by Dean Ing
Quantrill started to pivot, merely from reflex action; then stopped, realizing the rancher intended only to cut his bindings. Garner stood still and sucked a tooth for a moment. "I don't cause trouble either, young fella. And I only settle it when I have to."
"Sorry, sir. It's been a long day," Quantrill said wearily, and let the man slice the tape from his arms and wrists.
Garner was laughing to himself, a soft wheeze punctuated by deep breaths, as he stepped back and flicked the balisong shut with another sleight of hand. "You have a gift for understatement, judging from that goose egg on your forehead." He watched Quantrill rub his wrists, running his eyes over the trespasser. Judging. He chose a suede-covered chair, its back as high as a throne, settled into it as the others followed. Quantrill did not sit, because Concannon did not. "Let's have it, then; your name and story and whatever lame excuse you might have."
Long ago in army intelligence, Quantrill had taken crash courses in language; had never been sorry for it. Mul Garner kept the cadence and twang of Wild Country but had developed a wider range of pitch changes. His phrases were those of a man who might have acted in college plays, or perhaps he simply read as widely as Sandy. Perhaps a man with a romantic streak who would understand peculiar quests.
By now, Quantrill had a story ready. He was Sam Coulter, part-timer with WCS, he said; ex-army, now considering a career as a veterinarian with exotic game. "There's a Brit lieutenant who claims he ran up against the biggest boar in the solar system out here a day or so ago," he went on, "and I got curious. A boar like that would be worth more alive than dead, I thought." To himself, he added that it wouldn't hurt Ba'al's chances if Garner got the same idea.
Concannon: "That tallies. He was out near Faithful Creek on a WCS cycle with a vet's kit and a rifle that shoots hypos." A sudden grin, then, "Kept Billy Ray and L. J. pinned down for hours, told 'em it was a shotgun with boosted ammo."
"It's louder when you discharge it without a load," Quantrill chipped in. That told Garner he hadn't shot to kill.
Mul Garner had heard nothing of Wardrop's folly and spent five minutes questioning Concannon, irritated to find that an S & R crew had answered an emergency on his land without his knowledge. Turning again to Quantrill: "This is the dumbest goddamn story I ever heard. Coulter. Might as well go after a Brahma bull with a willow switch."
"That's what everybody told the Brit."
"It applies to you, too. I know that damn hog's been on my spread for years, and I know what he's done. Live and let live, I say. Even if you knocked him out with a hypo, how on God's brown prairie did you expect to haul him back to WCS on a two-man cycle?"
Quantrill told the truth: "I only figured on fixing him up, if he was hurt like the Brit said."
Garner sat back, shaking his white mane. "And make him your pet? Was that the idea?"
"Something like that."
"He'd eat your lunch and save you for supper. Coulter. They didn't name that hog 'Ba'al for nothing. He's a devil incarnate. I can't keep you from hunting him entirely, but I sure as hell don't want him munchin' your bones on my spread. And trespassers do tend to get shot in these parts. Do I have your word you won't cross my fencelines again?"
Somewhere inside Mul Garner, amusement was bubbling to get out. Quantrill saw that the man considered him little more than a harmless ass. In some ways, Quantrill agreed. It was hard not to agree with, and not to like, the rancher. "My word on it, Mr. Garner," said Quantrill.
Concannon said respectfully, "I reckon cookie can build him a sandwich and I can drive him far as Rocksprings tonight, if you want."
"If you would. Cam. You might steer him to disinfectant and a bandage, while you're at it." The rancher reached to a squat, hand-carved table and flicked the top from a cedar box. "But I haven't heard how you got bashed up, Coulter, and I intend to. While you humor me, you fellas might join me." With that, he withdrew three big green cigars and offered two to the others.
It was hard to tell whether Concannon's sigh was for the cigars or for the wasted time. Quantrill accepted this symbol of hospitality and took a chair when he was told to. He was thirsty again, and full of aches. The cigar, he found, was the least offensive stogie he had ever lit.
Quantrill was in the act of admitting he did not know how he struck his forehead in his fall when he heard a screen door, somewhere in the back of the house, complete its shallow skritch and bang. He paused, hearing several sets of footsteps.
"That'll be my boy," said Garner.
"I thought it might," said Concannon. The foreman's expression was carefully noncommittal.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jerome Garner moved with studied machismo, slapping a Stetson against expensive whipcord breeches as he entered the parlor. He was one of those men with the kind of presence that fills a room. Quantrill recognized the other two men as Longo and Billy Ray. Jerome made a showy, unnecessary gesture seating a holstered forty-five-caliber automatic more firmly on his thigh. Jerome tossed his hat into a chair. Without a by-your-leave, he crossed to the cigar box with a few long strides, tossed cigars to his cronies, unwrapped one for himself.
Jerome Garner had already glanced at Quantrill, who was partly in shadow, before turning to his father. "Just got in from the south end. Pop. I hear the boys nailed a—" He then did a very slow, almost casual, double take: lit the cigar and squatted so that his nose was within two feet of Quantrill's. "Well," he said, smiling, savoring it as he drawled, "as I live and breathe and kick ass, look who we have here." He straightened to his full height and chuckled at the impassive Quantrill.
Mul Garner looked up at his strapping son with fondness, perhaps seeing himself across the years. He was smiling at first, but saw something in Jerome's face that brought a crease to his forehead. To Jerome: "You know young Coulter?"
"Yeah. I know him." A luxurious smoke ring curled from Jerome Garner's mouth. "He's one of those fat-cat deputy marshals out of Junction and his name's not Coulter."
Quantrill met the old man's gaze and nodded. No point in telling them he was now an ex-deputy; in fact, with the memory of Judge Placidas's dying statement ringing in his ears, Quantrill thought it might be better to let them think he was still on the force. "They call me Coulter sometimes," he said, half in truth. "My real name's Ted Quantrill."
Silence, discounting the provocation of Jerome Garner's repeated chuckle. Then, from the old rancher: "Thought your face looked familiar. You fought with the rebs; did a holo broadcast with Jim Street. Made quite a splash with Street's paramilitary people, as I recall." His face troubled now, Mul Garner put the cigar aside. "Jerome, send your men back to their poker game," he said quietly.
Without hesitation Jerome said, "Wait on the porch, boys." As the two waddies moved to the front door, Quantrill saw something very like a silent plea in the face of the elder Garner, but only grim pleasure in the reply. "This is a slick one, Pop. Regular-little weasel. See that dark circle on his sleeve? S'posed to be a Department of Justice patch there. And if that wasn't bad enough, he's the one helping out on Sandra Grange's pissy little spread."
The father: "Don't bad-mouth your neighbors, Jerome."
The son: "Don't tell me what to do. Pop."
Concannon: "Easy, Jer, he's your daddy."
Jerome: "You're not, Cam. Fuck you."
Mul Garner stood up to face his son, and Quantrill was reminded of the dominance ploy of Ba'al. Perhaps Jerome Garner gave you no respect unless your eyes were higher than his. The old man nearly qualified, though he no longer stood as straight as he once had. "Jerome, how many men have you hired on, who use names they weren't born with?"
Jerome shrugged carelessly and waved the question away. "I don't know and I don't care. I shit-sure care why he's snoopin' on my — our land."
Quantrill told him.
Another mirthless chuckle, studying the ash on his cigar. Then Jerome turned to his father. "Playin' doctor to a fuckin' killer hog? You really believe that. Pop? Well, let me tell you what I t
hink. I think this little stud has a hard-on for a piece of land. I think he'd like to marry into it; yeah, the Grange spread. And her fenceline is smack against ours, and if he could figure a way to frame a neighbor on some trumped-up charge, he might be in position to get more land in exchange for droppin' those charges. That's what I think." He jerked a thumb toward the foreman. "I think Cam knew who he was all the time. How 'bout it. Cam: didn't you loan Sandra Grange a van for this goddamn deputy to drive?"
"Couldn't say," Concannon replied, and glanced innocently at Quantrill. "Was you the fella in Miz Grange's soddy?"
"That's right," said Quantrill, endorsing the evasion. "I'm also the guy who spent half a Saturday rounding up spare parts near Corpus for Garner Ranch."
Jerome Garner felt the reins slipping from his grasp and seized them quickly. "I don't give a good shit about that, but I been watching you suck up to Sandra Grange, weaseling in next to what's mine—"
"And cuttin' Miz Grange out from your remuda of fillies, Jer?" Cam Concannon spoke softly, but the truth had a cutting edge of its own.
"You're lookin' for a fat lip," said Jerome furiously, and took a step toward the foreman.
But also toward the seated Quantrill, who came up. poised on the balls of his feet, at the ready. He hurt all over, and was now running on reserve energy, but he had seen Jerome Garner operate before at Saturday dances. The big bastard liked to crowd you. In his present condition, Quantrill could not afford to take the big man lightly.
Mul Garner reached for his son's arm and simultaneously began with: "Cam, don't push him, you know how—" But Jerome, with his free hand, flicked his cigar hard toward Quantrill's face from a double arm span away.
Quantrill's open-handed wave batted the cigar down and, without pausing to consider it, he responded in kind. The glowing end of the stogie caught Jerome at the throat, sent sparks showering under his chin.
Jerome wrenched his arm free from his father's grip, brushing with both hands at his neck, then pointed a trembling finger at Quantrill. "I'll teach you to do that when I got one hand pinned."
"Be reasonable, Jer," said Mul Garner, kicking the live cigar toward the fireplace.
"Never start until you're ready," Quantrill said to the pointing finger as calmly as he could.
"You're courtin' trouble," said the old rancher to Quantrill.
"You and me goin' to knuckletown, little man. Outside," said Jerome, pointing toward the porch.
Mul Garner lifted one hand; let it fall against his leg. "I can't let you do this, Jerome."
"You'll play hell stopping me, Pop. He asked for this. And if he tries to run for it, I'll tell the boys to shoot to kill."
"They're Jer's men more'n his daddy's," Concannon said.
"That's a fact," added Mul Garner. "My mistake. At least give me the Colt, Jer.” Jerome made that one small concession, dropping the nickel-plated sidearm onto a chair cushion.
In another time, Quantrill would have forced the issue then and there, in the room, which offered several advantages. But the parlor would have ended as a shambles. He waved the big man ahead of him. "I'd hate to get shot coming out the door," he said.
Jerome Garner marched out to the dimly lit porch, pulling thin leather gloves from a hip pocket. They gave him still another advantage. The two men outside turned expectantly. He let the main door swing open, held the frame of the exterior screen door until Quantrill was passing through, then kicked the frame hard.
Ted Quantrill would have been surprised if that door hadn't been used as a weapon. He moved sideways, with a sudden change of pace so that the wooden frame banged harmlessly shut, and let his shoulders slide along the stone wall.
Jerome was already hurtling forward to catch his victim staggering from the door, off-balance as he swung one pointed boot at groin height.
Quantrill was not there; the wall was. A working waddie has low broad heels for everyday wear, but Jerome was more rider than worker and fancied the tapered high boot heels that added two inches to a man's elevation. As one boot caromed off the limestone wall, he bent backward to catch his balance. In that position, wearing "show-off boots, he could be literally spun on one narrow heel. Quantrill's caulked sole caught the big man behind his lifted thigh, began the spin Jerome himself had set in motion; kept it going with an elbow in his kidney.
Jerome Garner grunted, fell sidelong, and Quantrill elected not to follow him down. The truth is, Quantrill hoped to put Garner out of action with a kick to the solar plexus. Garner had made it clear that his only rule was "win," starting with a flung cigar, and he started out on his home turf with huge advantages in height, weight, and reach. In Quantrill's position, it was a disadvantage even knowing how to spell Marquis of Queensbury.
But Jerome anticipated that kick, rolled to the steps, saw that he was clear, and bounced up without a pause. Now he took a boxer's stance. Left-handed. Quantrill recalled that Garner had snaked the forty-five out of its holster with his right; as a wrong-hander himself, he knew the devastating effectiveness of an unexpected change-up. Yet Garner was not especially quick.
"You're no southpaw," Quantrill said, breaking his usual rule about silence in a fight, and made himself smile. Garner's only reply was to shift into a comfortable right-handed stance, sticking his left out, but he did it without haste. That was what the smaller man had hoped.
Quantrill was in and under that left guard instantly, its wrist gripped in his own left hand, his knees bent, right shoulder down to belt level, his right foot planted between Garner's as he turned away, straightened his legs, and lifted on the man's belt. Garner's right fist caught him hard behind the ear, but the big man's feet were high in the air by this time.
Quantrill kept his hold, forming a pivot over which Garner flew, and helped his momentum by pushing off with both feet. Garner hit the porch flat on his back with a splintering crash, the smaller man flipping over with him, Quantrill's right hand sinking into his enemy's belly with most of his weight behind it. Most men would have been paralyzed by this blow to the solar plexus.
But Quantrill, trying to continue his roll, felt his hair grabbed in a big paw; was flung into the stone wall face first. He heard and felt the septum crunch; it was not the first time Quantrill's nose had been broken — but it was not a thing you got used to.
Without looking, Quantrill pushed away from the wall with both hands, dodging to one side. That is why Garner's kick, with both feet, only propelled him farther and spasmed his thigh muscle instead of breaking his leg. Quantrill went down on one knee, stuck the other leg out to quell the horrendous cramp, then watched Garner struggle to his feet, doubled over, mouth open as he fought to breathe. The big man needed another ten seconds before his diaphragm would draw air but mustered the energy for another rush, trying to drive Quantrill off the porch into the tangle of rose thickets. One hand still across his belly, Garner flung the other gloved fist in a sweeping backhand that might have shattered a man's jaw.
To give Garner his due, he had never faced an opponent whose synapses were off the normal scale of human responses. Quantrill rolled onto his back, lashed out savagely with his good leg, and caught Garner at the upper end of his shinbone. It was a miss, for Quantrill was starting to think in terms of permanent disabling techniques and had aimed at his kneecap. It was not a miss that Garner could enjoy much. With his first gasping intake of breath in too long, the big man reeled, both arms wide to keep his balance. Quantrill came up squatting, leaped up to plant one foot for a disabling kick, and ducked as a clod of hard dirt whizzed past his face to spatter against limestone.
He would never know who threw the clod; only that Mul Garner stood in the doorway shouting, "Next man who interferes can draw his wages!"
With a growling whine of desperation, the younger Garner used this tiny lapse of Quantrill's concentration, falling on him with a bear hug. Quantrill felt his feet leave the porch, butted upward against the big man's chin, and felt himself swung in a great arc as one would swing a child. When
his feet struck the limestone wall he simply pushed away with all his strength. Nor did he quit butting under Garner's jaw.
Then they were toppling into the rose brambles, Garner taking most of the punishment. The stuff rustled and snapped like brittle cables, driving a thousand hard spikes through cloth into their flesh as they struggled. Neither could complete a telling blow with fists, for the thorns made any sudden movement a tug of war. But Quantrill had the advantage in that the top of his head was in position to repeatedly ram under the fine manly jaw of Jerome Garner, and he rang the Garner chimes until Jerome's mouth was bleeding worse than Quantrill's nose. But the Garner clan seemed to have more stamina than sense. Jerome kept struggling.
Long ago, Quantrill had been taught to figure ways to make anything — absolutely anything — into a weapon. Now, seeing a thick rope of rose stalk sag between his face and Garner's, he managed to grip it; thrust it against the big man's throat and jerked.
Jerome Garner howled like something trapped in a cave; drew another breath.
In that intake of breath Quantrill said, "Give it up."
Garner, in a crying rage: "Fuckyouman," but he was no longer slugging against Quantrill's skull.
Quantrill, pierced in a hundred places by thorns, felt as if attacked by hornets, though it hurt worse to grasp that inch-thick rose stalk. He knew Garner must be feeling the same agonies, but, "Call it quits," Quantrill said between clenched teeth, "or I'll saw your god-damned head off."
It was exactly the kind of wild exaggeration needed for a man of Jerome Garner's excesses. His hoarse sobs might have been two-thirds fury, but through them he said, "I quit, then get off me yougoddamsumbitch, YOU HEAR?"
Quantrill released the thick stalk with some difficulty; it had driven thorns into his hand in a dozen places. Silently, letting young Garner make enough noise for the both of them, he half crawled, half tumbled onto packed dirt that had once been covered with grass. He pulled at Jerome's shirt, saw his friends hurrying near, and stepped back saying, "Help yourself, the hell with it."