Wild Country

Chapter Twenty-Four

Quantrill knew he was in for either an ass chew or a peace offering when, after being summoned to Stearns, he spent only a few moments waiting in the rec room. Either way, he'd be paid for the trip to Junction. And these days he was actually beginning to think about saving these extra dollops of cash. That worried him, because a conservative man tended to be overcautious, and too much caution could kill you just as surely as foolhardiness.

"Take a load off," Stearns told him as he entered, waving him to a chair. "Coffee?"

At Quantrill's nod, the chief deputy poured it himself and brought it, taking the adjoining leather-backed chair and placing a slender faxbook in his own lap. It was standard issue, with a case ID on its cover.

Steams occupied himself with his coffee in the old Texas way, dribbling some into a saucer to cool it, blowing into the puddle, pouring it expertly back into the cup. Then, over the rim of his cup, he astonished Quantrill by smiling. It was a warm, easy smile full of informality and welcome; a politician's smile.

"No point beating around the bush, Quantrill; I was wrong about you."

Ted Quantrill smiled back and sipped; waited for the other boot to fall. Against his backside, maybe.

"I read your report on old Placidas's statement. Must've been a nasty time."

"For the judge, especially," Quantrill said, and waited.

"So I gather. Never met the old fella myself," said Steams, his eyes meeting Quantrill's steadily, "but it's a hell of a shock to find he was on the other side. The point is, you did a fine job and you probably deserve a commendation, I listened to the tape," he added, tapping the faxbook in his lap. "There are only a couple of little things I thought we might go over."

Good news and bad news; carrot and stick, thought Quantrill. He hadn't really done much mote than hold a recorder for Placidas, then describe everything on polypaper. Well, it would be just like Marv Steams to give commendations for paperwork. "Whatever you say," he replied.

Stearns smiled again and flicked the faxbook's cover open, dialing medium magnification on its display so that he would not need reading glasses. "I see you never read him his rights."

"He waived 'em," said Quantrill. "Hell, he was a judge."

"No big deal; wherever Placidas is, we can't indict him anyhow. But in the future, do it. Just for me, okay?"

Quantrill nodded.

"Second, it seems the judge had quite an audience for his true confessions. Try not to let that happen again."

Quantrill thought it over: realized that old Placidas's revelations, might mark all those who heard them. "I can do that," he said.

"Okay. I mean, how many people heard Tony Plass say that Mul Garner hung one on us?"

"Two or three, I — Mul Garner what?"

"You got it on tape, remember? Placidas said the contraband went through Garner Ranch, and somebody says, 'Mul Garner?' and Placidas says, 'He hung one on us,' and then apologizes to his daughter."

"Damn if I remember that," said Quantrill, who had only an average memory for dialogue. "I thought he said it was the son. Jerome Garner," he added as if that explained much.

Steams repeated the name contemptuously. "A Saturday night hero, I hear tell. I can only go on hearsay, but Jerome Garner doesn't strike me as a gang organizer. Anyhow, Tony Plass didn't say anything remotely like 'Jerome.' Listen to it yourself," he urged, and punched an instruction into the faxbook's keyboard.

The digital recording, as well as photographs and written reports, lay stored in the faxbook for later study. Quantrill heard a soft thrum of prairie breeze, remembered squatting beside the old man while Jess Marrow hovered near: heard

Placidas say, "Conduit always maintained through Garner Ranch." Then Jess, unbelieving: "Mul Garner?"

And then, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, Tony Plass: "The young one onus." Or perhaps, "The young one's on us." It was hard to say for sure. Stearns stopped the tape and let his eyebrows ask the question.

But Quantrill's memory was tripped by the recording. "I'm sorry, Steams, but the man said, 'The young one.' I don't remember that last couple of words."

Marv Stearns tipped his palm toward the faxbook and shrugged. "It's your tape, Quantrill. "But he doesn't say anything that sounds like 'Jerome."

"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."