Wild Country

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Quantrill kept to the valleys when he could, mindful of the possibility of radar and other sensors. The hovercycle was not one of the government's stealth models with kapton plastic and special coatings, but simply the first one he could hotwire at Wild Country Safari. It was a Curran, a fast courier job with good mufflers and a recliner you could sleep in. He had left Sandy's place before dawn and crossed Mul Garner's fenceline shortly after first light, trusting the map because it was a duplicate of Wardrop's. It was one of the few things about this fool's errand that he could trust.

He couldn't trust Garner's men not to shoot him on sight. If the boar's injury was less severe than Wardrop claimed, Quantrill couldn't trust the animal not to charge him. And though he had brought the Nelson rifle with its tranquilizers, he could not trust it to deliver the right dose to pacify Ba'al without killing him. He couldn't even trust the creeks he had tried to follow. Several times this day, he had whirred down a sluggish limestone-bedded brook watching for the signs Childe had described, suddenly to find himself following a dry creekbed or even, in one case, circling a sinkhole. In South Texas, creeks around Edwards Plateau were just as likely to flow underground as above it.

Quantrill did not see deer, peccary, or anything else larger than a rabbit on this morning. He and the cycle were the only big things moving across that part of Garner land. And that made it easier for motion sensors on a nearby hilltop to follow his progress.

Now, with the late morning sun promising to blister him later in the day, Quantrill settled the cycle near a scatter of discarded plastic bags and killed the engine. Wardrop's distress call had been satellite-relayed to Kerrville, the nearest

Search & Rescue outfit, and they'd actually lifted that poor little Spanish Barb back to Marrow in a sling under a chopper. Having spent several years with S & R teams, Quantrill recognized the flimsy clear wraps in which virtually all equipment was packed.

In any self-respecting place, the breeze in mid-October would be cool and the sky overcast. But this little piece of Wild Country was hot enough to boil a man's brains, and it promised to get worse. Tomorrow it might play host to snowflakes or a tornado, but today Quantrill cursed its heat, sighed, and found a bulb of Pearl Light in the cycle storage pannier.

A careful scan of the shrubby area told him much. Those discarded bags began to degrade with the help of dry-packed enzymes as soon as they were opened, especially in warm weather. They were still in fair condition, so the bags had been opened within the past twenty-four hours or so. Several long scuff marks on the hardpan revealed where the chopper had landed. Scarcely ten meters away was a rust-brown stain on the earth, already sun-blackening and worshiped by a squadron of biting flies. The barb must have lost quarts of blood on that spot; a wonder it had survived at all.

Labels on the empty bags said someone had used a medical stapler, a hammock sling, and a hell of a lot of tape. Quantrill spotted several crescent-shaped heelmarks — Wardrop's, for the S & R crews left caulked patterns — and then, swigging his beer, let his glance slide up a nearby animal trail.

He said an ugly short word and strode forward, seeing the sharp incisions in the earth where a huge boar had spun, parried, and charged. Without any question, it was Ba'al that Wardrop had met: and thanks to his training at the hands of Jess Marrow, Quantrill had become a passable tracker. He needed little time to find where Ba'al's blood trail began, but he was encouraged; Ba'al had not been bleeding all that much. He considered calling Sandy on the cycle's VHP set to tell her the good news but did not want to risk giving away his position in case Garner's people had direction finders. He had no way of knowing that someone already had located his path and was moving toward cover near a point he would soon pass.

Briefly, he lost the trail in the creek. He found where Ba'al had entered the creek earlier, judging from the way the prints were oriented — and then dropped to his knees. A moment later he stood up, dusting off his knees and grinning.

Marrow was not as good a tracker as, say, an Apache; but he had taught Quantrill about print incisions. When running, a hoofed animal digs the fore tip of his hoof into the soil, and more loose soil is found behind the rear hoofprint than behind the front. It took Quantrill a moment to realize what he was looking at: the dewclaws at the rear of each hoof had dug in, and the loose soil was ahead of the prints. Ba'al hadn't entered the creek there; he had left it! Striding backward, probably at a trot to judge from the spacing.

And if he'd taken that much trouble with his tracks, he probably was not badly injured. Silently, Quantrill lifted his bulb of Pearl aloft and toasted the unseen Ba'al.

Still, most of his findings were guesswork, and he had not come this far to let his imagination draw his conclusions. Quantrill copied Sandy's "all clear; come in" whistle as well as he could. If he could whistle the big devil up, at least he could take back the news that Ba'al still reigned in his corner of hell.

No response. Nor in the next ravine, either, a narrow cleft so choked with brush that its real contours were hard to see. But Quantrill saw a sunglint from water between cedars, where the ravine widened some distance away, and took the cycle along the ridge for at least one moment too many. He never knew how many rounds were fired toward him in that first burst, but one slug gashed his windscreen and another shattered the engine's injector pump in the same instant. That meant several snipers, or one with an assault rifle, or both. Quantrill took the only evasive action he could.

A hovercycle's fans were designed to give gyroscopic stability and a low center of gravity as well, so they were heavy enough to continue free-wheeling for several seconds after the engine stopped. This feature was a real bacon-saver when an engine seized while the cycle was waist high over deep water or broken countryside. You came down quickly, but you had time to get ready. Quantrill needed two seconds to release his harness and a third to roll out of the cockpit. By this time the cycle was bouncing not far from the lip of the ravine, rebounding from a long limestone outcrop. Quantrill scrambled into the shadow of the outcrop as his vehicle crashed onto its side and rolled over with what seemed agonizing slowness.

Then silence, broken only by faint pings as the engine began to cool. Quantrill replayed the attack in his head and knew that the slug through his windscreen had come from his right. That meant the ambush had not been set in the ravine, but from the flat prairie above it. The ravine was a possible escape route, then — but he did not enjoy giving up the high ground and would have to cross several meters of open territory. The outcrop stretched for five meters parallel to the ravine but was not high enough to let him rise to his knees. He could not reach into the inverted cockpit to toggle the VHP set for help without exposing himself as a clear target. If only he had brought a weapon!

Well, he had, after a fashion. The Nelson rifle and its tranquilizers lay in his cargo pannier with the beer. That pannier hatch lay almost within arm's reach. He inched out from the limestone, hoping he was hidden by the inverted cycle, ducking back expecting more gunfire. Nothing.

He slid on his belly again, reached the pannier hatch, and opened it. Instantly, a distant burst of fire hammered a half dozen slugs into the cycle and Quantrill rolled back to the outcrop. Success, and fresh trouble, too; the rifle fell from the open hatch onto the ground, but now diesel fuel began to gurgle into the engine compartment and to trickle from there to the dirt. Snaking one arm out to retrieve the rifle. Quantrill saw his last bulb of Pearl near the hatch lip. Like an idiot, he had brought no other drinkables, depending on the filter straw in his survival kit for water on the open range. And that kit was still strapped into the cockpit. Like the VHP set, it might as well be half a world away.

A single shot impacted somewhere on the cycle. Now the stink of diesel fuel was rank in his nostrils, ten gallons of it at least, and if the damned cycle caught fire, he would be showered with blazing liquid when the tank blew. He shrugged his jacket off, poked the barrel of the rifle against it, then eased it forward as he crawled along the base of the outcrop away from the cycle. The jacket did not draw fire until he had crawled to the end of the outcrop, but whoever it was, the sharpshooter was quick and accurate. Quantrill reviewed his options furiously.

It was almost noon, getting hotter, and if that fuel caught fire, his next move should be a fast scramble over the lip of the ravine, guns or no guns. That might involve another scramble down the steep ravine, and it might begin with a fall; he could not tell how far. And a compound leg fracture meant a slow and nasty death. If he stayed healthy until dark, his chances of escape were excellent. But that meant lying half in sunlight for hours with no water. Quantrill knew he sweated more than most, knew also that a single afternoon in a baking sun could send him through the classic stages of dehydration. By dusk, his tormentor could simply walk up and shoot him while he lay there.

Look at the bright side, he thought. If this had happened in midsummer, the heat would have been ferocious; deadly. And he'd been hydrating himself with low-alcohol beer, and with luck he might get his hands on that last bulb in the cycle pannier. But not if those fumes caught fire. He poked the jacket out again, drew one round that spanged off the hard-pan, and crawled quickly back to the overturned cycle. Now he was sweating from his efforts in the heat and studied the ground carefully before reaching for that open pannier. The cycle's roll bar elevated the vehicle enough for a sharpshooter to see him crawling under it. He wished for a long stick, then sighed, cursed, and crawled back to retrieve the Nelson rifle.

With the compressed gas cylinder and the fat tranquilizer darts removed from its hollow stock, the rifle was not too heavy to hold extended with one hand. Quantrill gripped the stock with his right hand, his chin buried in caliche dirt, and eased the barrel out to nudge that little plastic bulb of beer. The confounded thing rolled back and forth but would not drop out.

His wrist was tiring, and someone must have seen movement, for the next fire was a rapid series that sent slugs into the dirt beneath the cycle and dust into Quantrill's eyes. Then he did what he should have done first: hauled the rifle in, replaced the gas cylinder, and fired through the air space beneath the cycle. He did not have a dart in the chamber, but the sound of it was convincing enough.

He counted thirty before another round hit the cycle. That suggested his return fire, harmless though it was, had caused the sniper to duck. He recharged the rifle's plenum, poked its barrel under the cycle, and triggered it again. The next instant, he scrambled furiously to the pannier, snatched the little bulb of Pearl, and rolled away again. It gained him a pint of fluid and a conversation.

"Toss out the shotgun," said an amplified voice in Texas accents. Those little loud-hailer trumpets could send a voice a long way.

Time was when Quantrill would have done as he was told, the sooner to face his enemies at close range — perhaps the sooner to bring into play a set of reflexes and martial arts techniques that the average waddie could not comprehend until he had seen them used. But that was Quantrill's risky option, one that he tended to avoid more as he thought more of "settling down." The hell of it was, when you've spent years getting comfortable with the risky options, any conservative option can be an unfamiliar game that you play badly. He faced the "less is more" paradox, and understanding it did not help him subdue it.

Quantrill cursed himself for avoiding the high-risk route, heard the man repeat his demand, made no reply. The Nelson's gas cylinder showed enough charge for another dozen loud reports, and so far it had been the only reply he needed. If that bushwhacker made a charge, Quantrill could get a dart into the chamber in time for one close-up shot. If two of them came firing at once, Quantrill was in very thick yogurt. Still, this was not wartime; few men cared to take such risks against a trespasser with — Quantrill smiled in spite of himself — a shotgun.

The loud-hailer again: "You're pinned on Garner land and we've called for help, pocho." The term implied a cowpoke of the border variety. Evidently they had no idea who lay behind that limestone outcrop. But the next announcement brought a silent curse from Quantrill, for it bore a different voice.

"We got shade and you ain't. Come out now and there'll be no more shooting. Or bake awhile. Suit yourself." So there were at least two of the bastards.

Where the hell was his Aussie hat? Nowhere he could see. Quantrill buttoned the sleeves of his shirt, then used a forefinger to wipe sweat from his brow and sucked his finger for the salt sweat. Every drop lost was a nail in his coffin; every bit of exertion, every minute of sun on his noggin tallied points against him. He crawled to the other end of the outcrop slowly, listening for footsteps, and drew the waist of the jacket over his head, folding a sleeve under his chin. He counted his five tranquilizer darts, restowed three in the stock. One went into the chamber, the last he placed on a stone to keep it out of the caliche dust.

And there he lay for an hour by his watch. The midday heat was stifling now, and when the distant sound of a hovercycle coughed into action, he was almost dozing. He was alert enough to realize they might be waiting for his reaction to the noise; he tossed the jacket to the top of his low outcrop behind him as a decoy. He was slow coming to his feet, but an instant was all he needed before flopping down again. A rattle of fire passed near the jacket, which he retrieved with his rifle barrel. And still he could not spot his enemies, except for one man accelerating away down a slight depression, two hundred meters distant. How many were left?

Time to try finding out. "Now it's just you and me, back-shooter," Quantrill called.

"Two against one suits us fine," came the reply, then two bursts of fire. Well, it had been worth a try. Two men up on the prairie — or one smart one. Quantrill tried to deny his headache but knew it was an early sign of dehydration. He opened the bulb of beer and drank it all. From his days with S & R he knew there was no point in saving drinkables when you were suffering from lack of the stuff. You hydrated yourself as much as possible and tried not to generate sweat.

He settled down again, using the jacket for headgear and chinrest. If these were Garner men, and if they'd been lying about help, perhaps the one on the cycle had gone to get help. That implied they had no radio. Two hours to the ranch HQ, a bit over two hours back unless they had a chopper; Quantrill could expect a showdown by sunset.

He started to spit a mouthful of cottony fluff, then remembered and swallowed it. Now and then, a singleton round sang overhead or spatted into the cycle. That tactic bore several messages: they were alert; it would be suicide to try for the VHP toggle; and they had enough ammo to waste it.

At least the diesel fumes were not so strong now. He recited an old service ditty, "Lady Luck She Is a Fickle

Bitch," in his head. He might be running a fever now, complete with headache and cottonmouth, but by taking care in that semidesert sun, he was still clear-headed enough to think. So think!

He was still licking his own sweat; a good sign. When you quit sweating, your dehydration was well and truly advanced. He'd spotted a bark-hided lizard — locals called it a "boomer" — touring the edge of his outcrop, but it kept clear of him. It wasn't poisonous and it was full of body fluid, and if it got within reach, he fully intended to do what the Apaches did: bite in like Dracula and suck the poor critter dry. It wasn't as disgusting as the idea of becoming delirious out here in a single afternoon, as many a good man had done before.

Keep thinking! Their firepower was overwhelming, and they'd sent a lot of rounds under the cycle in a hurry; yet they hadn't hit him once. They could have tried flanking him and hadn't. If they weren't plain cowards, maybe they really didn't want him dead. If they'd been drugrunners, they would have kept out of sight to begin with; either that, or they'd have taken their chances and flanked him early. Chances were that these were Garner waddies, ordinary ranch hands. Yes, that fined the patterns. Good thinking. Too goddamn bad he hadn't given more candlepower to thinking about weapons when he'd set out on this infernal idiotic quest that was hardly less stupid than Wardrop's, rot his soul. Jee-ms, but his head ached. Come just a little closer, Mr. boomer lizard, and I'll explain all about vampires. He laughed to himself, a little dizzily, and then he slept.

He did not wake when a slug sent a light shower of dirt onto his back. Nor when the sun slid down to peer under his improvised headgear, blistering the bridge of his nose. Nor when the lizard flickered across in front of him, within easy reach. What woke him was the sound of hovercycles.