Brian Garfield Read Online Free PDF

Wilstach’s knobby head broke water between Boag and the Uncle Sam ; Boag shouted something and went back under.
    His hand touched bottom and he started dragging himself along the sand bottom. The current skidded him along. He would get a fist into the sand and propel himself sideways across the current and then the river would push him downstream ten feet.
    It was shallow enough to walk it now, but if he did that they’d target him against the pale clay of the sloping banks. He stayed under and crawled until his lungs caught fire.
    When he put his head up for air he saw them shoot their last volley. Uncle Sam was disappearing around the bend. Boag got his feet under him and stood angled back against the current, and searched for Wilstach.
    He saw arms flail the surface. It was Wilstach but he wasn’t swimming strongly any longer; he was batting the water weakly. It was due downstream and Boag just kicked his feet loose and let the current carry him along, breasting with his arms to add speed. But before he reached Wilstach the arms and head disappeared under.
    Boag swam harder.
    They must have put a bullet into Wilstach and if Wilstach let the current carry him around the bend they’d have him in sight again from the high deck; the moon was plenty good enough for shooting. Boag had to find him first.
    Then he saw Wilstach come up for air, one arm flopping up. Boag reached him and grabbed the arm and dragged him in to shore.
    But John B. was dead.

chapter two
    1
    He sat on the ground dripping, filled with agonies, out of breath. He was too spent to think, but when he heard footsteps in the brush he levered himself to his feet ready to face the next challenge.
    It was Frailey, the one who had jumped overboard ahead of them. He was walking downstream, his feet squelching in his wet boots.
    â€œWell then,” Frailey said. He seemed too tired to say anything else for a while. He sat down and put his eyes on John B. Wilstach who lay where Boag had dropped him on the bank. The river rushed by with a steady racket and bugs whined around Boag’s ears but he had no strength to bat them away.
    â€œWhat happened to him?” Frailey asked stupidly. Boag didn’t bother to make any answer. Finally Frailey said, “You ain’t talking?”
    What was there to talk about?
    Frailey said, “Never knew a coon didn’t go stupid-ass silent when it was convenient.”
    â€œShut your mouth.” Boag felt in his pockets. “You got a couple of copper pennies on you?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œPut on his eyelids.”
    â€œIf I did I wouldn’t give them to no dead coon.”
    â€œIf I had a Book I’d read over him. You know the words?”
    â€œNo. If I did I might have to read over both of you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Frailey said, “You caught one or two yourself, I see.”
    Boag looked down where Frailey was looking. Against the matted wet darkness of his pants a couple of darker spots were starting to show up.
    He’d thought it was just the lingering pain from where Sweeney had kicked him.
    â€œGot a knife on you?”
    â€œNo,” Frailey said. “I got nothing but the clothes on my back. I’m as dirt-nigger poor as you, right now.”
    â€œWell I ain’t gonna die from that,” Boag said. He got both hands on the pants cuff and ripped it up to the knee and rolled the cloth back gently; it was already starting to stick to the wounds.
    They’d put two bullets through his right calf. Not through the bone. The blood was a slow ooze so it was vein blood. The bullets must have gone straight through. He twisted his leg around and saw where they’d come out the back in the soft fleshy part of the calf. Probably cut some muscles up. The exit holes were wider than the others and the two had coursed together into one ragged bleeding wound.
    â€œYou maybe ain’t going to die from it,” Frailey said, “but you sure as