Wild Country

'He said, 'The young one.' I remember it now.'

A tiny cloud of irritation was gathering across Steam's brow. 'But you don't remember the other words,' he accused. 'You'd have him saying, 'The young one on us.' Shit, Quantrill, that doesn't make sense. And I tried the tape on three other people and all of 'em hear Placidas say that Mul Garner hung one on us. Now I ask you—'

'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,