s already got one man riding with him, we saw them yesterday. It won’t be but a few days before the law boys bust through that handy Navajo red-tape of yours and come swarmin’ onto the Reservation. Another three, four days up here and we’ll be boxed in like steers in a slaughterhouse. What if Burgade just sits out there and watches us until his reinforcements show up?”
Provo’s iron eyes narrowed when his lips smiled. “I’ll make you a bargain, Mike. All of you. If we don’t bring Burgade down by tomorrow sundown, I’ll point you to the gold and you can go dig it up and be on your way. That sound fair to everybody? Any objections?”
A group of them stood in a knot—Gant, Shiraz, Quesada, Riva. They talked swiftly among themselves. Shelby stood off to the side, near Menendez. Shelby didn’t join in the discussion but he said to Provo, “Satisfies me, I guess.”
Provo said, “Portugee, the rest of you—one other little treat in the package for you. Two or three of you been wanting to have a hack at missy, here.”
Will Gant tugged at his nostril hair. “You fixin’ to let us have her?”
“When the time comes.”
“When’ll that be?” When Gant looked at Susan Burgade his neck swelled with musky desire. She must have been aware of it—she was looking right at him—but there was no break in her dull, indifferent expression.
“It’ll be when I say it’s to be,” Provo said. “Take it or leave it, Will.”
Portugee punched Gant in the arm. “Aw, hell with it, Will. We gone along this far with him.”
Gant sat down slowly on the pile of saddles. He put his hands on his knees. The weight of his huge belly sagged against his thighs. He smiled.
Shelby was standing close by when Menendez walked over and said to Provo, “Listen, Zach, what if Weed ef-fell off some focking cleef last night and bosted his es-stupid neck? What if Burgade never got to him at all? That rain las’ night washed out our tracks for es-sure.”
“You’re saying you’re worried Burgade won’t find us?”
“Ahjess. The sonomabitch, he’s old, Zach, and he’s es-scared, and maybe he’s all focked up and not thinking es-straight.”
Provo laughed without humor. “He’s stuck to us this far like a burr under a blanket. Don’t underestimate Sam Burgade. He’s not a son of a bitch, Menendez, he’s the son of a bitch, but that doesn’t make him a fool. He knows where we are. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll find us soon enough.”
“Maybe. But we ain’t got jost a whole lot of time. Why not make es-sure, Zach? Why not es-send him an eenvitation?”
Provo squinted at the sun as if to judge the time. “Maybe you got a point,” he said. He lifted his voice and bellowed: “Hey, all of you. I’m going to fire a few shots. Don’t anybody get nervous. Riva, take care of those horses, see they don’t spook from the noise.”
Gant said, “What the hell?”
The last of his words was drowned in the rolling thunder of Provo’s revolver. He was shooting indifferently into the earth ten yards from his feet. The bullets plowed up spouts of dirt. The noise echoed across the flats. “That ought to bring him,” Provo said mildly, and opened the revolver to plug out the empties and reload.
Provo repeated