Brian Garfield Read Free Page A

the riverbank, standing in a clutter of volcanic boulders, peppering away with steady deliberation at a pile of tin cans that individually leaped and bounced like carousing fleas. When the right-hand revolver was finished the left-hand one began with no interruption in the metronomic rhythm; there was something awful about it—as inhuman and indifferent as a machine.
    Having emptied his third pair of cylinder-loads with baneful effectiveness the two-gun man paused to plug out his empties and refill the chambers from coat pockets that bulged with a weight of ammunition. Then he holstered both weapons and turned toward his horse. He put one foot in the stirrup, lifted himself aboard and adjusted the reins in his grip. Then he looked up. That was when he discovered Pack and the other four. Under the flat black hatbrim his face shot forward with an atavistic suspicion.
    It was a blade-narrow face upon which two features were remarkable even at this distance: great jagged eyebrows and the drooping Mandarin-style mustache—silver-hued now, but twenty years ago they had been deep glistening raven black: as singular then as now. For there was no mistaking that Ichabod Crane angularity, the poised stance, the belligerent thrust of jaw. Even at this remove, Pack identified the villain instantly, as if the intervening years had been erased.
    Joe Ferris said, in a voice soft with revulsion, “Jerry Paddock. Didn’t know he was still alive.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t be, if justice had been left to me,” said Howard Eaton.
    Johnny Goodall said, “Never mind, sir. I expect you’re just as satisfied you never took occasion to lynch anybody.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” Eaton growled, but Pack knew Johnny Goodall had told the truth of the matter.
    The villain couldn’t have heard the words at that distance but he lifted his reins as if in response, swept the five men with one final withering stare, wheeled the horse expertly on its hind legs and broke away in an immediate canter, riding off upriver with leisurely insolence.
    A.C. Huidekoper said, “I put forward the suggestion we consider what might bring that vile carrion here to this place on this particular day.”
    Howard Eaton chopped the blade of one hand into the other palm. “I brought my hunting rifle, in case it’s the President’s pleasure.”
    Huidekoper was squinting cheerlessly toward the river bend to the south where the departing horseman continued to dwindle. “I wouldn’t care to begin to count the number of times Jerry Paddock made threats upon Roosevelt’s life.”
    â€œNot to mention the time Theodore got the better of him barehanded against both revolvers,” Eaton added.
    Pack said, “I wonder if those are the same two Colts.”
    Eaton went on: “It must have been the kind of humiliation that would have galled a far less arrogant man than Paddock. You were there that time, weren’t you, Joe?”
    Joe Ferris said, “I was, and I don’t think Jerry Paddock’s forgot it either. Be a good idea if we all stand close around Mr. Roosevelt today—and keep both eyes peeled on the horizons. Those of us, that is,” he added with a dry glance toward Pack, “who give a damn about the life and good health of the President.”
    â€œNow Joe, that’s hardly fair,” Pack complained. “I’ll keep as sharp an eye as any man here, and you’re a hell of a friend if you think any different.”
    â€œI was only pulling your leg there,” Joe Ferris said. “Let’s not all get even more tetchy than we need to.”
    No one else had heard any signal yet—certainly Pack hadn’t noticed anything—but when Johnny Goodall said, “Here comes the train,” nobody doubted him for an instant. They all turned and marched toward the platform.
    By the time they had reached it and Pack had bent to sweep some of the dust off