by Dean Ing
"Can I hear it again?" Quantrill listened repeatedly. The quality of the sound was poor, and it still sounded to him as though old Tony Plass had said, "The young one"; but those two following words, slurred and indistinct as they were, threw him off badly. Perhaps… "You could be right," he said at last.
With gruff bonhomie: " 'Course I am. Anyway, just between us two, there are other agencies watching the Garners. So we're to keep hands off, and we means you. Soon as you adjust your report so you don't look silly, I'll get cracking on a commendation. You've earned it." His smile was now a grin; good ol' Marv Steams, giving his good buddy Quantrill a chance to un-fuck up.
It took Quantrill only moments to revise his original report. It no longer implied that Jerome Garner was more than a barn-dance bravo. In fact, it no longer said anything whatever about "the young one."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To be hoodwinked by a politician is bad enough: to admit later that you half knew it at the time is worse. Quantrill arrived at the ranch at dusk, his dull rage tempered only by a suspicion that going along with Stearns had been the correct move. But for the wrong reason—maybe several wrong reasons. He really had let Marv Stearns talk him into changing that report. Flailing his memory hard, he still saw the pale lips of old Tony Plass form three words: the young one. That meant Stearns had doctored the tape, and then dangled a goddam lousy commendation like a carrot ahead of a jackass, and Quantrill had brayed agreement and, for him, a pussywillow flexibility in order to bask in the favor of Chief Deputy Marvin Steams. Slamming into his two-room digs near ranch HQ. Quantrill thought he understood why.
He wanted approval from the system, because he was growing tired of living on its margins. The system meant security—only security was a Shangri-la, a charming fiction. Still, there were varying degrees of insecurity, as Sandy and Jess Marrow kept telling him. Maybe they had convinced him against his will. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting too old for the gunsel life.
Too old, in his twenties? Well, maybe "old" was a state of mind. But if he continued to walk that margin, he was likely to die young. Was there any middle ground? Perhaps there was: something he would call "maturity" for lack of a better word, a mind-set that would urge him to begin tapering off from the extreme chances he had taken, for years, as a matter of course.
Yeah: maturity. It had a nice mellow ring to it, and maybe he would be wise to accept it. Tomorrow, perhaps. He found the scrambler modem, one talisman he kept from his days with the rebels under Jim Street, and used it for a collect call.
He might've reached any of a dozen people, but he recognized the smooth TexMex voice immediately. "It's Ted Quantrill, Lufo. Jeez, don't tell me they got you saddled to a desk now."
"Eye, compadre," boomed Lufo Albeniz with real pleasure. "You know how it is, man, you take what comes and wait for an opening." Only Lufo had always made his own openings and had taught Quantrill the same moves. "Que tall You callin' on the old scrambler, I see."
It may have been the first tendrils of that maturity which made Quantrill focus on the phrase "old scrambler." No telling how many people might have access to the old reb modems; he could tell Lufo more when they met. For now, "Just got myself a commendation, is all. Wanted to share it with the Gov." Even if James Street became President and Pope combined, his old comrades would always call him "Governor."
Sorry, said Lufo, but the Gov was where an attorney general was supposed to be: in the District of Columbia, Missouri. "He flies home most weekends from Mizzou, D.C., now that he has that motorized walker. Saturday you'd most likely find him in Alice."
"Who?"
"Alice, Texas, you Anglo airhead," Lufo guffawed. "Hell, you've been there. Want the number? I think the Gov won't mind if you keep it short."
Quantrill recorded the number and passed a few more pleasantries with Lufo. Each claimed to be considering different lines of work, but the details were vague. Quantrill rang off laughing dutifully at a sexist joke, waited a few moments, then dialed the Alice number. With a little luck and a friendly appointments secretary, he might manage a face-to-face with the Gov on the following weekend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The instant he saw Jess Marrow's face the next morning, Quantrill knew something was brewing. Marrow wore an expression somewhere between worn patience and cynicism as he led the way out to the tack shed, actually a well-kept stone structure larger than many stables. Indeed, several stalls in the tack shed were used to stable "temporaries" and to rig such occasional jokes as the saddled tame bison for special events.
To Quantrill's question. Marrow only said, "Words will not do it justice, Teddy. Not if I was Mark Twain." They turned the corner into a stall and Marrow continued, obviously wanting to be overheard, "I thought you'd want to kiss the dumb sumbitch goodbye. It was you, said we'd have to bury what's left in a cigar box."
"Wardrop," said Quantrill, shaking his head at what he saw.
Alec Wardrop tossed a broad grin over his shoulder as he applied a final stroke with a whetstone. "Mr. Quantrill," he acknowledged cheerily. "You're a bit late."
Quantrill studied the carbon filament lance, as long as two men, and the exaggerated, dagger like steel tip Wardrop had been honing. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Late for what?"
"Why, the great debate," said Wardrop, and now it was clear that he was keeping his good humor with some effort. "Every man jack of my other messmates"—he must have meant Hutch and a few others he had met—"was up at sparrowfart this morning, warning me off this little peccadillo of mine."
"Your quest, you mean."
"Oh, it's not all that serious, old man," said Wardrop.
"That looks damned serious to me," said Quantrill. indicating the lance and then, following Marrow's head nod, studying the little horse that munched grain near them. "But the horse looks like a bad joke."
"Actually, it isn't," Marrow put in, leaning against the Dutch door with folded arms.
Quantrill saw a mud-ugly little stallion the color of ashes, with huge crescent nostrils and belly to match. Under fourteen hands high, he would not weigh four hundred kilos sopping wet and was short-backed and narrow-chested in the bargain. The truth was that Wardrop's mount was smaller than his quarry. "You have God-awful taste in horseflesh," Quantrill said.
"Pretty good taste for this job," Marrow replied as Wardrop strapped on small spurs to his riding boots. "That's a Spanish Barb, Ted. See those forelegs? Cannon bones round and solid as greasewood stumps. Those mean little slant eyes don't miss a single prairiedog hole. Long-winded as an alderman, too. He'll peel out from under you like a quarterhorse if he's got somethin' to chase, and he'll last as long as his rider. Nope, they don't come any tougher than the Spanish Barb."
"Nor any uglier," Wardrop admitted.
"Well, shit, you ain't ridin' in the Calgary parade," Marrow said.
Wardrop smiled at that, nodded, began to saddle the little barb. "Right you are, Mr. Marrow. And I don't care if he looks like a cur, so long as he performs with pig."
"Not with the one you're after," Quantrill muttered.
"We shall see in good time," said Wardrop. "If you'd care to ride out with me and Mr. Hutcherson this morning—"
"Hutch is going after all?" This from Quantrill, quickly, to Marrow.
"Just practice," Marrow replied guiltily. "I marked a few boars for this crazy Brit to try out his new gear with, while you was in Junction yesterday." He turned to the Englishman. "But we won't use ranch choppers to spot Ba'al for you. You'll just have to hire somebody else when you go lookin' for that widow-makin' hog."
"This is all the help I expect," said Wardrop, his jaw set. "Hutcherson is not exactly keen on it, you know. I fully realize that you're all in this conspiracy, Mr. Marrow, but I am not a cadet. Taking this animal, Ba'al, at half face value, I consider him a world-class trophy."
Quantrill picked up the lance with its weighted butt, walking with Wardrop as he led the barb outside. Looking steadily into Wardrop's face, he s
aid, "A good recipe for a messy suicide is to take Ba'al at anything less than two hundred percent face value. His tusks are longer than your lancehead, and as somebody once told me, he can beat you at checkers. Or any other game you have in mind, and if I knew a legal way to stop you, I would."
"You've seen him, then."
Marrow was near, listening; suspecting. "Hutch has, and I've seen the pictures," Quantrill said carefully. "If you brought back a really big hog today, maybe Jess could get its head mounted so it'll look bigger. Marianne Placidas would never know the difference."
"But I would, Quantrill. If you intended no insult, I will not ask you to kindly bugger off." Wardrop was behaving like a gentleman beset by street urchins, holding in his temper while showing a flash of steel. Quantrill realized his error; shrugged; shook his head again.
Wardrop mounted, swinging up with the easy grace of a man who knew what he was doing. Quantrill handed over the lance without a word. With the best intentions, he had clearly pushed Alec Wardrop past any possibility of turning back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Quantrill offered the best possible reason to Jess Marrow for taking Thursday and Friday off: Sandy needed help with her cash crop. He said nothing about personally freighting that crop to the big export market at Corpus Christi. Sandy's special hybrid crop of red-pulp, chili-flavored popcorn would certainly bring top dollar around Corpus—but he would also pass very near the little town of Alice.
The fact was, Marrow took care to keep from showing too much pleasure in granting his assistant leave whenever the Grange girl was involved. If there was one thing that might tame this young hellion, it was a good woman. From what Marrow could see, Quantrill was showing signs of getting domestic. But Jess Marrow could not see all of the signs. He could not know that Jerome Garner resented Quantrill's presence on Sandy's land. Sandy shared a long fenceline with the Garner spread, but for some reason Sandy was never bothered by Garner hands paying court to her. It never occurred to her that Jerome Garner might have told his hired men to steer clear of anything he had his eye on.
Late Thursday afternoon, Quantrill ran the stitcher across the last "gunnysack" of Sandy's crimson-hulled popcorn and mopped sweat from his face. The old fiberglass pallets, roofed for the moment under Sandy's grungy chickenhouse, groaned under their loads. He had sacked three metric tons in all, a full load for any hovervan and then some, if the route covered much broken country.
The buzz of the stitcher clattered down into silence as he called toward the soddy: "Hey, sis, how about some of that cold peach wine?"
Then he heard another machine, a big one with the whistling throb of a blown diesel with fans, in the near distance.
He walked out into autumn sunlight, stretching the kinks from his muscles, pulling off gauntlets and rolling up his sleeves, and saw the flaking paint on the door of the hovervan. Sandy hadn't told him she was renting the cargo vehicle from Garner Ranch.
Sandy and Childe greeted the driver, a lanky six-footer even without his scruffy boots, with no hips to speak of and a powerful beak of a nose between deep-set eyes. Quantrill considered withdrawing into the shed, saw the man glance in his direction, then resumed his walk. Nearing the trio, he heard the man's resonant basso: "Old gentleman said tell you there's no hurry. He'd be obliged if your driver would pick up some parts from International Harvester, and he'll call it even." But now he was standing beside them, looking toward Quantrill, and Sandy turned, too.
"That's more than fair. Cam—Oh, Ted, finished already? This is Cam Concannon, Mr. Garner's foreman. My driver, Ted Quantrill." Her welcoming hug around Ted's waist said much more.
"Mr. Concannon," said Quantrill, taking the scarred hand. The thinning sun-bleached hair suggested the foreman might be past forty, but still whipcord tough and lithe.
"Quantrill," replied the man softly, with smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes as he sized up the smaller man. "We heard Miz Grange had some hired help. God knows she can use it," he added, nodding toward the acreage Sandy had not yet cleared.
"We have some iced peach wine. Cam," Sandy offered, and Childe scampered to the soddy ahead of them. They sat inside, sipping chilled glasses of liquid the color and clarity of a partridge's eye, discussing common topics: the price of special crops, the merits of twelve-volt or "house current" tools, their mutual hopes of a warming trend with less savage winters.
Finally, with a glance at his old-fashioned pocket watch, Concannon declined another refill. "The old gentleman expects me back 'fore dark, and my old cycle ain't what she used to be." He sighed, ducking as he passed the low doorway. "Quantrill, let me get you that parts list and check you out on the van."
The two men walked silently to the hovervan, parked where its air blast would not throw dust near the soddy. "Ted Quantrill, hm?" Concannon's voice was friendly enough, but his message was something else again as he handed over a parts list from the cab. "Ten years ago, we coulda gone to Rocksprings, you and me; knocked off a few beers with the old gentleman. I think Mr. Garner and you would hit it off. But times change. I wisht we could be friends, I really do. Sorry."
"So am I. Is this a nice way of saying Mr. Garner wants me to keep clear of his fenceline?"
"Mul Garner ain't seen his fenceline in years, Quantrill. Pore old man is too sick to run things much. It's Jerome I'm talkin' about. Another year or so and I'm afraid he'll be the only Mr. Garner around." A pause, looking across the hills with a lopsided and cheerless smile. "Garner Ranch is my business. Mul Garner had his boy pretty late in his life, and never kept hobbles on him. Knowin' Jerome is my business, too." The pale, deep-set eyes found Quantrill's again. "He has his eye on this place and what's on it, if you get my drift. He's met you, and he don't like you one bit, and Jerome is mean as a pet coon."
As though asking something of no consequence, Quantrill asked, "Any suggestions?"
Conconnan spat. "Shit, I never in my life told a neighbor to clear out. I won't start now."
"But if Sandy Grange sticks with me, we'd best move on. Is that it?"
"It'd be healthier than stayin' put. For you, anyhow."
Quantrill released a long breath. "Did Jerome Garner tell you to say any of this?"
"No, goddammit! If he knew you was here, he'd of argued the old gentleman out of lendin' the van. Or worse. Hell, I said too much already. The Garners are like my family, and I don't sell my family out. But I can see trouble a long way off, Quantrill. You're trouble. Anybody in this country can tell you how Jerome deals with trouble, and that's about all I ever intend to say about it. I see you again, I nod. That's it."
"Good enough."
Concannon waved a hand across the dash of the van. "Anything here that looks funny to you?"
"Nope. I figure it'll get me there and back. You think I figure right?"
"I wouldn't lend a man a lame horse, damn your hide!"
Quantrill slid back to the cargo section; began to guide a rickety old hovercycle to the loading ramp. "I never thought you would, Concannon. Sorry it sounded that way. Let me help you with this."
"No, you go on back to the soddy, I don't want your goddamm help." Waving Quantrill from the cargo bay, muttering now as if to himself: "Ain't right to take help from a man you can't be seen with. I just hope the old gent lives another fifty years. Keep most of the shit outa the fan…"
Quantrill partitioned this new knowledge off and wandered into the soddy asking about supper. He wasn't disappointed; Sandy was guiding Childe through the first steps of Sonofabitch Stew. They paused to watch Cam Concannon whirr off on his old cycle, and only then did Quantrill remember the Englishman who was training his borrowed Spanish Barb over the horizon. There would be time to discuss it over a second helping of stew; meanwhile he had plenty of time to winch those pallets into the cargo bay.
By suppertime he had scrubbed down, removing the pesky hull fibers that gave a fair imitation of seven-year-itch. Childe bustled about, officious as a Park Avenue doorman in an apron that came down to h
er ankles, convinced that she had created the main dish alone—a dish she particularly enjoyed because it allowed her to use a word that was otherwise taboo. When she crowed, "Come get the sonofabitch," Sandy decided this had gone too far. But Ted Quantrill could not stop laughing, and Childe wallowed in her small victory.
Sawing away at a loaf of sourdough bread, Quantrill broached the subject of Wardrop's training. "If you can keep Ba'al down home here for a couple of weeks," he said, mostly to Childe, "our crazed Brit will probably give it up. He can't afford to hire scout choppers forever, and the first blue norther that blows down here will teach him who the real enemy is."
"He won't stay hid," Childe said with authority. "I'll have to stay with him."
"You will be in school in Rocksprings next week, young lady," Sandy said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a paddle. "I can keep him busy hauling mesquite now and then but he loses interest in it pretty fast. If anybody fires one shot at Ba'al on my spread, he can count on me shooting back."
Around a mouthful of succulent bread-soppings, Quantrill said, "Not Wardrop. Give the fool credit for courage; he's not even carrying a sidearm."
Sandy, perplexed: "This man has seen pictures of Ba'al, and is going to face him with a little bitty spear?" Her headshake consigned Wardrop to some heavenly asylum.
Childe: "If he's crazy, and doesn't have a gun, that's the only chance he has."
Quantrill: "Come again?"
Childe waved a hunk of bread airily. "You know how rabbits go weird in season? Jumping flips, stuff like that? Ba'al likes rabbit, but he lets the crazies alone."
"This Brit will not be turning flips or making faces," Quantrill warned. "In some ways he's a helluva guy. But if he ends up with his innards spread all over Wild Country, Ba'al may get a sure-'nough posse on his trail. The best answer is for them not to meet." The same, he realized, was probably true for himself and Jerome Garner.