black and brown figures scattered across the distant pastures.
'That's right. One hundred and ninety-two heifers, two hundred and nine steers, and at least one honest-to- God bull. Four hundred head of genuine livestock, on the hoof, more or less. Actually, less one,' he added, glancing down at the sizzling meat. 'I believe we're dining on Harold this evening. Or maybe Harriet. I really didn't look all that close.'
'You butchered your own cow?' Thomas Woeshack gasped, duly impressed.
'Oh hell no.' Bobby LaGrange gave the Native American Special Agent a disapproving look. 'I just pointed at one of the damned things and told my foreman we wanted it for dinner.'
'Man even has a foreman to do the dirty work.' Larry Paxton nodded approvingly. 'I like that. Ol' Bobby here's got style, even if he does have questionable taste in his partners and dinner guests.'
'Getting back to four hundred head 'more or less,' ' Henry Lightstone persisted suspiciously, 'I bet you don't have the slightest idea how many of those dark spots out there really are cows, much less how many of them actually belong to you, right?'
'Well…'
'Ask him what happened when he took off in his brand-new four-wheel RV and tried to use his brand-new cattle prod to figure out how many of those animals we supposedly own are honest-to-God bulls,' Susan LaGrange's voice rang out from the open kitchen window.
Lightstone raised an eyebrow.
'It was an accident,' LaGrange muttered. 'I was just trying to move its tail out of the way. How the hell was I supposed to know the damned prod was contact activated?'
Henry Lightstone shook his head slowly in amazement.
'I assume you no longer own a brand-new four-wheel recreational vehicle?' Larry Paxton asked cautiously.
'Tell him what the insurance man said, honey,' Susan LaGrange's cheerful voice floated through the window. 'How he'd never seen a four-wheeler that badly damaged since his tour of duty in Kuwait.'
'The woman exaggerates,' Bobby LaGrange growled defensively.
'And don't you dare leave out the part where I had to call the neighbors to move the bull to another pasture and get you down out of that tree.'
Susan LaGrange walked out onto the deck with a huge platter of baked potatoes. Dwight Stoner immediately lunged out of his chair, took it from her, and placed it in the center of the table in a reverent manner while their hostess disappeared into the house again.
'These would be your genuine Oregon rancher neighbors, I take it?' Lightstone guessed. 'The ones who actually know something about cattle?'
'Nice people,' Bobby LaGrange commented as he poked cautiously at one of the steaks. 'You guys real picky about how these things turn out?'
'Absolutely not,' Dwight Stoner declared quickly before anyone else at the table could answer. 'They'll eat what they get, and like it… or I'm gonna eat it for them,' he added, glaring at his fellow agents.
'I'm used to eating raw whale blubber,' Thomas Woeshack announced casually, 'so any way it comes out is fine with me.'
'Did somebody mention raw whale blubber out there?' Susan LaGrange's distressed face appeared at the kitchen window.
'Never mind.' Dwight Stoner flashed the diminutive Special Agent/ Pilot a threatening look. 'One more comment like that and he's not going to be eating with us anyway. Can I help you with something else?'
'Well, I have this big pan of roasted corn on the cob and — '
Dwight Stoner and Mike Takahara immediately disappeared into the house.
'Bobby, do you have any idea what you're actually going to do with six hundred and forty acres and four hundred cows, more or less?' Henry Lightstone asked reasonably when Stoner and Takahara reappeared holding two huge foil-wrapped pans and with big grins on their faces. Susan LaGrange followed closely behind with another heaping bowl of salad.
'Well, according to my neighbors, who've been doing this sort of thing ever since God made sunsets,' Bobby LaGrange commenced describing the nitty-gritty of ranching, 'every year or so, my foreman and I hire ourselves a couple of trusty cowhands, saddle up the horses, ride out on the range, round up everything that looks like a cow, herd them into the corral, separate the big ones from the little ones, whack the balls off all the new guys, brand everything in sight with a bare butt, turn everybody loose, and go back to the house for a beer. Which reminds me' — LaGrange reached into the nearby cooler and pulled out a pair of dripping bottles — 'anybody ready for more wine?'
'Allow me,' Larry Paxton volunteered, taking the bottles and holding them carefully in his scarred hands.
'Somebody better help him with the corks,' Mike Takahara advised. 'I don't think he knows how to open anything without a pull tab.'
'Have you know I can drink fine Oregon Chardonnay with the best of them.' Larry Paxton popped the cork on the first bottle and sniffed appreciatively. 'Fact is, I may never leave this place. You real fond of that foreman, Bobby?'
Susan LaGrange stuck her head out of the kitchen window. 'Before everybody starts eating,' she announced with a grin, 'save some room because I've got two apple pies cooling on the deck.'
'Forget it, Paxton,' Dwight Stoner warned in a deadly serious voice once he spotted the pies. 'Anybody around this table gets to retire to this piece of heaven, it's gonna be me.'
'I don't know, Bobby.' Mike Takahara looked at their host. 'If you're gonna have to pay Stoner in free meals, you'd better get that bull back into production real quick-like.'
While Paxton poured the wine, they all helped themselves to the corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and salad, while Bobby LaGrange distributed the steaks, thoughtfully dropping two of the huge chunks of mildly charred meat onto Dwight Stoner's plate.
For about ten minutes, only the sounds of clattering silverware and pure unadulterated satisfaction accompanied the disappearance of a sizable amount of food.
Finally, Henry Lightstone put down a thoroughly cleaned ear of corn and turned to Susan LaGrange.
'Susan, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but Bobby and I grew up on fifth-of-an-acre suburban lots in El Cajon. Closest we ever came to livestock was the local meat market and our neighbor's Great Dane. Fact of the matter is, your husband wouldn't recognize a cattle ranch if he tripped over a branding iron and fell face first into a cow patty.'
'Been there, done — ' Susan LaGrange started to say, and then ducked a handful of thrown olives. 'Hey, don't blame me, buddy boy,' she protested cheerfully. 'Who was it who said you were losing your mind when you first started talking about moving to Oregon and buying a ranch and a canoe with the insurance money?'
'All true,' Bobby LaGrange admitted. 'But the way I look at it, we're a hundred miles from the nearest ocean, and that pond out there is only six feet deep. So if anybody takes it into their mind to try to blow up my canoe with a wheelbarrow full of C-4, I ought be able to wade to shore without having to fight off a goddamned hammerhead shark or damn near drowning in the process. So as long as Bravo Team, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service stays the hell out of Oregon, I ought to make out just fine. Which reminds me,' he added suspiciously, 'just what the hell are you guys doing in Oregon?'
'You really don't want to ask that question right about now,' Dwight Stoner warned as he gratefully accepted another baked potato and a large helping of salad from Susan LaGrange.
'He's right,' Thomas Woeshack agreed, waving his half-eaten ear of corn. 'Liable to make you sick. I used to eat raw whale blubber for breakfast every morning, and I don't even want to think about it.'
'Are you sure you want to hear about this during dinner, with Susan here…?' Henry Lightstone let the statement trail off meaningfully.
'That does it.' Susan LaGrange grabbed an ear of corn from the tray and aimed it at Lightstone's head. 'I've spent the last twenty years listening to you guys talk about ninety-three different categories of dead bodies and every depraved sexual behavior known to man, woman, and beast, so give. What are you guys doing out here?'
'Okay' — Lightstone shrugged agreeably — 'you asked for it.'
And he told them.
