Brian Garfield by Tripwire Read Free Book Online Page A

thing Boag had been doing for several days: thinking ahead just one step at a time because if you thought it all the way through you had to give it up. The old woman had thought no farther than the other side of the river.
    He could get across the river by himself all right. The old ferry would be an adequate raft.
    Boag crawled down to the ferry landing. The flies were numerous but he paid them no mind.
    When the little girl came down to the dock Boag laid his hand on the rifle. “You’re a witch. Get away.”
    The little girl said, “They keep me because I can work but they hate me because I am Yaqui and they know the Yaqui is better than they are. You are a ladrón, you can understand. My father was a warrior and he killed many of them.”
    â€œAnd they killed him, didn’t they?”
    The little girl ran away. Boag picked up the rifle and hobbled back to the wagon. The wound wasn’t as bad as he’d feared this morning; he felt better about the idea of a swim across.
    The old man was breathing heavily beneath the wagon, a flush on his cheeks. The little girl wandered away into the rocks.
    The woman said, “The truth is that her mother was not a Yaqui. Her father may have been. A mountain thief, I am sure.”
    â€œYour mouth flaps,” Boag told her.
    â€œWould you shoot me for that, tough one?” A plump finger waggled at him. “You will not shoot, but you will leave us to die.”
    â€œOld woman, I have trouble enough of my own.” He made his way down to the river. The flow was fast and steady, and frightening. He bounced the rifle in the circle of his fist.
    Finally he went back to the wagon. “Listen to me. I will take you to Yuma—I go that way anyway.”
    If the woman had feelings she gave no indication. “How will you do this?”
    â€œSwim across, pole the ferry over to this side. The current will drive me far downstream before I reach this bank so you must get him on his feet and come down along the bank to meet me.”
    He went back down to the crumbled landing and scowled at the river. This morning it had almost killed him.
    The little girl trailed him there. Boag had the rifle in his fist and the little girl said, “You cannot take that with you.”
    â€œYou are right.”
    â€œI will keep it for you.”
    He didn’t trust her, but he trusted her not to be able to use the rifle. He handed it to her and stepped into the water. His toes felt the suck of the mud bottom. He stepped out again and stripped off his pants and shirt and placed them in a neat bundle on the landing. “Bring these to me also.”
    â€œAll right, ladrón. ”
    The sun was very hot on his bare flesh. He moved out into the current, feeling the force of the river against him. It rushed warm toward the south. He struck out into it.

6
    In Boag’s judgment they made seventy miles before nightfall. Delay annoyed him but the old man was too weak to make a night trip of it. They camped in reed bottoms.
    Boag lay on his back with one knee bent and the Spanish rifle across his stomach. After the fire was laid the little girl came and sat beside Boag and talked softly. “If we go to California the old man will die, and she will have her people. They will have no use for me.”
    â€œThen you will have to learn to look out for yourself.”
    The woman propped the old man up against the raft and they ate. The food was meager. Afterward Boag picked a spot to sleep, and did not awaken until sunrise. In the morning he had a look at the leg. Swollen but not much pus; the scabs were tight, the leg itched. Good signs.
    The old man lay on his back, his mouth open and slack. Boag looked away with his eyebrows drawn together. He pitied them all and he was angry because he had to be pitying them; they were getting in the way.
    The sun blasted his face. Heat glistened on the muddy surface of the Colorado and the water rushed past the