Stone Junction

‘What’s in the saddlebags?’

‘Grenades, small mortar, extra rounds and clips, some other stuff.’

‘Well, you have ’em, that’s for sure.’

‘Yeah. But what I’d really like is a bazooka – one of those World War Two jobs. Awful hard to come by, though.’

A little nervously, Daniel asked, ‘Just where are we headed.’

‘Gonna ride up on Grouse Prairie and meet Lucille.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Dan, they told me you were coming here to learn the ropes. Some of the rope can tie us up, some of it can hang our ass. It’s an important part of the business to never ask more questions than you need answers for.’

‘I thought this was a cattle ranch.’

‘Moo,’ Mott drawled.

They reached the log bridge on Crawdad Creek right after sunrise. Halfway across, Mott jerked back hard on his mule’s reins, bellowing ‘Whoa, Pissgums, you sum’bitch!’ Daniel, following, pulled up his horse. Mott dismounted and reached under the bridge timbers for a quart jar of clear liquid.

He unscrewed the cap and lifted it toward Daniel. ‘Breakfast.’ He drank a third of the bottle. ‘Wahhh!’ he roared, offering the bottle to Daniel.

Daniel took it, his eyes watering at the fumes. ‘What’s this?’

‘Warmth in a cold world,’ Mott wheezed. ‘Whiskey. Homemade.’

Daniel took a cautious sip. ‘Whew,’ he said huskily, ‘it burns.’

‘Don’t be shy. Best have another slash – long ride to the top.’

Daniel took an even smaller sip and handed the bottle back to Mott, who offered it to the mule. Pissgums sniffed the bottle, snorted, shied slightly, then lipped the rim. Mott poured slowly till Pissgums tossed his head and backed away.

‘Goddamn, you’re getting particular,’ Mott said to the mule, then turned to explain. ‘He don’t like it if it hasn’t been aged at least a month.’

‘Hee-ee-yaw-yaw-yaw,’ Pissgums brayed, and bolted suddenly across the bridge.

Mott pulled his .45, cupping it as he swung on the fleeing mule.

Daniel yelled, ‘Hey! Don’t shoot!’

Mott fired, the bullet kicking up dust twenty yards in front of the mule. Pissgums stopped in his tracks and began browsing innocently.

Mott looked at Daniel. ‘Don’t worry, Dan. I always give him a warning shot ’fore I cut loose for serious.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t give him the whiskey,’ Daniel said.

‘Naw. The whiskey’s good for him. Gets him perky. Don’t ever give him any dope, though. Can’t handle it at all. Gets the bad paranoia.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Daniel promised.

A half hour later they dismounted in a grove of white oaks. ‘Coffee break,’ Mott said, pulling a stainless-steel thermos from a saddlebag. ‘Hope you like it strong.’ He poured a black ropy goo the consistency of hot asphalt into one of the cups. ‘I mix it equal parts coffee and hashish. The hash thickens it up.’

Daniel hesitantly took the steaming cup. ‘I thought you were supposed to smoke hashish.’

‘Ruin your lungs,’ Mott told him, pouring a cup for himself.

‘Do you take a lot of drugs?’

Mott drained his cup, wiping his mustache with a buckskin sleeve. ‘Yup. You?’

‘I tried some in Berkeley.’

‘What’d ya do? Give ’er up?’

‘Not really. Things just changed.’

‘Ya see,’ Mott said slowly, ‘that’s exactly the reason I take ’em. The drugs never change, but you do, so that way you have something to measure your changes against – sorta like a boulder in the river tells you the water level.’

‘I’m not sure I follow that,’ Daniel said, taking a sip of the resinous brew.

Patiently, Mott said, ‘Look at it this way, Dan: How can you know you’re changing less’n something else isn’t?’

‘Suppose it’s all changing together?’ Daniel countered.

‘Then you’d need drugs just to keep up.’

‘Or something,’ Daniel said. He was having difficulty just keeping up with the conversation.

‘Besides,’ Mott grinned, ‘I like it when the colors all run together.’