Wild Country

Chapter Thirty-Four

He could not say why at first, but Quantrill put off telling Jess Marrow that he had drawn his last wages as a pan-time deputy marshal. It was not that he could still leave WCS land for days at a time without any explanation, though that was true enough. The fact was, Quantrill felt ashamed of the way he had taunted Marv Steams. The big man might be crooked as a dog's hind leg, or he might not; but he'd had the look of a man blindsided from ambush when Quantrill had walked out on him. As if, by refusing to play by the rules as Stearns understood them, Quantrill had taken unfair advantage.

There had been a time when Quantrill had taken unfairness for granted. When the government implants a radio monitor in your head and can detonate it for your slightest mistake, you tend to simplify your ethics. When they gave you a cheap shot, you took it; if they said "kill," you killed. In the few years since that implant was removed from his mastoid — and that government was removed from office — Quantrill had learned again to savor ideals: fairness, affection, trust. In a way, the government had been right. For a manhunter, ideals are shackles.

If you stayed in the hunt, those shackles would eventually get you killed.

On his second day back from Junction, Quantrill called Sandy on the open VHP line during his lunch break. "I really feel naked without my shoulder patch," he said. It was a hint.

She missed it. "I hate that thing anyway. But you can buy another one."

"Can't; it's illegal. My ID and belt video are gone, too; the whole nine yards."

"You mean somebody stole your — I don't believe it, Ted Quantrill, what are you hiding from me?"

He told her and grinned as she whooped with glee. Then, confusing him, she was crying. "Predictable as Texas weather," was all he could think to say.

"You go to hell, Ted, I can cry if I feel like it," she sniffled. A moment later she was suggesting that he come to her place and pat her shoulder — among other things.

"Nothing I'd like better, honey, but I'd better stick around here. I'm waiting for a call from, uh" — he remembered it was an open channel—"a friend who owes you. Besides, I need to stay up-to-date on the Brit's progress. He still talks to me, God knows why. And now he's using a chopper to canvass the big ranches around these pans. He's offering money for information, but so far, as he puts it, no joy."

Touched at his concern for Ba'al, she promised much in the way she murmured their special phrase: "Soon, love."

He agreed, said goodbye, shrugged into a denim jacket for the afternoon's work. He'd thought Marrow was joking when the job was first mentioned. Wild Country Safari boasted a lot of spooky animals, but only one kind that could be mentioned in the same breath with Ba'al. Neither tame nor game, the WCS rhinos were treated rather like moving monuments with bad eyes and dispositions to match.

He was gathering his gear behind Marrow's office when he heard a familiar voice raised in irritation. "My dear Marrow, I am prepared to indemnify you for it!" Wardrop.

Jess Marrow's voice was indistinct, but his tone was obvious: no dice. Quantrill strode to the office doorway wearing thick nylon brush chaps and carrying cartridges for the Nelson rifle. Marrow was saying, "Like you said, laissez-faire. You do like you want, and so do we." His voice got lower, with fewer highs and lows, with every sentence. His final statement came all in one breath, and it was low on volume, but it was a beaut. "That contract of yours don't say nothin' about loanin' you no friggin' transporter fer no friggin' horse, an' I won't, not even if you had that friggin' hawg in a hole out there, maybe 'specially not then, and now I'm sorry I didn't talk down this whole friggin' idea, but I was too goddamn friggin' broad-minded." Quantrill knew the signs; the madder Jess Marrow got, the less he sounded like a veterinarian.

Alec Wardrop did not know those signs and barked, "Broad-minded? Marrow — rhymes with narrow." He turned as if to go

"I know what rhymes with Brit, sonny boy," said Marrow, and Quantrill cleared his throat. Livid, Wardrop spun; saw who was behind him, and seemed unable to find words.

Quantrill found a few. "Why don't we take a walk, cool off." He made it sound like a question.

The long-legged Wardrop set such a pace that Quantrill was almost trotting as they neared the tack shed. Muttering, "Chance of a lifetime," and, "Paid a pretty penny — for what?" and, "Now that I have a fresh sighting…" he opened the little Spanish Barb's stall. He was in the kind of hurry that horses can sense, and the barb's ears went back a trifle.

Quantrill made it casual. "You say you've got a recent sighting of that boar?"

"His track, at least. Fellow named Cannon saw fresh signs this morning," Wardrop replied, checking his saddle. This was the traditional English leather affair that you could store in a breadbox with room to spare for a family of mice. Westerners called it a kidney pad; joked of its saddle tree and skirt that they were no more than a shrub and bloomers. But it took a fine rider to use an English saddle in rough country.

Quantrill asked where the sighting had been. Wardrop whisked a trim, folded polypaper chart from the side of his boot top and tapped a finger over an orange X, then continued saddling up while Quantrill opened the map one fold.

Quantrill saw the name of a township, whispered, "Shit," then refolded the map; handed it back. "Could his name have been Concannon? Wiry, thin hair, about forty?"

"Con? Yes, I believe so; Con Cannon." Wardrop flashed an almost friendly smile and kept cinching.

For one heartbeat, Quantrill considered a bad decision. No, a few broken ribs wouldn't deter Alec Wardrop for long, anyway. And it might land Quantrill in the slammer. "A hell of a long way from here," he said. Garner Ranch was over a half-day's ride on a horse.

"I'll manage. Those people may be more hospitable than this lot, and in any case I'm ready for bugger-all." Wardrop's kit looked like a good one, inflatable bag and all. The man was determined enough and loony enough to rough it out there, in country that had incredible flip-flops of weather, plus its own annual tarantula migration. But the tarantulas had made their march two months before, and Wardrop had a VHP handset. The barb would find forage, and just maybe Wardrop would find his quarry.

"These folks are only trying to keep you from killing yourself," Quantrill said reasonably. "Beats me why Marrow takes care of your gear."

"Because I have a signed contract," Wardrop said, "for which I'm paying a small fortune."

With undisguised hope: "You could go broke chasing this four-footed ghost."

"Oh, very likely," Wardrop drawled, amused. He added somewhat pointedly. "I certainly could, if I let a fresh spoor get cold. At least I know which point of the compass to face."

"Right; only thirty million acres to search. You could lose a herd of rhinos out there."

"Rhinoceri seem to lack strong herd instinct," Wardrop said acidly, leading the barb outside. "Take it from one who has hunted them with the Zulu."

Quantrill entertained one more slender hope: Perhaps the Brit could be diverted by another danger. "I've got to inoculate our white rhinos today, Wardrop. I can knock 'em out with syringe cartridges, but I have to do the inoculations up close. Thought you might enjoy the challenge."

"That's no challenge, it's a duffer's game; armchair sport," Wardrop said. He pulled a brilliant kerchief, which opened in a silent airburst the color of blood, from a pocket of his bush jacket; tied it around his throat.

Quantrill recalled the moment when Marianne Placidas had flung that kerchief at Wardrop in scorn. "Does the woman still want you to do this?"

"I wouldn't know. Saw that Ocelot of hers in San Antonio a few days ago, but I haven't seen her since the day…" He let his sentence trail off.

Quantrill met his glance; nodded. Alec Wardrop would seek the woman out when, and only when, he had answered her challenge. The Brit mounted up. the lance slung across his back, its point gleaming in autumn sunlight. He rode out toward the southwest, erect, undaunted, with no other weapons than the lance. Quantrill waited until the rider was out of sight before heading for Marrow's radiophone. With luck, Sandy might be able to keep Ba'al off the range for a day or so.