Wintersole stared momentarily at the doorway to the inn before speaking.
'How do you think they'd feel if I told them that my, uh, associates and I share many of their views, but we prefer a much more direct means of carrying forth our message?' he asked.
'And just what does 'more direct' mean?'
'For starters,' Wintersole replied, 'we have no intention of waiting twenty years to make our statement.'
'Ah.' The old man nodded, then added suspiciously: 'So if you're in such a big hurry, I guess that means you just want to use these people for your own purposes.'
'If you know anything about business,' Wintersole informed him, 'then you know that the most profitable deals result when both sides use the other for their own purposes. That's how the business world works.'
The old man appeared to think about that for a while.
'You would supply the weapons — '
'And the ammunition and the training, if they need it,' Wintersole completed the statement.
'Right.' The old man nodded agreeably. 'And they, in turn…'
'… will do whatever they wish with their new resources,' Wintersole finished. 'Which is precisely what we would like for them to do… although perhaps with an additional refinement or two that we might suggest,' he added with a tight smile.
'Additional refinements, huh?'
The old man seemed to find those words intriguing.
'However, if this group you describe wants to maintain their purity of spirit, or whatever they choose to call it,' Wintersole went on, holding up the grizzly-bear-claw necklace, 'then I suggest they set up a savings account and start putting away the profits from their Apache Indian battle charm business. It shouldn't take more than oh, say, the profit on a half dozen of these things to pick up a functional assault rifle through the underground market. Of course, you add a decent supply of ammo, mags, webbing, flak vest, night-vision gear… and then take into account the possibility that the ATF may be monitoring your purchases.' The hunter-killer recon team leader shrugged.
'You are a businessman, aren't you?' The Sage grinned openly now.
'In a manner of speaking, yes.'
'And you want me to introduce you to these people, so you can use each other for your own purposes?'
'For a reasonable fee, of course.'
The old man immediately sat upright in his chair and leaned forward.
'How much would you say — ?' he began, but Wintersole cut him off.
'I think we should look upon this as a standard finder's fee situation,' he announced curtly. 'Perhaps a thousand down, and another two thousand within thirty days — assuming we're satisfied with the manner in which our donated equipment is used, of course.'
The old man smiled. 'I think — ' But then never got a chance to finish that statement either because the woman suddenly approached them.
'You rattling on about the damned government again, old man?' She nudged him playfully as she placed the bill on the table.
'Hey, I didn't have to work real hard to convince these two,' the Sage chuckled as Wintersole tossed three ten-dollar bills on the table. 'Just like the proverbial preacher reading gospel to his choir. Turns out they don't like the federal government any better'n I do.'
'So who does?' She shrugged, then immediately glanced down when the creature beside her started to growl softly.
'She fascinates you, doesn't she?' the woman asked, watching the man with the strange gray eyes stare at the clearly displeased cat while he fingered his bear-claw necklace.
Wintersole nodded his head slowly.
'Most likely because you're fascinated by violent death — probably your own.' The woman sighed. 'So if I'm going to keep you around as a paying customer, I guess I need to work something out that both you and her can live with.'
Her long hair cascaded over Wintersole's shoulder when she reached down and took the necklace out of his hand.
'Is this one yours?' she asked, caressing each one of the claws separately.
Wintersole nodded silently.
'Then here's what we'll do.' She unbuttoned her shirt, slowly rubbed the grizzly claws against the exposed curve of her neck and shoulder for a few moments, and then slipped the necklace over his head. 'I'm not guaranteeing that's going to help any if you seriously piss her off,' she warned as she picked up the three ten-dollar bills and put them in her apron pocket, 'but it just might keep her from ripping out your throat someday when she's in a bad mood.'
'Can't hardly ask for a better charm than that, can you?' the old man chuckled.
'Next time you come back, let me read the cards for you,' the woman volunteered. 'Then you'll understand.'
'How do you know I'll be back?' Wintersole studied her more carefully.
A faraway look subtly altered the woman's exquisite features for an instant. Then she smiled.
'Because I see it happening.'
Chapter Seventeen
'So, guys, what do you think?' Bobby LaGrange stepped back from the smoking grill where a dozen inch-thick steaks sizzled their way toward medium-rare.
From their seated positions around the table, leaning back in their cushioned chairs and smiling cheerfully, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, Mike Takahara, and Thomas Woeshack all raised their wineglasses in salute.
'Gotta hand it to you, Bobby,' Larry Paxton congratulated their host, 'for an old run-down homicide detective who unfortunately got saddled with Henry for a partner during his formative years in law enforcement, you really do appreciate the finer things in life.'
'First-class hut,' Thomas Woeshack agreed.
'Yeah, too bad we keep showing up,' Mike Takahara observed.
'Actually, I seriously considered locking the gate, barring the door, and calling the sheriff to run you guys out of the county,' Bobby La-Grange admitted. 'But I figured, what the hell, how much trouble could you get me into all the way out here in the middle of Oregon?'
'You don't want to know,' Dwight Stoner warned, glaring ominously at Larry Paxton.
Henry Lightstone stood in the middle of the expansive wooden deck and stared up at the angular face of the towering three-story cedar-log-and-glass structure. Then he surveyed the gently rolling hills, the stretches of bright green pasture, the glistening surface of the two-acre pond, hundreds of scrub oak trees, and the high shale-faced mountains that formed a protective bowl around Bobby LaGrange's brand-new home.
'To tell you the truth, Bobby,' he remarked after he completed his inspection, 'I didn't know places like this existed except in movies. How many acres did you say?'
'Six-forty on the nose.'
Larry Paxton blinked.
'Six hundred…?'
'One square mile, Larry, my man. Otherwise known as a 'full square' among us Oregon rancher types.'
'I knew it.' Paxton shook his head in wonder. 'The man really was running dope off that big yacht.'
'Good thing we sank it, huh?' Thomas Woeshack put in.
'Don't remind him,' Stoner growled. 'We haven't got fed dinner yet.'
'I need to sit down for this.' Lightstone sought the comfort of one of the thickly padded deck chairs, then he stared up at his ex-partner. 'Okay, now let me get this straight. You, Bobby LaGrange, are an honest-to-God Oregon rancher… as in cattle ranching?'
Bobby LaGrange smiled cheerfully.
'And those really are cows out there — your cows?' Lightstone gestured in the direction of several dozen tiny
