Wild Country

Time was when Quantrill would have done as he was told, the sooner to face his enemies at close range — perhaps the sooner to bring into play a set of reflexes and martial arts techniques that the average waddie could not comprehend until he had seen them used. But that was Quantrill's risky option, one that he tended to avoid more as he thought more of 'settling down.' The hell of it was, when you've spent years getting comfortable with the risky options, any conservative option can be an unfamiliar game that you play badly. He faced the 'less is more' paradox, and understanding it did not help him subdue it.

Quantrill cursed himself for avoiding the high-risk route, heard the man repeat his demand, made no reply. The Nelson's gas cylinder showed enough charge for another dozen loud reports, and so far it had been the only reply he needed. If that bushwhacker made a charge, Quantrill could get a dart into the chamber in time for one close-up shot. If two of them came firing at once, Quantrill was in very thick yogurt. Still, this was not wartime; few men cared to take such risks against a trespasser with — Quantrill smiled in spite of himself — a shotgun.

The loud-hailer again: 'You're pinned on Garner land and we've called for help, pocho.' The term implied a cowpoke of the border variety. Evidently they had no idea who lay behind that limestone outcrop. But the next announcement brought a silent curse from Quantrill, for it bore a different voice.

'We got shade and you ain't. Come out now and there'll be no more shooting. Or bake awhile. Suit yourself.' So there were at least two of the bastards.

Where the hell was his Aussie hat? Nowhere he could see. Quantrill buttoned the sleeves of his shirt, then used a forefinger to wipe sweat from his brow and sucked his finger for the salt sweat. Every drop lost was a nail in his coffin; every bit of exertion, every minute of sun on his noggin tallied points against him. He crawled to the other end of the outcrop slowly, listening for footsteps, and drew the waist of the jacket over his head, folding a sleeve under his chin. He counted his five tranquilizer darts, restowed three in the stock. One went into the chamber, the last he placed on a stone to keep it out of the caliche dust.

And there he lay for an hour by his watch. The midday heat was stifling now, and when the distant sound of a hovercycle coughed into action, he was almost dozing. He was alert enough to realize they might be waiting for his reaction to the noise; he tossed the jacket to the top of his low outcrop behind him as a decoy. He was slow coming to his feet, but an instant was all he needed before flopping down again. A rattle of fire passed near the jacket, which he retrieved with his rifle barrel. And still he could not spot his enemies, except for one man accelerating away down a slight depression, two hundred meters distant. How many were left?

Time to try finding out. 'Now it's just you and me, back-shooter,' Quantrill called.

'Two against one suits us fine,' came the reply, then two bursts of fire. Well, it had been worth a try. Two men up on the prairie — or one smart one. Quantrill tried to deny his headache but knew it was an early sign of dehydration. He opened the bulb of beer and drank it all. From his days with S & R he knew there was no point in saving drinkables when you were suffering from lack of the stuff. You hydrated yourself as much as possible and tried not to generate sweat.

He settled down again, using the jacket for headgear and chinrest. If these were Garner men, and if they'd been lying about help, perhaps the one on the cycle had gone to get help. That implied they had no radio. Two hours to the ranch HQ, a bit over two hours back unless they had a chopper; Quantrill could expect a showdown by sunset.

He started to spit a mouthful of cottony fluff, then remembered and swallowed it. Now and then, a singleton round sang overhead or spatted into the cycle. That tactic bore several messages: they were alert; it would be suicide to try for the VHP toggle; and they had enough ammo to waste it.

At least the diesel fumes were not so strong now. He recited an old service ditty, 'Lady Luck She Is a Fickle

Bitch,' in his head. He might be running a fever now, complete with headache and cottonmouth, but by taking care in that semidesert sun, he was still clear-headed enough to think. So think!

He was still licking his own sweat; a good sign. When you quit sweating, your dehydration was well and truly advanced. He'd spotted a bark-hided lizard — locals called it a 'boomer' — touring the edge of his outcrop, but it kept clear of him. It wasn't poisonous and it was full of body fluid, and if it got within reach, he fully intended to do what the Apaches did: bite in like Dracula and suck the poor critter dry. It wasn't as disgusting as the idea of becoming delirious out here in a single afternoon, as many a good man had done before.

Keep thinking! Their firepower was overwhelming, and they'd sent a lot of rounds under the cycle in a hurry; yet they hadn't hit him once. They could have tried flanking him and hadn't. If they weren't plain cowards, maybe they really didn't want him dead. If they'd been drugrunners, they would have kept out of sight to begin with; either that, or they'd have taken their chances and flanked him early. Chances were that these were Garner waddies, ordinary ranch hands. Yes, that fined the patterns. Good thinking. Too goddamn bad he hadn't given more candlepower to thinking about weapons when he'd set out on this infernal idiotic quest that was hardly less stupid than Wardrop's, rot his soul. Jee-ms, but his head ached. Come just a little closer, Mr. boomer lizard, and I'll explain all about vampires. He laughed to himself, a little dizzily, and then he slept.

He did not wake when a slug sent a light shower of dirt onto his back. Nor when the sun slid down to peer under his improvised headgear, blistering the bridge of his nose. Nor when the lizard flickered across in front of him, within easy reach. What woke him was the sound of hovercycles.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

He'd known worse headaches, but couldn't recall when; could not recall anything very clearly, to admit the worst to himself. At least he knew he was impaired, so maybe using the jacket for shade had kept him from delirium. And now the breeze was almost cool on his blazing cheeks, and the sun was sinking into the near horizon.

Several cycles had just moved in; maybe three, from the sounds of them. He was in no condition to leap up for a fast visual check. He made himself crawl back toward his overturned cycle, more as a physical test than anything else. Dizziness, a headache that threatened to pop the top of his skull off like a champagne cork, physical weakness, and a desire to give up: all, for Quantrill. extraordinary signs.

The loud-hailer sought him again. 'All right, pocho, we're sending men down under the bluffs behind you.' A bluff was a low cliff — but cliffs could be climbed, and the man might be lying anyhow. 'We got nightscopes for us, and flares for you, in case you're waiting for dark. Couple of flares into that cycle of yours will ruin your whole day. Or would you rather come out before that? You won't be hurt 'less you do something stupid.'

Quantrill kept silent, playing for time. In another half hour, the shadows might be deep enough to cover a vertical descent. Or might not; whatthehell, whatthehell, he was too dizzy to care…

'On the other hand, maybe you're played out already, and Mul Garner wouldn't like to know we done that to you, so in that case we'd just as soon burn the cycle and you with it. If you don't want the Fourth of July around you — better sing out.'

Quantrill kept quiet until he heard a sound like a wet bag popping, then saw a green fireball arc through a sunset sky the hue of beaten copper. It hit the caliche twenty meters from the fuel-soaked area and fragmented before burnout. No harm done, but if they kept that up, sooner or later they were bound to flush him from cover. He stuck the Nelson's muzzle over the outcrop and fired it. Then he called out. 'You want boosted slugs from this scattergun? Just use those flares again.'

They already thought he had a shotgun, and boosted buckshot from a smoothbore could take you out from two hundred meters. And anybody who triggered a flaregun gave his position away to the world at large. They could not be certain he was pinned down too low to spot them. So far, so good; but before long it would be dark, and they would be wondering why his 'shotgun' blasts did not emit any muzzle flash. Especially if he were supposedly using ammo with a second-stage boost just beyond the muzzle. No, he had worked that coldgas rifle scam for just about all it was worth. He stowed all the spare darts in the rifle's hollow stock and decided he still might use it. The man it hit, with a load of tranquilizer gauged for a big horse, would never be revived.

The sun was dipping below the horizon now, even as a hovercycle thrummed away somewhere off to his