The Last Hard Men Read Free

Zach?”
    Deep hate was a fervor that got stronger with time. Provo shook his head. “I want him, Menendez. I want to peel the tough old bastard down to a whimper.”
    “Hell, he’s got to be a real old man by now.”
    Provo didn’t say anything. After a while Menendez said, “Sam Burgade ain’t nawthing but a tired old man, Zach. You’ll suit yourself, I guess, but it ain’t es-smart, what you fixin’ to do. You want to get your hands on Burgade, you gonna have to show your efface right in the middle of Tucson. Tucson’s a big town. They got a lot of law there.”
    Provo grunted.
    Menendez said, “And it ain’t as if he was some old mestizo nobody cared nawthing about. Burgade, he’s an important es-sonomabitch. Maybe he don’t tote a badge no more but he’s got a lot of important frands. They hang you sure.”
    “If he’s riding high that’s fine,” Provo said. “The ground will hit him a lot harder when he falls.”
    “Shit, whatever he done must’ve been a focking long time ago, Zach.”
    “Shut up,” Provo said.
    They kept close to the bank, slipping and sucking in the mud, wading into Yuma under the wharves of the old riverboat shipyards. The crosshatched spindle tracery of the S.P. railroad bridge was a latticed silhouette against the night sky. Lamplight reflected off the dappled surface of the Colorado. The water was warm, a fast current that kept them moving downstream. Provo had the riot gun over his shoulder to keep it dry.
    The ferryboat was over on the California side. They gathered under the landing slip on the Arizona side and waited. Provo’s flesh had already begun to pucker from waterlogging; he climbed up into the woodwork under the ferry dock to dry off. The others took perches in the framework around him, like pigeons resting,
    A federal motorboat putted by, coming downstream fast on the current, its electric search light sweeping the river. It didn’t have a chance of picking them up where they hid. It went by and there was only the faint lapping of the river against pilings, the clatter of wagons and the occasional cough and sputter of a passing motorcar. Sometime around eleven, the westbound passenger flyer roared across the bridge toward San Diego. They had another three hours to wait.
    Someone urinated into the river nearby—the trickle was plainly audible. The ferry came across on its guy ropes, gasoline engine chattering, carrying two horseless carriages and a horse-drawn victoria and a dozen pedestrian passengers. Provo took a strong grip on the piling and held on while the ferry rammed into the slip and made everything shake. It didn’t knock anybody off. The ferry got rid of its load and a new California-bound load came aboard. Provo couldn’t see it; he could hear it. Someone’s boots tramped the dock heavily and he heard a hard voice talking to the boatman: “Keep an eye on the river tonight, Charley—God knows maybe they’ll try to come down on rafts or something.”
    “How many of them convicts you boys got back?”
    “Picked up three on the Gila and a half dozen Mexes down south of town. The Chief just telephoned in from Quartzsite, they got five or six pinned down in a ranch house halfway up there, holdin’ out with the rancher’s guns. We’ll get ’em soon as they run out of cartridges. Last I heard the dogs picked up another bunch that went west across the river. Prob’ly round them up by sunup. Just a matter of time, Charley, just a matter of time. We’ll get ’em all, just as sure as they’s a hole in your ass.”
    The boots tramped back to hard ground and the ferry chugged away. Menendez said in Provo’s ear, “I hope that es-sonomabitch is wrong, hey? They ain’t gon get us now, are they, Zach?”
    “Not me they ain’t,” Provo murmured. “Not until I make Sam Burgade sweat some blood, they ain’t.”
    It worked fine. A railroader opened the side door and flashed an electric torch around quickly and slammed the zinc door shut.