Walker’s legs felt rickety. He slipped the deadweight of the duffel bag off his shoulder and let it drop to the ground. It made a muffled sound and Baraclough snapped at him. “Take it easy with that. We break a hole in one of those bags and you know how long it’ll take to chase down every last ten dollar bill in this wind.”
The Major said, “Five minutes, no more.”
Hanratty was sitting on his fat butt. “You think they’re following us already?”
“Not following. Chasing.” The Major was on his feet, turning a slow circle on his heels, trying to burn away the darkness with the heat of his stare. He kept moving his head quickly, like an alert animal. He’s made out of poured concrete, Walker thought, partly in awe and partly in resentment. Major Hargit had the endurance of a truck horse: he didn’t look tired at all.
Hanratty said, “Christ, my feet’s killing me.” Hanratty needed a thorough laundering: the creases of his neck looked begrimed, his clothes were rumpled like a beggar’s, the lobes of his ears gleamed dully with a grease of old sweat.
By a trick of meteorological caprice the storm hadn’t hit them yet. Either it had stopped in its tracks or it had changed direction radically. A few clouds had drifted over east but there were enough stars shining through from that half of the sky to throw a faint illumination across the pale ground. Walker could make out the heavier silhouettes of the mountain sawteeth, the silyer crest of a hill directly ahead of them, the faint glitter of the Major’s eyes when they came around and touched him and went on, sweeping vigilantly.
It was cold; it was still. Gusts came up now and then but the silence in the intervals was leaden. The chill seemed to irritate Walker’s sore tooth and he kept sucking on it with his tongue to warm it.
“We should only have about two miles to go,” the Major said. “Let’s get going.”
“Jesus Fucking H. Christ,” Hanratty complained.
“You’re wasting wind,” the Major said mildly.
Eddie Burt got up and shouldered his sack and prodded Hanratty with his toe. “Get your ass moving before I put a boot up it.”
“Shit, I just sat down. Give me a chance to get my breath.”
Baraclough walked over to him and peeled his lips back from his teeth. “Hanratty, you drag ass just one more time and I’ll feed you to the birds. Now get on your feet.” Baraclough said it in a sibilant whisper; turned on his heel and went back to pick up his duffel burden. When Baraclough straightened and looked at Hanratty the man was on his feet. Hanratty turned to the Major and grabbed the Major’s sleeve and began to say something in his whining voice; the Major said, very soft, “You want that arm broken?” And Hanratty dropped his hand. The Major had spoken without heat but he had a driving, elemental thrust of hard personality and competent brutality and you knew he could have broken that arm without half trying.
Walker was sweating lightly in the cool air. He stayed out of it, to one side, not wanting anyone’s attention: he didn’t trust any of them. Least of all the Major. Because the Major no longer had any real need for him except as a beast of burden to help carry the money. There was no plane for him to fly and that was all he’d been recruited to do. Fortunately the rest of them were still too angry with Hanratty to think about Keith Walker but when they got around to it he wouldn’t be surprised if they started thinking about his expendability.
It wasn’t greed Walker sensed in the leader. Hargit wouldn’t murder him for his share of the loot. Hargit wasn’t that kind of doublecrosser. It was just that three could move faster than five, especially when the three were all ex-Green Berets accustomed to long fast treks through wilderness country in all kinds of lights and weathers. Walker didn’t fit into the group.
The only thing he saw in his own favor was that he was a lot less expendable than Hanratty: Hanratty was past fifty, he was out of condition, he was a whiner, and he had made irrevocable trouble for all of them by shooting that God-damned guard.
Hanratty didn’t care. He was an ex-con with nothing to lose-a three-time loser. The Baumes Act: one more conviction and Hanratty would get put away in hock for good, regardless of whether the charge was armed robbery or felony murder. They’d throw away the key: no chance for parole. So it hadn’t made much difference to Hanratty, killing the guard. But it made a lot of difference to the rest of them and even though Hanratty sometimes acted as though he’d been taking stupid pills he wasn’t dense enough to be ignorant of the way the rest of them felt. Baraclough had made it clear in a dozen ways. And the fact that Hanratty was Eddie Burt’s ex-brother-in-law didn’t cut any ice, not even with Burt.
Hanratty was on his feet now with the bag across his shoulder and his free hand locked around the grip of the big revolver in his waistband. He hadn’t taken his hand more than six inches from the gun since they’d left the plane. Maybe it made him feel a little safer. Walker knew it didn’t matter much to the rest of them: the Major could take the thing away from Hanratty without blinking an eye whenever he got ready to. But it made Walker nervous, Hanratty clutching the gun all the time. Hanratty had already proved he was a triggerhappy fool.
“Let’s move out,” Baraclough murmured, and they started walking.