The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [71]
Menendez moved to a new vantage point, clutching the rifle. It was the only one among them. They all had their handguns, but there was only the one rifle left, and that made it bad.
Shelby lifted his head with an effort. “Listen, we’ll never lose him, hell chase us clear to Canada.”
“Nobody can chase you if you don’t run,” Provo said.
“The hell. You want to stay put and end up like Gant and those others?”
“Nobody’s quitting. Not until I get his hide nailed to the barn.”
“Zach, we tried, it was no good. To hell with the old man.”
“I’m paying you to help me kill him.”
“You ain’t paid us nothing yet.”
“There’s thirty-eight thousand in gold left down there. Right down there within half a mile of where we camped. Three caches, two hundred yards apart. You want it, Mike?”
“It? You mean all of it?”
“It’s yours to split with Menendez.”
He saw Menendez’s face change.
But Shelby said, “Maybe so. Maybe you can pay for my help, Zach, but you ain’t got enough gold to pay for my life.”
Provo said, “Suit yourself, Mike. But you said it yourself. He’ll track you all the way to Canada. You may as well make a stand and help us finish him off here.”
“I never should’ve trusted you,” Shelby muttered. “I should’ve learned a long time ago not to trust anybody.”
“Christ,” Provo said in contempt, “you’re not dead yet.”
“Why don’ you two es-shut up?”
Menendez was right. They were reduced to petty bickering. Provo clamped his jaw shut and turned to sweep the canyons behind them.
He stiffened. “There he is. Menendez!”
“I see him.” Menendez had the rifle up, but he didn’t shoot. Down below, the horseman was making a quick dash across an open stretch, moving from right to left. Only a quarter of a mile or so—not much more than four hundred yards, well within maximum rifle range. But Menendez was right not to shoot. At that range it would take Menendez’s rifle bullet more than a full second to travel to the target. In a full second a horse would cover thirty feet of ground or more. Shooting downhill was chancy at best; against a narrow target moving sideways it was hopeless. The horseman disappeared into the timber.
Provo’s voice grated hoarsely. “It’s Burgade, all right.” He made a quick quarter-turn and pointed with his arm. “He’ll come through that notch. He’ll be coming right toward us so it won’t matter how fast he’s moving. Give me the rifle, Menendez, and get down there in those trees inside of handgun range of him. We’ll crossfire him.”
Menendez tossed him the rifle without objection and vaulted into the trees. He went out of sight into the timber and Provo settled down against a rock, bracing the rifle on the clearing where he knew Burgade would appear if Burgade kept on the boot tracks.
But Burgade didn’t show up. An overwhelming anxiety slowly poisoned Provo’s patience.
Shelby said, “He’s not that dumb, Zach.”
“Shut up.”
“He won’t show himself. You know he won’t.”
Provo kept his eyes fixed on the clearing below. “Listen, you just keep watch on missy and let me handle the old man. He ain’t going to get close to us as long as we’ve got a gun on her. You just think about all that gold down there.”
“Yeah,” Shelby said, but his voice was unsteady.
Provo cocked the rifle and squinted through the shimmer of sunlight. A pulse thudded in his eyes. He curled his hand sensuously around the grip of the rifle, caressed the trigger with his finger. Come on, he thought. Come on, now. He was going to break Burgade’s right shoulder with the first bullet. Then take him apart limb by limb. It was going to take Burgade a long time to die.
Twelve
The sun flickered through the pines like a moving signal lamp. Burgade reined in. The tracks went on up through the trees, out across a little clearing and up toward the summit not far beyond. Provo had to be forted up somewhere between here and there, trying