Wild Country

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.