Wild Country (27 page)

When it became obvious that Wardrop was going to put Rose up against Ba'al in any case, Marrow agreed to supervise the crafting of her armor. As he had-put it, "It'd be a shame to make this pore noble beast pay for what
you
got comin'." Now, with the unwilling help of Quantrill, they were making the final fit of Rose's armor pads. From knees to neck and even passing under her ample belly, Rose's armor would stop a hurled lance. It would not stop the ridicule of Wardrop's quest.

Wardrop, connecting the breastplate to padding over her shoulders, did not at first notice the bright stitching Marrow had ordered across the close-woven kapton at the shoulders of the big mare. When he did, he indulged in a deep-breathing exercise. The stitching did not say "Rose"; it said "Rosinante."

"And I," said Wardrop with a flourish but not much mirth, "Don Quixote de la Mancha. While you Philistines are falling about in glee, think of the insult you give to Rose. She's no broken-down Spanish nag."

Marrow's own shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter as he stepped back to view the mare. "Maybe not, but you realize what this will all look like? Helmet, lance, armor, that goddamn stupid kerchief like a pennant—you're a dead ringer for a throwback out of the Middle Ages."

Wardrop, coolly: "That has not escaped my notice."

Quantrill: "Has it escaped your notice that you
are
a throwback? You admit the woman who gave you this idea hates your guts. And she's disappeared in the bargain."

And Marrow: "Besides, if you ever told your fellow pigstickers how you got a draft horse gussied up like this, you'd be laughed out of your regiment."

"Regiment be damned. Marianne Placidas and you two, especially you, be damned!" Grunting, Wardrop lifted his new saddle, no English postage stamp but a special affair with a "tree" high enough to provide kidney support, and swung it onto Rose's back. "I've invested many a bottle of that dogsbody's whiskey, and dissolved the lining of my throat, in hearing the local opinions. You two have been entirely too much help keeping me from my goal. I know who you are now, Quantrill: a man with a certain cachet in these parts. But I know myself as well, and I tell you before a witness that if you are trying to give serious insult, I shall give you satisfaction now, or later." He tugged at one of three broad cinches under the mare's belly. "The choice of weapons would be yours. I would sign a waiver; I believe that's how it has been done recently in this barbarous place." He stood up and waited, looking from one man to the other.

Quantrill sighed; shook his head as he led the docile Rose into sunshine, Wardrop following with lance and helmet. To give an ex-assassin his choice of weapons was to give a shark his choice of bites. It was a long vault into the saddle, but Alec Wardrop made it with style. Quantrill handed him the reins with: "I don't know how you do it, Wardrop. You earn respect from people who are laughing their nuts off at what you do. No, I won't throw down on you or duel you—but I don't expect to see you alive again, if you keep this shit up."

"You've given me that warning before," Wardrop replied, snapping the lance retainers, checking the saddlebags, "and here I sit. Forgive me for that lapse of mine, Quantrill. You mean well."

Quantrill threw up his hands. "Okay, but one more thing: There's a legend says the boar can actually smell a gun—the oil, maybe, or old powder residue. If you've got one, get rid of it now. Otherwise, Ba'al will scatter your bones from here to Waxahachie."

"No guns." Wardrop smiled. "We Quixotes only use spears."

"Your hand, then, while it's still attached." Quantrill reached up, shook with Wardrop, then turned to see that Marrow stood near, thumbs in belt loops, listening and rocking on his heels. Wardrop gave an abbreviated form of Brit salute, eased Rose into a ponderous trot, and headed off for his hired horse van.

"If the Lord takes care of drunks and fools," said Marrow, "I wonder if He's put aside all His other concerns for the rest of that man's life."

"Does that mean you're for Wardrop, or against him?"

"He's a pigheaded, spoiled rich, wasteful selfish snooty cantankerous foreign-born sonofabitch of world class, but he
does
have class." Marrow clucked to himself. "But whatever he has loose up here"—he tapped himself over the ear—"he makes up for it in here." So saying. Marrow put his hand over his breast. "The Brit just hasn't had his good strong sign yet. How could I be against as great an ass as Wardrop? He's one of us, Teddy!"

Quantrill's smile was distant; sad. "Maybe somebody should root for the boar."

Marrow eyed his assistant thoughtfully. "Oh, I think somebody does. God knows how it came about, but I think somebody has, for a long, long time…"

If the dead can watch the living, then perhaps Judge Anthony Placidas was venting hollow laughter in hell. His dying statement made Ted Quantrill suspect that a close connection existed between Jerome Garner and the Justice Department. The important connections, however, were between the department and Sorel. Garner, for all his dreams of power, was important only because he controlled the land that was a conduit for Sorel—and because that land was vast enough to hide Sorel's Anglo confederates. Garner knew he would be conspicuous as tits on a boar hog to any deputy strolling the streets of Del Rio, Rocksprings, or Kerrville. But just as you can best hide a lump of coal among a hundred thousand other lumps of coal, a wanted man in a city can hide in plain sight. SanTone Ringcity, for example; or Austin, only a hundred klicks to the north.

And Jerome Garner knew no one who needed killing in SanTone. While checking more loose teeth and recovering from the encounter on his porch, he'd listened to his hired hands dredging up stories about the redoubtable Ted Quantrill. Sounded to Jer like the little sumbitch was on his way to being a Texas legend—and him not even a native, originally. The fact that Sam Houston and Davy Crockett had also been imports from the southeast never crossed Jer's mind. The fact that the man who shot John Wesley Hardin in the back was known by name only to historians also did not register. Jer believed what he wanted to believe: that he could gain status and discharge mortal vengeance by bagging that rattler-quick little fucker, Ted Quantrill. Sandra Grange had said Quantrill was in Austin. And when had any little bimbo ever withstood the Garner charm enough to lie to Jer? A truthful answer to
that
one might hurt him worse than bullets.

Garner needed two days for his roundabout trip to Austin, with only Billy Ray for company. The old Texas U campus in Austin had suffered so much damage during the firestorms of '96 that the great university had made do with temporary quarters in North Austin for nearly a decade. But a school with more oil money than Harvard, more fierce traditions than a regimental combat team, would not abandon its ancient campus forever. Austin's Guadalupe Boulevard resounded, now, with the clangor of construction as determined Texans proceeded to rebuild every last structure as it had been before the Sinolnd War. The Littlefield Memorial, the museum, even the ad building everyone called "the Tower"—all of it would soon look as it had looked in 1995. Some said it was all being done so that those orange lights could once again bathe the Tower every time the Longhorns won a football game. Jerome Garner did not care why it was being done, so long as everyone was too busy to match his face with a "wanted" poster.

But not quite everyone was that busy. San Antonio Rose had excellent descriptions of Sorel's people, including Jer Garner. He knew enough about Jer to approach him with care, and to watch his accomplice carefully. He spent one fruitless day scanning the heavy equipment yards, especially at quitting time when the hulking Kelley Ramscoops with their telescoping wheelbases and midchassis scoops were wheeled into their compound for the night. He was not studying the equipment operators or the bag people who picked over piles of debris for anything salable, but any big, strapping specimen who stood outside the cyclone fence to watch.

His second day of surveillance was very like the first, until a half hour before the Kelley earthmovers were due to come rolling into their compound near the stadium. Then he noticed, strolling along Red River Street, the two men wearing bulky jackets over plaid shirts.

He crossed the boulevard, walking slowly enough to hide his slight limp, whistling an old familiar tune. Of the pair that walked ahead, the tall blond with the big shoulders seemed to be doing most of the talking. San Antonio Rose proceeded with caution; no telling how many men in Austin would fit Jerome Garner's description.

The men took seats at a bus stop. San Antonio Rose spent ten minutes with a cigarette, idly observing construction work on the stadium. He felt more sure of his job when the two men passed up a Congress Avenue bus. He felt almost certain when, as the big earthmovers began to whirr toward their compound, the smaller of the men crossed alone to the opposite side of the broad thoroughfare and took up a vigil, a broad-brim Stetson pulled low over his brow.

Jer Garner was watching for a ramscoop driver who looked like Ted Quantrill and scarcely glanced at the lean fellow in coveralls who sat down, whistling softly, on the other end of his bench. Until the man quit repeating his tune and asked for a light. Jer pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket without a word. Flicking the lighter, he shared the gaze of a man whose coloring and face suggested a tough latino. A day laborer, from the look of him.

The laborer drew on his cigarette, said, "Thanks," and whistled a tenth repetition of the tune. It irritated Jer, who looked away. "Bet you can't name that tune," said the laborer casually.

"I've heard enough of it," Jer replied.

"But can you name it?" the laborer persisted.

"'Rose of San Antone,' " said Jer, not making the connection.

"Guilty as charged," said the laborer.

Jer swiveled his head around, made a connection, then dismissed it too soon. "I'm busy, greaseball. Get my drift?"

"I do if your initials are J. G.," said the laborer.

Now Jer turned his full attention to the man. "And what if they aren't?"

"I'll be disappointed, and J. G. won't live to ride his sorrel much longer." The laborer still spoke casually, but his hand rested in his jacket. "If I were the law, which I'm not, J. G. would be candy. You agree?"

Jer swallowed hard, imagining a snub-nosed weapon in that pocket. "I guess so."

"So I'll give you one name and you give me the other; fair enough?" A nod. "Jerome."

"Garner," said Jer. "You're San Antonio Rose?"

"I said I was guilty," said the man, enjoying it. "You jus' keep watching and don' bring your backup overhere, I'm takin' a chance for you Anglos as it is."

Jer brought out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, and kept his eyes peeled on the street, feeling sweat form in his armpits as his informant continued to talk. The story was short, its moral bitter: Jerome Garner was unlikely to find his quarry in Austin. He was more likely to find some very rough dudes authorized to carry sawed-off scatterguns, the kind of welcome you could expect if you were a known killer.

San Antonio Rose saw beads of perspiration on Jer's forehead as he finished: "Too many bounty hunters here for your health. You think this man you're after isn' bait to get you now, wherever he is? Think again. An' if I found you, who'll find you next?"

Jer spat at the gutter. "Seems like everybody knows my business before I do. It was that little cunt set me up, sure as hell!"

San Antonio Rose donated a look of puzzlement. "You're way off. Garner. Go home an' think about it."

The word "home" had more implications than he had intended. "If it wasn't that girl, I know goddamn well who it has to be," Jer raged.

"Thought you might," said San Antonio Rose, without any clear idea who the rancher had in mind. "My channels say you're settin' yourself up for a spell in the slammer. Don' expect any more help from me. You're trouble stuck up on a long pole, man. Now do us all a favor; go get your backup an' fuck off while I catch this bus."

Jer Garner got up as if the bench were a hot stove lid and hurried across the boulevard without a backward look. San Antonio Rose caught the bus, wondering whether young Garner would continue his search for the ex-deputy. He did not wonder about the slender fellow with the scarred face who sat in a rented Chevy near a street corner two blocks down Red River from that bus stop.

San Antonio Rose checked himself often for passive di-poles and radio-frequency bugs, with a good Mantis bug-finder. Because he never found evidence of tracer bugs, he assumed that he was free to pursue his business without himself being followed. He had never heard of a pheromone tracker, a hand-held device that was almost as sensitive as moth antennae in locating stray molecules of an exact type.

Marianne Placidas knew men's habits. They might wash their clothes daily but seldom washed the outsides of wallets and belts, nor the insides of footgear and holsters. Her pheromone spray was undetectable to human nostrils and it worked extremely well on leather, sinking into the pores and releasing a few molecules every second or so for a period of several weeks. Even in an air-conditioned metropolitan bus, enough trackable stuff found exit to make tracking possible. Upon learning where San Antonio Rose roomed, Marianne had wasted no time making purchases from her family contact, a retired detective who kept up with the latest investigative techniques. Within twenty-four hours, taking risks only a brilliant amateur would consider, she had gained illegal entry to San Antonio Rose's rooms and, wearing surgeon's gloves, sprayed all the belts, coats, and footgear he was not wearing at the time. His hair restorer, too, now had a little something extra that was noticeable only to that pheromone tracker.

Now, Marianne put the Chevy in gear and cruised slowly past the two men who were hurrying toward their own rented car. At first she had felt a sick warmth, a tremor of intent, upon seeing the man who shared that bench with San Antonio Rose. He was tall enough to be Harley Slaughter. But her view from two blocks distant, even through a good telephoto lens, was not very persuasive. Only when she passed Jer Garner at a distance of five meters did she decide that neither of the men was of immediate interest to her. Marianne turned at the next corner and followed the bus downtown, holding the little chemical tracker at the windowsill. She had nothing better to do, might never have anything better to do, than follow San Antonio Rose. And to wait. Sooner or later, he would lead her to Felix Sorel. Perhaps even now he was hurrying toward that rendezvous. And if this tactic did not bear fruit soon, perhaps she would invest in the laser audio unit Sorel had mentioned in Oregon Territory.