pellets. The Nelson rifle fired a harmless plastic ball that splashed bright paint against the target. Big game was often marked this way to identify a 'takeable' trophy particularly when the hunter was a newcomer who might otherwise draw a bead on a female, or even the wrong species. Marrow still cursed the time a hunter, hoping for an elk trophy, shot a Brahma heifer despite the letters 'C O W' whitewashed on her flanks.
Quantrill stowed his gear in the four-place chopper, watching Jess Marrow's preflight check. 'Seems to me,' he said, speaking into his helmet comm set as Marrow brought the turbine up to speed, 'if this guy Wardrop is so experienced, he won't need us to pick the trophies from the sows.'
'
'Old Tony Plass? I heard he's got more trophies than Teddy Roosevelt.'
Now they were lifting, Marrow going high before swinging away to the southeast. 'He's older'n I am, Ted. It ain't enough to be mean and crooked and a good shot when you're after a big hog with only a lance. Nobody over the age of thirty-five has any business at pigstickin'.' Waivers or no waivers, he added, Placidas would have been refused if not for his importance and for the endorsement of Wild Country Safari's best guide, Cleve Hutcherson.
'I hope Hutch knows what he's doing,' Quantrill murmured.
Marrow: 'He's no genius, but he knows pig an' he's dead steady with a Colt. Before you came here. Hutch saved a whole group of easterners from that monster. Ba'al. You wouldn't know about it.'
Quantrill knew, all right. He often shared confidences with Marrow, but Ba'al's home ground and relationships were items he kept to himself.
From a thousand meters up. the rocky, broken terrain seemed almost flat, with great clumps of prickly pear sharing the range with the water-cheated trees and brush. Twice they spotted wild pigs, flushing them with sudden swoops. Finding a pair of young boars and a sow with her brood of striped 'squeakers.' Piglets like these had flourished in South Texas for half a century and were already replacing the small native peccary as they grew to trophy size.
Ranging farther south. Marrow saw the seasonal sinkhole with its cattails and lush weeds. 'Hog sign.' he said, hovering near, pointing to the swath where some big animal had rooted up a room-sized area to get at the succulent cattail bulbs.
Quantrill saw the boar first, it was actually crawling through the cattails, its great shoulders heaving with the effort as the rushes lashed in the chopper's downdraft.
'Paint him.' Marrow said. 'He'll go two hundred kilos.' Marrow had noted the big curling tusks of an adult boar. The animal would have barely come up to Ba'al's shoulder, but by any other standard it was a fine trophy.
Quantrill studied the animal, saw its intelligence in seeking better cover. 'Back off and take a run from head- on. Jess.' he said. 'If he hunkers down in that mud. we'll never get him marked.'
Marrow did it. The boar disappeared for a moment, then broke from cover, spurting toward distant brush. Marrow surged the chopper ahead and lower. Quantrill leaning the coldgas rifle from an open window and charging the Nelson's plenum. Then, with incredible swiftness, the harried boar spun on the hard ground, charged his pursuers, leaped as high as a man might reach. Both men felt the solid
Quantrill had used the Nelson before and knew its range with the big pellets. He fired once as soon as Marrow had the chopper turned, splattering orange paint ahead of the fleeing boar. It jinked abruptly and Quantrill fired twice more. The second round caught the boar halfway down its spine and must have stung because the saffron-splashed animal spun again, facing them, flanks heaving as Jess Marrow brought the chopper low again, backing away. The furious boar followed them for as long as Marrow estimated it would take for the paint to dry. Then they sought more altitude in search of other trophies.
'You realize that little devil leaped three meters high?' Quantrill was wondering how high Ba'al could soar.
'Yup. They'll attack anything, even Bengal tiger. You ask me, Ted, I think Tony Plass is out of his Latin mind.'
Quantrill laughed then. Into Marrow's inquiring glance he quoted, 'A good man needs a good strong sign.'
'I reckon. Now keep an eye peeled, Teddy, we need to mark more trophies 'fore we knock off. Not much other game out here, it's a helluva long way from the central lodge, but it oughta serve Wardrop just fine.'
They found only three more takeables in the next half hour, but Marrow was satisfied, radioing the position of the game for Cleve Hutcherson's benefit. Marrow and Hutch were old friends, and the vet basked in a sense of a job well done. Hutch had endorsed the idea of the hunt, in part, because despite all his experience with exotic game he had never seen Russian boar hunted with a short lance. It would be Hutch's job to protect the hunters, and it was the guide's boast that his forty-five-caliber six-gun hadn't failed him yet. Perhaps Hutch, too, needed a good strong sign.
Chapter Eleven
Sandy's journal, Mon. 18 Sept. '06
Gloves in ribbons. Wish I could afford to autoharvest this corn! Should be finished by Friday.
Called Ted tonight after Childe asleep. My turn to apologize, his to be tender; but Lordy, that man can be vexatious.' I hinted at availability & he gallantly suggested a tryst. Wonder if he knew I've been having kinky thoughts all day? Are corn lassies an aphrodisiac? He thought my ideas outrageous, but agreed. There must be a million ways to get a husband — have I grown cynical in thinking this may be the best way to keep one? Stay tuned, journal…
Chapter Twelve
Quantrill spent much of the next day around the breeding pens, too busy to think about the Wardrop party, which had left early. The trained Wardrop ponies had been transported by hovervan to the far southeast reaches of Wild Country Safari. It was really none of Quantrill's affair.
It became his affair in midafternoon. He heard the emergency hooter, came running toward Marrow's office, saw Jess in a limping trot toward the chopper and beckoning him to follow. Not until Marrow dropped the little recorder in his lap did Quantrill ask what the hooting was all about.
Jess Marrow sped the turbine's warmup and jerked them away at low altitude, spooking their penned stock. Quantrill knew then that it must be serious. 'Hutch maydayed for a rescue chopper; it's on the way from ranch headquarters. Called me and told me to bring you with a recorder.'
Hutch knew Quantrill doubled as a deputy, but: 'Do I have to guess why?' The younger man fumed.
'Old Placidas got hisself thrown out there. Boar came up under his pony. Hutch says. Couldn't shoot at first, since the boar charged Tony Plass and was all over him trailin' horseguts. Hutch nailed the boar, but SanTone may be short one judge.'
'What am I supposed to do, take Hutch's statement?'
'Placidas's. Hutch claims the old bastard's opened from crotch to navel, but wants to talk. Guilty conscience, I gather.'
'Good God,' Quantrill muttered, staring at the recorder.
Homing in on Hutch's transceiver, Marrow made the trip in fifteen minutes. The rescue chopper was not yet on the horizon when Quantrill bailed out two paces above the dirt, leaving Marrow to set the chopper down.
