Nye chugged his beer down. The mug had left a wet ring on the bar. He set it down carefully on the ring. “I don’t know, Captain. Take the lid off that kand of honey jar and a lot of flies bound to come swarming around besides Zach Provo. We could end up with the whole town full of bank robbers.”

“When you use a net you’re bound to pull in a lot of innocent fish. If they’re too small you just throw them back in the water, Noel. And if they’re big enough and guilty enough then you’ve got a bonus.”

“Provo ain’t stupid. He sees some story about a big shipment of cash money, he’ll have to expect it’s gonna be protected. He might even figure it for a trap.”

“Naturally. So let’s give him a little extra bait. Put in the story that the money’s coming in—oh, say, Friday morning maybe, on an armed westbound train. That ought to give Provo time to see the story, a few days to get over here to Tucson and get his crowd set up for it. And put in the story that the money’s going to be trucked from the depot to the bank under guard. With me heading up the guard detail.”

“You?”

Burgade finished his beer and ascetically cleaned the foam from his lips with a bar napkin. “Me. I’m the man killed Zach Provo’s wife. I doubt that’s slipped his mind. Quite the reverse. I imagine he’s had nothing to brood about except that, and nothing much to do except brood about it. Offer Zach Provo a chance to kill me and he’ll jump at it.”

“Oh sure. And you’ll get dead. I don’t like the price of that, Captain.”

“I’ll have a little advantage, Noel. I’ll know he’s coming. I’ll be looking for him.”

“But you’re—” Nye didn’t finish the sentence and it was pretty clear what he had meant to say: But you’re an old man.

“I’ve handled Zach Provo before,” Burgade said stiffly. “I can do it again.”

“But it ain’t your job, Captain.”

“I’m offering to make it my job.” For God’s sake can’t you see how much I want this chance?

Nye stirred. He rubbed a hand abrasively over his ugly face. “I don’t know, Captain. I’ll have to thank on it.”

“Don’t take too long. The papers are going to press.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Provo’s too smart to get caught unless we bait him into it. You know that.”

“Aeah. Reckon I do. But I ain’t sure he’s worth catchin’ if it’s at the expense of your life.”

“Let me worry about that,” Sam Burgade said.

Nothing to do now but wait. Sweat it out and see if Provo swallowed the hook. Burgade walked home shortly before noon, taking his time in the heat. Big trees arched the street, throwing patterns of shade, and the stately old Spanish houses clung to a decaying dignity. The lawn in front of Burgade’s house looked parched. He went up the tile-bordered walk and let himself in; the screen door flapped shut behind him with a weatherbeaten slap. The thick adobe walls made it cooler inside.

The gun cabinet was in the front parlor, tall like a china cabinet; the windowed maple doors were not locked, but the guns inside were chained and padlocked, to discourage errant children. Burgade opened the doors and inspected the assortment. Some of the long guns went back a long way. The .45-70, he’d had that one with him when he’d cornered Zach Provo in his hogan.

No time to reminisce about that now. The Springfield .06 was likely the best all-around rifle in the rack, but it was a bolt-action, not fast enough for close-in work in town streets. He passed it by. Same for the Mannlicher. The Winchester .38-56 was too heavy, too long and ponderous. The .32-20 was a toy, a squirrel gun, no good for man-size targets.

It came down to the Marlin .30-30. Lever-action carbine, short barrel, light stock, not much for long-range work but easy to maneuver and quick to reload.

He unlocked the chain and took it down. Found four boxes of cartridges in the drawer, and after a moment’s thought unlocked the cabinet door beneath and dragged out the old holster-belt and the black metal lockbox. He put the lockbox on the dining table and put its key into it, flipped the lid back and poked through the oiled handguns inside. The Army .45 automatic was the newest of them, a carved gilt-inlaid beauty. Presented to him with much fanfare at the banquet when he’d retired from the Territorial Police. Like a gold watch, he thought. He’d never got the hang of shooting the thing: it didn’t point naturally, it kicked like a mule. Hard to hit the broad side of a barn from inside the barn. He put it back in the box and shuffled the others around. His favorite was the old .44 single-action, he’d carried that one on his hip nearly thirty years and the bluing was worn off to show for it. But old springs got brittle, like bones, and old firing pins tended to crystallize and shatter. Any piece of machinery that was too old and too much used was suspect: undependable.

Sad thoughts: he put them away with the old .44. He picked out the swing-cylinder .45 double-action and slid it into the old holster and threw the tails of his jacket back to buckle the gunbelt around his hips and snug it down. At least the belt still fit. He hadn’t put on an ounce in fifteen years. The belt loops contained .44-40 cartridges and he had to replace them, methodically, one by one, with .45 centerfires. The old .44’s from the belt had turned green from leather corrosion.

The boxes of .30-30’s weighted down his jacket pocket. He walked out of the house with the Marlin rifle in the bend of his elbow and the revolver heavy along his thigh. Walked at a deliberate pace up to Stone Avenue and waited for the streetcar, and rode it all the way to the end of the line at Limberlost Road. It was hell hot. He walked on north toward the trees along the bank of the Rillito, half a mile along a twin-rutted wagon track through the scrub. Along the way he picked up an armload of discarded beer bottles.

He spent half an hour cruising the trees on both banks of the riverbed. Not that he expected to find lovers sparking in broad daylight in this heat. But he didn’t want stray ricochets cutting up somebody’s wandering milch cow. He found no animal life bigger than gophers, and went down into the dry bed of the river. It was deep sand, pale tan in color, marked here and there by clay bars and patches of sun-whitened pebbles. It was a wide river, two hundred feet from bank to bank, but no water where you could see it. This time of the year the water was all underneath, flowing along its underground channel beneath the riverbed. Dig down six, eight feet and you’d hit water. Come the rains in the autumn, a few hours’ rain every day for two or three weeks, and the river would be full—flash floods coming down off the hills, a savage and furious torrent. But right now it was bone dry between the eight-foot-high cutbanks.

Burgade set up the empty bottles at the base of the north bank and waded across through the sand to the south side. He thumbed a cartridge into the breech of the Marlin and then filled the magazine with ammunition. Broke open the sidegate revolver and chambered six into it, and holstered it with the firing pin between the rims of two shells. He was too old a hand to get careless at this stage of his life: leave the pin over a live primer and you never knew 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.