The Last Hard Men (4 page)

The newspaper story took him back. It was Zach Provo’s name that did it.
My God, I thought he was dead.
Then he thought about it and did some arithmetic in his head, and realized Provo wasn’t all that old, after all. Provo had been almost a kid when Sam Burgade ran him to earth in 1885. Provo didn’t have to be much over fifty years old, even now. Think of that. Still a young man, after having spent three fifths of his life in the Yuma Penitentiary. What did a man feel like, busting out into this newfangled world after all that time?

It didn’t matter much, he supposed. They’d have Provo back soon enough. Not like the old days. In these modern times nobody could outrun the telephone and the horseless carriage, the railroads, the telegraph all over the place. The state militia up in Phoenix was even trying out one of those new flying machines.

No point fretting about Provo, anyway. Provo had got less than he deserved. He should have been hanged in the first place. He would have been, if he’d been tried by a cow-country jury instead of a crowd of city men in Phoenix who’d become soft where they sat and soft where they did their thinking. And that high-priced defense attorney pleading with the jury to take into account that Provo had already suffered grievously, been shot to pieces and had his young wife killed before his eyes: Provo had already been punished, the lawyer kept saying. He’s already paid a good part of the price for whatever crimes you may decide he committed, although nobody’s admitting he blew up that express car with the four men inside it; after all, this big-time railroad detective, this famous Samuel Burgade, searched every foot of the ground and every hiding place along the Navajo track line, and every inch of Defendant Provo’s homestead, and never found nary a trace of that forty-eight thousand dollars in gold that my client’s supposed to have stolen from that train.…

“Hot enough for you, Sam?”

Gus Leggett’s abrasive voice brought him out of his reverie. He looked up in resignation: Gus Leggett was the town bore. But Gus was also the accountant who had invested Burgade’s money for him, mostly on the advice of Burgade’s former employers, and Gus was good-hearted.

“Hot enough,” Burgade said judiciously, and Gus seemed to take it as sufficient invitation. Gus pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I see you’ve been reading the paper.” Gus had a narrow body, thinning blond hair, the rheumy eyes of a bloodhound, and an infuriating tendency to chuckle at everything he said—a nervous habit; every sentence ended with an awkward, neighing laugh.

Gus beamed. “Funny thing about old Zach Provo, isn’t it? You’re the one who captured him way back in the Dark Ages, aren’t you, heh? I hear they captured that bunch in the farmhouse downriver from Quartzsite, but there’s still nine at large, and Provo’s one of them, heh. What do you think of that, now?”

“They’ll get run down. They always do.”

“Maybe they got across into Mexico by now, what do you think, heh?”

“Maybe they did.”

“Not like the old days when you and the Rurales had to make a private deal because there wasn’t any extradition treaty between the States and Mexico. You ever wish it was the old days again, Sam?”

“No,” he lied.

His unenthusiastic monosyllables finally penetrated Gus’s awareness, and Gus stood up. “Well,” Gus said, and trailed off, and started again, “Well, I got to get up to the office, lot of work to do these days. Things are booming all over. You ought to stop up sometime and we can go over your portfolio, heh.”

“I’ll do that.”

Gus went, hobbling a little; a colt had stomped his foot once, he had lost a toe, and after that he had taken up desk work. He hated horses—“One end bites and the other kicks”—and hadn’t ridden one in thirty years. But then, Burgade thought,
How long since I got aboard a horse
? Last year, the statehood parade. He couldn’t remember a time since then.

He looked at the paper again and then, with sudden resolve, stood up and marched out onto the boardwalk, full of dignity, with the folded newspaper under his arm. He tugged his hat down and walked around the corner, where a blast of dry hot wind struck him across the quarter; tucked his face toward his shoulder and let the wind blow him down the street past the old, disused whipping post to the courthouse.

God had made Sheriff Noel Nye as ugly as He could and then hit him in the face with a shovel. Nye had arrived in Tucson twenty years ago like a whipped dog, a down-at-the-heels Nebraskan with one bad lung. Burgade had taken him on to do desk work and run chores. Nye had followed him onto the Territorial Police, learned the work diligently, grown robust in health, made headlines by shooting it out with one of the Clanton offshoot gangs, and got elected sheriff of Pima County on a wave of hero-worship. He had kept the job through subsequent elections by maintaining a superb record of peace-keeping, arrests, and convictions. Nye was loud and blasphemous; shaggy and folksy and garrulous on the surface, but in fact he was whip-smart. The long hair fell all over his malformed face in an effort to conceal the cauliflowered ears and forceps-elongated head; it exposed the squashed pug nose and the long pointed chin. The eyes were good eyes, warm, intelligent, the color of rusty iron.

Nye got up and came around the desk to welcome him. “Hot damn. Good to see you, Captain. Come on in and set.” Nye had called Burgade “Captain” since the Territorial Police days.

“I don’t mean to take up your time, Noel.” Burgade stood stiffly, embarrassed by the knowledge that he had no official capacity here any longer. The sad realization tended to emphasize his austere demeanor; he was distant and aloof anyway, it had always been difficult for him to establish close human contacts—his closest friends were all dead and he had not made new ones. Only Burgade’s daughter, Susan, remained inside the defensive shell.

Nye said impatiently, “I always got time for you, Goddamnit—hell, Captain, I owe you everythang I——”

“That’s neither here nor there. You’ve got work to do and if I’m in the way, just——”

“Balls. Shut up and set yoseff down, y’hear? Christ, the way you take on, Captain, you’d think you was the fucking town drunk or something. You don’t never need apologize to me.”

Burgade turned the chair and sat down, at attention.

“I guess you been readin’ about Zach Provo bustin’ out of Yuma.”

“Yes. That’s why I came. Any more word?”

“Not a whisper. That half-breed’s like some kind of mirage. Him and eight others, includin’ that Mixican Cesar Menendez, you recall it was him burnt down the Santa Cruz jail. Them two make a mean cock-suckin’ pair.”

Burgade had the newspaper open on his lap. He adjusted his reading glasses and ran his finger down the page. “Gant, Quesada, Weed, Shiraz, Riva, Tucker, Shelby. I remember two or three of them.”

“Some of ’em most lakly come along after your time,” Nye said, and immediately clamped his mouth shut as if he had said the wrong thing.

“Likely,” Burgade drawled evenly. “Look, Noel, Yuma’s a long way from your jurisdiction, but I had a few thoughts on this. I guess I knew Zach Provo as well as anybody at one time.”

Nye sat back. He wore a bowler hat. It was his office hat. When he went outside he always changed hats, put on an olive-drab flat-brimmed Army hat with four dents in the crown. He pushed the bowler onto the back of his head and said, “I’ll be obliged to hear it, Captain.”

“I remember Quesada and Lee Roy Tucker. Tough enough, but hot long on brains. If they had split up by themselves they’d have been caught by now. Gant and George Weed, maybe they’re smart enough to stay out of sight. I can’t speak for the others listed here. But Quesada and Tucker, they’d have fallen into the net by now if they were on their own.”

“I think I follow your meanin’, Captain, but go on.”

“Two guards dead means two guns missing. Did either gun turn up among the convicts they’ve recaptured?”

“No. We got a telegraph ware on that. Armed and dangerous. Ain’t neither gun showed up. They was riot guns, by the way, big motherfuckin’ twelve-gauges, pump-slides.”

“Then it’s damn good odds Zach Provo has got at least one of those guns.”

“Uh-huh. And lakly Menendez got the othern.”

“Possibly. My point is, the rest of those convicts aren’t armed. They wouldn’t have a prayer by themselves. They’re probably sticking close to Provo.”

“Sure. Lak you say, if they wasn’t all stuck together in one bunch, we’d have run a few of ’em down by now.”

“Nine men in a bunch, sticking together. That suggest anything to you, Noel?”

“Sure. I’m catching up on you, Captain. Nine men, you got to feed them, you got to get transpo’t for them, you got to get them clothes.”’

“And guns,” Burgade said. “They’ll have to hit someplace where they can get enough guns to equip everybody.”

“In other words, they ain’t hiding out in the sticks someplace. They got to head for a town.”

“Pretty soon they do. Or a big ranch, but that’s less likely—too many tough men around a working ranch, and too much chance of running into armed resistance. No. They’ve got to raid a town. They’ve only got two guns now, and not much ammunition, so they can’t hold a whole town up at gunpoint. They’ll go in at night, on the sly. Try to break into a gun store and a drygoods and a food store. Get themselves outfitted and then steal horses out of a livery stable.”

“You’re dead right, Captain. Ain’t but one way for them to do it. Of course, it could be any town between here and California, on this side of the Border or down below in Mexico.”

“No. We can narrow that down a lot more than that. They had to use the railroad, Noel. Either that or they’re still in Yuma.”

Nye sat bolt upright. “Railroad? But they done searched ever’ car on ever’ train in and out of Yuma.”

“Then they’re still in Yuma, holed up. Or they hid somewhere on a train where nobody found them. Either way, it narrows down. West of Yuma in California what have they got? Calexico, San Diego. East of Yuma they’ve got Gila Bend, Phoenix Junction, on up toward Flagstaff or down this way—Tucson, Benson, Lordsburg, El Paso. But I doubt they’d go as far as El Paso on a train. Too risky, and they’d be too nervous to stay put on a train that long.”

“Then what you figure? Calexico? Right on the Border, might be the most lakly bet. Easy to crawl acrosst to Mixico.”

“I doubt it. They couldn’t go anywhere from there. It’s isolated. Sand-dune desert on one side and Baja California to the south—nothing down there but rocks and cactus, they’d die of thirst in that country. No. Either they went all the way to San Diego, which is doubtful, or they came east into Arizona.”

Nye scowled at him. Nye liked to bake his opinions in a slow oven before serving them up. Now he said, “Maybe you going a little too faist. How do we know they on a train?”

“Because they’ve been using dogs to track them. They’d have turned up by now if they were still on foot.”

“Two rivers down there, Captain—the Gila and the Colorado. Dogs can’t follow them in a river.”

“The Gila’s dried up. The Colorado—they couldn’t move upstream against that current, and if they moved downstream much past Yuma they’d get swept up in the tidal bore and drowned.”

“You got it all pieced out, ain’t you? Jesus, I forgot how faist your mind works, Captain.”

“Then think about this. Most likely they got aboard a train. Most likely it was eastbound. Most likely they’re all in a tidy bunch that ought to be fairly easy to pin down, only two shotguns among them. The first train into Tucson from Yuma is about due into the yards—you’ve got about fifteen minutes to meet it, Noel, if you want to try it.”

Nye’s grin split his ugly face wide. He stood up in a single motion, tossing his bowler on the desk and reaching for his campaign hat. “Grab yoseff up that rifle there, Captain, and come on.”

Nye summoned three deputies from the wardroom on the way out of the courthouse. They commandeered the chain-driven water truck and went gnashing and bumping down to the railroad yards at a reckless speed of twenty-five miles an hour, scattering pedestrians and terrorizing horses in the streets. Burgade stood on one of the steel foot tabs alongside the sprinkler tank, like a fireman, one hand tight on the hand grip and the other, in which he carried the rifle, holding his hat on against the wind. For the first time in a year he felt eager about something.

His energy quickly dissipated in the heat and disappointment. They prowled the train with deliberate care, infuriating the engineer, who howled about the delay and insisted he had a timetable to keep. Nye said, “You just hold onto your fucking horses and leave when I tell you you can leave.” They started with the caboose and went through every car. The engineer went petulantly along to the dispatcher’s and complained about the delay, whereupon five railroad yard guards were sent along to help speed up the search, but still it was almost half an hour before Nye and Burgade got near the front of the half-mile-long freight and found the icebox car with its door a foot open.

Nye sent two deputies in first, guns up, and one of them came back to the door after a moment holding his nose expressively. “Sun sure got to this here meat, Sheriff, but ain’t no sign of nobody in here.”

Burgade said, “Let me have a look. Give me a boost up, Noel.”

Nye cupped his interlaced hands into a stirrup and gave him a leg up. Burgade felt stiff in his joints. He stopped just inside the car to accustom his eyes to the dimness, and made his way across the stinking rows of carcasses from corner to corner.