Wild Country

Chapter Twenty-Six

The instant he saw Jess Marrow's face the next morning, Quantrill knew something was brewing. Marrow wore an expression somewhere between worn patience and cynicism as he led the way out to the tack shed, actually a well-kept stone structure larger than many stables. Indeed, several stalls in the tack shed were used to stable "temporaries" and to rig such occasional jokes as the saddled tame bison for special events.

To Quantrill's question. Marrow only said, "Words will not do it justice, Teddy. Not if I was Mark Twain." They turned the corner into a stall and Marrow continued, obviously wanting to be overheard, "I thought you'd want to kiss the dumb sumbitch goodbye. It was you, said we'd have to bury what's left in a cigar box."

"Wardrop," said Quantrill, shaking his head at what he saw.

Alec Wardrop tossed a broad grin over his shoulder as he applied a final stroke with a whetstone. "Mr. Quantrill," he acknowledged cheerily. "You're a bit late."

Quantrill studied the carbon filament lance, as long as two men, and the exaggerated, dagger like steel tip Wardrop had been honing. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Late for what?"

"Why, the great debate," said Wardrop, and now it was clear that he was keeping his good humor with some effort. "Every man jack of my other messmates" — he must have meant Hutch and a few others he had met—"was up at sparrowfart this morning, warning me off this little peccadillo of mine."

"Your quest, you mean."

"Oh, it's not all that serious, old man," said Wardrop.

"That looks damned serious to me," said Quantrill. indicating the lance and then, following Marrow's head nod, studying the little horse that munched grain near them. "But the horse looks like a bad joke."

"Actually, it isn't," Marrow put in, leaning against the Dutch door with folded arms.

Quantrill saw a mud-ugly little stallion the color of ashes, with huge crescent nostrils and belly to match. Under fourteen hands high, he would not weigh four hundred kilos sopping wet and was short-backed and narrow-chested in the bargain. The truth was that Wardrop's mount was smaller than his quarry. "You have God-awful taste in horseflesh," Quantrill said.

"Pretty good taste for this job," Marrow replied as Wardrop strapped on small spurs to his riding boots. "That's a Spanish Barb, Ted. See those forelegs? Cannon bones round and solid as greasewood stumps. Those mean little slant eyes don't miss a single prairiedog hole. Long-winded as an alderman, too. He'll peel out from under you like a quarterhorse if he's got somethin' to chase, and he'll last as long as his rider. Nope, they don't come any tougher than the Spanish Barb."

"Nor any uglier," Wardrop admitted.

"Well, shit, you ain't ridin' in the Calgary parade," Marrow said.

Wardrop smiled at that, nodded, began to saddle the little barb. "Right you are, Mr. Marrow. And I don't care if he looks like a cur, so long as he performs with pig."

"Not with the one you're after," Quantrill muttered.

"We shall see in good time," said Wardrop. "If you'd care to ride out with me and Mr. Hutcherson this morning—"

"Hutch is going after all?" This from Quantrill, quickly, to Marrow.

"Just practice," Marrow replied guiltily. "I marked a few boars for this crazy Brit to try out his new gear with, while you was in Junction yesterday." He turned to the Englishman. "But we won't use ranch choppers to spot Ba'al for you. You'll just have to hire somebody else when you go lookin' for that widow-makin' hog."

"This is all the help I expect," said Wardrop, his jaw set. "Hutcherson is not exactly keen on it, you know. I fully realize that you're all in this conspiracy, Mr. Marrow, but I am not a cadet. Taking this animal, Ba'al, at half face value, I consider him a world-class trophy."

Quantrill picked up the lance with its weighted butt, walking with Wardrop as he led the barb outside. Looking steadily into Wardrop's face, he said, "A good recipe for a messy suicide is to take Ba'al at anything less than two hundred percent face value. His tusks are longer than your lancehead, and as somebody once told me, he can beat you at checkers. Or any other game you have in mind, and if I knew a legal way to stop you, I would."

"You've seen him, then."

Marrow was near, listening; suspecting. "Hutch has, and I've seen the pictures," Quantrill said carefully. "If you brought back a really big hog today, maybe Jess could get its head mounted so it'll look bigger. Marianne Placidas would never know the difference."

"But I would, Quantrill. If you intended no insult, I will not ask you to kindly bugger off." Wardrop was behaving like a gentleman beset by street urchins, holding in his temper while showing a flash of steel. Quantrill realized his error; shrugged; shook his head again.

Wardrop mounted, swinging up with the easy grace of a man who knew what he was doing. Quantrill handed over the lance without a word. With the best intentions, he had clearly pushed Alec Wardrop past any possibility of turning back.