The Last Hard Men by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online

when the thing might fall out of the holster, drop on a rock and go off.
    He took his time practicing, conserving his ammunition. Dry-fired more that he shot. He had to familiarize himself with the old moves and balances all over again: it had been a long time, muscles remembered but not to the exact point.
    He had to quit twice to forage for beer bottles. Late in the afternoon the noise attracted an audience of half a dozen kids, who stood on the bank behind him and watched solemnly. He said hello to them, courteous and distant, and one or two of them knew who he was, passed the word around; nobody pestered him. The kids volunteered to go looking for more bottles for him and he sat in the lengthening shade while they scooted through the trees, found cans and bottles, and raced each other across the river to set up targets for him.
    He was not above showing off. He finished the afternoon in a blaze of glory, like fireworks: started with his back to the targets; jacked a chamber into the Marlin; wheeled and began firing at an earsplitting speed, so that the racket of each shot nearly blended into the next; the air was full of flying pieces of glass. When he had emptied the carbine he let it hang in his left hand while he slapped the revolver up from his hip and blazed away, holding the revolver out in front of him at eye level where you were supposed to. He didn’t miss one of his six shots. When he walked away toward town the kids were watching him as if he were William S. Hart. He didn’t let them see his pleased little smile.
    His ears were still whistling and ringing when he walked up. to his front door and went inside. Susan appeared at the kitchen door and began to say something, and saw his guns and stared.
    “Just practicing,” he said. “Up on the Rillito. I had to wait awhile for the tram car. Didn’t realize it was getting so late.”
    I’ve waited supper for you.” She pushed her lower lip forward to blow hair off her forehead. “Lay off your things and get washed up.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said dryly. Susan grinned impudently. He put the guns in the front parlor, leaving them out because after supper he would clean them and oil them; he went upstairs, feeling very light on his feet, and worked the pump handle to bring water up to the second-story tank before he went into the bathroom they had built four years ago.
    His clothes were covered with dust. He chastised himself for not having changed into old clothes before he went out to shoot. He had to change; it wouldn’t do to sit down to supper in dusty garb.
    When he came down she said crossly, “It’s getting cold. Maybe I’d better warm it up in the oven.”
    “No. I don’t mind” He held her chair for her and then went to his place at the head of the table. As he sat down he saw she was looking at the grandfather clock. He said, “If you’re going out tonight I’m sorry I held you up.”
    “There’s time,” she said. “Maybe I’ll cancel it anyway.”
    “The Brickman fellow?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’s a good man, you don’t want to keep putting him off.”
    She said, “Quit trying to marry me off.”
    “Time you got another man, Susan. Time you got married again.”
    She was thirty-one, a tall girl with big eyes and good bones, high strong cheeks, a full expressive mouth. He was too close to her to know whether she was pretty but he’d heard men make admiring remarks about her. She had long hair that shone in the lamplight, dark brown hair like his own had been before it went white; her eyes were dark and dramatic and she had a soft contralto voice, low and smoky. Winters she taught fifth grade; summers she kept the books of the city police department. Nine years ago, to Burgade’s intense displeasure, she had married an unambitious young deputy sheriff named Ned Hayes; Burgade had only slowly, and grudgingly, realized Hayes’s virtues—he was steady, honest, dependable, not as dull as he looked at first glance, and had a good