“What do you do, sir?” Hobbs asked pleasantly.
“I’m retired,” I said. “Sort of. I work for the Livestock Board.” I waggled a finger. “Count brands, that sort of thing.”
“You haven’t always done that,” he said.
“Nope.” The young couple by the door rose from their table, the girl making just enough of a detour to hand the ticket and a twenty-dollar bill to Christine over the bar. Neither blonde nor pretty, she wouldn’t have drawn an agent’s attention. She nodded at us, and then the couple left the saloon. That left the two highway department employees, and us. As the door closed behind the young couple, I heard another car swing off the highway, braking hard.
Sipping coffee with one hand, I pulled my phone out of my shirt pocket, looking at it as if it had just announced an incoming call by vibrating. I pushed the autodial.
“Hello?” I said, and dispatcher Brent Sutherland came on the line.
“Sutherland.”
“Hey, you found me,” I said, and if that confused the dispatcher, he didn’t let on. “Where’s Tom at?” In the background I could hear radio traffic.
“He’s in the Broken Spur parking lot, sir,” Sutherland replied.
“Tell him to hang tight.”
“The sheriff just left the airport, so. ETA is forty at least.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch.” I folded the phone and put it back in my pocket. Christine came out of the kitchen, where she’d followed Victor, and as the door swung behind her, I caught a glimpse of Deputy Tom Pasquale. Forcing a confrontation was pointless, since we had all the time in the world and all the space in the world once outside. Rory Hobbs and Richard Zimmerman had no vehicle of their own. They had nowhere to run.
As if sensing an escalating tension, Zimmerman looked down the bar, perhaps wondering where the pretty barmaid had gone. Victor came out of the kitchen, ignored us, and went over to the table where the two laborers were just finishing up. He gathered their burger baskets and nodded at the ticket. The two men conferred over the payment, then tossed down a few bucks, rose, and left the Spur.
Holding the two baskets, Victor paused and nodded at Father Anselmo. “Come back to the kitchen for a minute,” he said. “I gotta talk to you.”
“Well, sure,” the priest said. He rose and almost as an afterthought said to the two young men, “Give me a second. Then we’ll head on up to the interstate.”
“You got it,” Hobbs said. Zimmerman rubbed the palms of his hands on his trousers. I guess that his radar was more finely tuned than his partner’s. He might not have even known why his nerves were twanging, but Rory Hobbs was oblivious.
Now, with everyone out of harm’s way and just the three of us in the bar, I saw no reason to put off the inevitable. I rose to my feet and beckoned toward the kitchen door, hoping that Deputy Pasquale was paying attention. Both young men followed my gaze, and none of us heard the front door behind us.
“Gentlemen, put your hands on the bar in front of you,” the voice commanded, and it startled even me. I pushed away from the bar, right hand flying back to the butt of my revolver. Pasquale had moved with stealth belying his size, and his automatic was drawn. “Right now. I want to see four hands.”
Zimmerman gasped something incoherent and half-turned, his face drained of color. Hobbs rose slowly, an unreadable expression on his handsome features. He looked at me then, and his eyes were chilling. “You old bastard,” he whispered.
“Don’t be stupid,” I snapped. “Hands on the bar, spread the feet.”
Facing a drawn gun, and Tom Pasquale’s was steady and out of reach five paces away, most folks would turn to gelatin. Zimmerman was well on his way to that state, but Hobbs was calculating. I could see it in those dark eyes, shifting this way and that, playing the numbers.
“There’s nowhere you can go,” I said. Pasquale stepped forward, closing the distance. “It’s over, Rory. It’s over. We have good descriptions from the chop shop in Oposura, and from a witness in the parking lot in Cruces where you took the Dodge.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Oh, God, Rory,” Zimmerman whispered.
“The good news is that you didn’t kill Patrick Gabaldon, the cowboy whose truck and trailer you highjacked. I’m sure he’s looking forward to meeting you two.”
Zimmerman’s knees buckled, and he let the bar stool take his weight. Hobbs turned slightly, and in fifty years of paying attention to such things, I have never seen anyone move so fast. With the deputy advancing but still three strides away, Hobbs spun and grabbed his partner in a hammer lock, a blue utility knife appearing in his right hand.
“Back off!” he screamed at Pasquale. The razor tip of the knife dug into Zimmerman’s neck. He hauled his partner to his feet and backed along the bar toward the kitchen. Barstools crashed out of his way. “Back off!” he repeated.
“What’s that going to accomplish?” I slipped around the end of the bar into the bartender’s aisle. “Let him go, Rory.”
“You just back off. I mean it.”
“Where do you think you’re going to go?”
A thin tendril of blood laced down Zimmerman’s neck, and I could see that this time, the small triangular blade was in just the right spot, a thin layer of skin and muscle between it and the young man’s carotid.
“Not across the border,” I said. “They’re waiting for you. And even if you did make it across, Mexican authorities would be delighted to see you.”
“Get the priest out here!” he cried. For the first time, I heard panic in his voice. He jerked upward with his left arm, yanking Zimmerman’s head backward.
“Can’t do that,” I said.
“I’ll kill him!” He jerked his partner again, and Zimmerman let out a cry.
“Well, you can go ahead and do that if you want, I suppose,” I said. Zimmerman’s knees sagged. “I’m not sure what that will accomplish, other than saving the taxpayers a lot of money.” I took a step or two down the bar, keeping my hands in sight.
“Drop the weapon,” Pasquale ordered, but Hobbs ignored him, eyes locked on me. He’d twisted his hold enough that his captive provided effective cover from the deputy’s gun. He was full face to me, though, and maybe could judge that I wasn’t the one to put a bullet between those expressive eyes.
Behind him, the swinging door to the kitchen drifted open, silent and smooth. Victor appeared, face glowering.
If he felt the air change or heard a soft foot tread, I wasn’t sure, but Rory Hobbs turned ever so slightly to his right, arm still locked around Zimmerman’s chin, blade still digging into flesh.
Victor struck with precision, the pan hitting Hobbs squarely on the temple before the boy could life an arm to protect himself. The impact was an ugly, muted thud. Victor hadn’t selected an aluminum pan, or a copper one, or even stainless steel. The old-fashioned cast iron caved in Hobb’s elegant skull like a gourd hit with a baseball bat. Pasquale moved just about as fast. He grabbed Hobb’s right arm even as the kid slid to the floor, twisting the utility knife free. Released, Zimmerman staggered against a bar stool, hand clamped to his neck, then recoiled in horror as he saw Victor’s arm draw back again.
Before I could round the end of the bar, the deputy bulldozed Victor to one side, spun the young man around out of harm’s way and cuffed his hands behind his back. Zimmerman offered no resistance as I reached across with a bar towel and pressed it against the small incision on his neck.
“Back off,” Pasquale snapped as Victor stepped toward the crumpled figure on the floor. The dark pool of blood was spreading inexorably across the wooden floor from Rory Hobbs’ skull.
“Get him off my floor,” Victor ordered.
“I said, back off!” Pasquale roared. “I mean it, Victor. Drop that pan.”
“My Lord,” Anselmo said. He’d swung open the kitchen door and now strode forward, catching Victor by the arm.