The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [57]
Susan Burgade sat like a stone until two in the afternoon. Provo spent most of his time scanning the surrounding timber fringe through his spyglass, sitting on the ground and studying each quadrant with great and patient care before he shifted his seat to survey the next. Obviously looking for signs of Burgade.
About two o’clock Provo went over to the girl. Shelby was near enough to hear him say, “Get up and walk around some, missy. You don’t want to get a cramp in your legs from sitting all day.”
Susan didn’t argue. She didn’t even seem to resent the command. She got up and walked back and forth like some kind of mechanism. The wind spun her hair around her face; she combed it away with her fingers and tossed it back with a shake of her head. She had good long legs and a practical stride. There was nothing alive in her face but her eyes, which were full of thinly guarded panic.
Shelby watched her walk back and forth and thought how lovely she was, even with her filthy wrinkled clothes, even with dirt on her face and in her hair. He didn’t much like what Provo was doing. Getting her up and walking her around was a way of telling Sam Burgade the bait was still alive. Provo had to assume Burgade was out there somewhere in the trees, probably watching through field glasses. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. Shelby didn’t like any of it.
Will Gant came along and stopped beside Shelby to watch the girl with his crude sensual leer. He was watching her buttocks as she walked. “Oh, Jesus,” Gant whispered in awe. “Oh, Jesus H. Christ, will you look at that.”
Gant’s breath made Shelby turn away. The sun was high and hot. A trickle of sweat ran out of his armpit, down his ribs.
Along about half past three, Provo suddenly stopped his telescope-watching and got to his feet. “He’s out there,” he said positively. “Over east in those oaks and cedars. I caught a flash, must have been the lens of his glass.”
Shelby said, “What do we do now?”
Portugee Shiraz said, “Hell, we ought to wait for dark and set up a fucking ambush a fly couldn’t get through.”
Shelby was dubious. Night ambushes could work two ways. He turned to speak, but Provo cut him off: “No. Why play at his game? All we need to do is wait for him to come to us.”
Shelby said, “He can wait us out. He’s got more time than we’ve got.”
Provo seemed amused—genuinely amused for the first time since the breakout. “Well, in that case, let’s give him a little entertainment to help him pass the time. Missy? You don’t mind, come along here with me.”
Provo took Susan’s arm. She didn’t shake him off. He steered her up past the horses onto the little rise of grass, only thirty feet beyond camp. “Sit yourself down, missy. You want to wave to your old man over there? Go ahead. Wave to him.”
She sat down and put her hands in her lap. Provo laughed. “Suit yourself.” He turned and lifted his voice. “The old man’s got a box-seat view. Will, Portugee, you two been aching to dip your wicks. Now’s your time. Come on up here and have your fun.”
Stunned and horror-struck, Shelby could feel the sudden anger rising in him, the coming explosion. Heat rushed to his face. “No!” he roared. He locked his fist over the grip of his holstered revolver. He stood facing Gant and Portugee.
Provo’s abrasive baritone shot forward. “Let them by, Mike.”
“The hell.” He didn’t look over his shoulder at Provo. “You got no call to do this to her. She never did you any grief.”
“Mike, I won’t mess around with you. You make trouble now and you’ll be mostly a hole.”
The voice was dead-flat. Shelby turned slowly to look. Provo had his rifle across the crook of his elbow, pointed generally at him. Shelby trembled in rage.
Gant and Portugee began to walk up past him. Sunlight raced along