Garner sat back, shaking his white mane. 'And make him your pet? Was that the idea?'
'Something like that.'
'He'd eat your lunch and save you for supper. Coulter. They didn't name that hog 'Ba'al for nothing. He's a devil incarnate. I can't keep you from hunting him entirely, but I sure as hell don't want him munchin' your bones on my spread. And trespassers do tend to get shot in these parts. Do I have your word you won't cross my fencelines again?'
Somewhere inside Mul Garner, amusement was bubbling to get out. Quantrill saw that the man considered him little more than a harmless ass. In some ways, Quantrill agreed. It was hard not to agree with, and not to like, the rancher. 'My word on it, Mr. Garner,' said Quantrill.
Concannon said respectfully, 'I reckon cookie can build him a sandwich and I can drive him far as Rocksprings tonight, if you want.'
'If you would. Cam. You might steer him to disinfectant and a bandage, while you're at it.' The rancher reached to a squat, hand-carved table and flicked the top from a cedar box. 'But I haven't heard how you got bashed up, Coulter, and I intend to. While you humor me, you fellas might join me.' With that, he withdrew three big green cigars and offered two to the others.
It was hard to tell whether Concannon's sigh was for the cigars or for the wasted time. Quantrill accepted this symbol of hospitality and took a chair when he was told to. He was thirsty again, and full of aches. The cigar, he found, was the least offensive stogie he had ever lit.
Quantrill was in the act of admitting he did not know how he struck his forehead in his fall when he heard a screen door, somewhere in the back of the house, complete its shallow skritch and bang. He paused, hearing several sets of footsteps.
'That'll be my boy,' said Garner.
'I thought it might,' said Concannon. The foreman's expression was carefully noncommittal.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jerome Garner moved with studied machismo, slapping a Stetson against expensive whipcord breeches as he entered the parlor. He was one of those men with the kind of presence that fills a room. Quantrill recognized the other two men as Longo and Billy Ray. Jerome made a showy, unnecessary gesture seating a holstered forty-five- caliber automatic more firmly on his thigh. Jerome tossed his hat into a chair. Without a by-your-leave, he crossed to the cigar box with a few long strides, tossed cigars to his cronies, unwrapped one for himself.
Jerome Garner had already glanced at Quantrill, who was partly in shadow, before turning to his father. 'Just got in from the south end. Pop. I hear the boys nailed a—' He then did a very slow, almost casual, double take: lit the cigar and squatted so that his nose was within two feet of Quantrill's. 'Well,' he said, smiling, savoring it as he drawled, 'as I live and breathe and kick ass, look who we have here.' He straightened to his full height and chuckled at the impassive Quantrill.
Mul Garner looked up at his strapping son with fondness, perhaps seeing himself across the years. He was smiling at first, but saw something in Jerome's face that brought a crease to his forehead. To Jerome: 'You know young Coulter?'
'Yeah. I know him.' A luxurious smoke ring curled from Jerome Garner's mouth. 'He's one of those fat-cat deputy marshals out of Junction and his name's not Coulter.'
Quantrill met the old man's gaze and nodded. No point in telling them he was now an ex-deputy; in fact, with the memory of Judge Placidas's dying statement ringing in his ears, Quantrill thought it might be better to let them think he was still on the force. 'They call me Coulter sometimes,' he said, half in truth. 'My real name's Ted Quantrill.'
Silence, discounting the provocation of Jerome Garner's repeated chuckle. Then, from the old rancher: 'Thought your face looked familiar. You fought with the rebs; did a holo broadcast with Jim Street. Made quite a splash with Street's paramilitary people, as I recall.' His face troubled now, Mul Garner put the cigar aside. 'Jerome, send your men back to their poker game,' he said quietly.
Without hesitation Jerome said, 'Wait on the porch, boys.' As the two waddies moved to the front door, Quantrill saw something very like a silent plea in the face of the elder Garner, but only grim pleasure in the reply. 'This is a slick one, Pop. Regular-little weasel. See that dark circle on his sleeve? S'posed to be a Department of Justice patch there. And if that wasn't bad enough, he's the one helping out on Sandra Grange's pissy little spread.'
The father: 'Don't bad-mouth your neighbors, Jerome.'
The son: 'Don't tell me what to do. Pop.'
Concannon: 'Easy, Jer, he's your daddy.'
Jerome: 'You're not, Cam. Fuck you.'
Mul Garner stood up to face his son, and Quantrill was reminded of the dominance ploy of Ba'al. Perhaps Jerome Garner gave you no respect unless your eyes were higher than his. The old man nearly qualified, though he no longer stood as straight as he once had. 'Jerome, how many men have you hired on, who use names they weren't born with?'
Jerome shrugged carelessly and waved the question away. 'I don't know and I don't care. I shit-sure care why he's snoopin' on my — our land.'
Quantrill told him.
Another mirthless chuckle, studying the ash on his cigar. Then Jerome turned to his father. 'Playin' doctor to a fuckin' killer hog? You really believe that. Pop? Well, let me tell you what I think. I think this little stud has a hard-on for a piece of land. I think he'd like to marry into it; yeah, the Grange spread. And her fenceline is smack against ours, and if he could figure a way to frame a neighbor on some trumped-up charge, he might be in position to get more land in exchange for droppin' those charges. That's what I think.' He jerked a thumb toward the foreman. 'I think Cam knew who he was all the time. How 'bout it. Cam: didn't you loan Sandra Grange a van for this goddamn deputy to drive?'
'Couldn't say,' Concannon replied, and glanced innocently at Quantrill. 'Was you the fella in Miz Grange's soddy?'
'That's right,' said Quantrill, endorsing the evasion. 'I'm also the guy who spent half a Saturday rounding up spare parts near Corpus for Garner Ranch.'
Jerome Garner felt the reins slipping from his grasp and seized them quickly. 'I don't give a good shit about that, but I been watching you suck up to Sandra Grange, weaseling in next to what's mine—'
'And cuttin' Miz Grange out from your remuda of fillies, Jer?' Cam Concannon spoke softly, but the truth had a cutting edge of its own.
'You're lookin' for a fat lip,' said Jerome furiously, and took a step toward the foreman.
But also toward the seated Quantrill, who came up. poised on the balls of his feet, at the ready. He hurt all over, and was now running on reserve energy, but he had seen Jerome Garner operate before at Saturday dances. The big bastard liked to crowd you. In his present condition, Quantrill could not afford to take the big man lightly.
Mul Garner reached for his son's arm and simultaneously began with: 'Cam, don't push him, you know how —' But Jerome, with his free hand, flicked his cigar hard toward Quantrill's face from a double arm span away.
Quantrill's open-handed wave batted the cigar down and, without pausing to consider it, he responded in kind. The glowing end of the stogie caught Jerome at the throat, sent sparks showering under his chin.
Jerome wrenched his arm free from his father's grip, brushing with both hands at his neck, then pointed a trembling finger at Quantrill. 'I'll teach you to do that when I got one hand pinned.'
'Be reasonable, Jer,' said Mul Garner, kicking the live cigar toward the fireplace.
'Never start until you're ready,' Quantrill said to the pointing finger as calmly as he could.
'You're courtin' trouble,' said the old rancher to Quantrill.
'You and me goin' to knuckletown, little man. Outside,' said Jerome, pointing toward the porch.
Mul Garner lifted one hand; let it fall against his leg. 'I can't let you do this, Jerome.'
'You'll play hell stopping me, Pop. He asked for this. And if he tries to run for it, I'll tell the boys to shoot to
