Cat on the Scent

8

An open one-pound can of gunpowder sat on the butcher-block kitchen table. Paper cartridges, laid out in rows like tiny trapezoidal tents, covered one edge of the table. Ridley Kent bent his handsome head over the litter. Determined to outauthenticate everyone, he was rolling his own cartridges. It wasn't as easy to roll sixty grains of 2F black powder as he had anticipated.

Rolling with both hands, he then fumbled with the tie-off. Outside the rain beat down the kitchen window. It was a filthy night.

“Damn it to hell!” he exploded when the paper opened, spilling gunpowder over the table. Now he'd have to count out grains again.

It occurred to him to line up sixty grains behind every piece of paper. That served the purpose, too, of calming him down so he wouldn't botch his next tie-off job.

Archie Ingram came through the door, sending the carefully cut paper sailing around the room.

“I could kill you, Archie.”

Archie hung his raincoat on the doorknob to drip. He surveyed the white papers, then knelt down, picking them up. “Get a grip.”

“Do you know how long I've been sitting here with these cursed things?”

“Half the day?”

“Two hours. It took one hour just to cut the paper.”

“Right weight. You've done your homework. After all, you could have cheated and bought ready-mades.”

“Not me. Plenty of others do.”

“Here, let me show you how to do this.” Archie sat down, took a flat knife, and scraped the sixty grains into the paper, rolling it so a tiny piece, the longest piece, stuck over the final edge. He tied off the end. “Where'd you get the dowel?”

“Made it.” Ridley referred to the wooden dowel, about half an inch with a head cut like a bullet head or minnie ball. Rolling the paper on this wooden dowel made the task more congenial but Ridley's fingers, none too steady at any time of day, still couldn't tie off the cartridge.

“And I suppose you'll go as an officer?”

“Since I'm one of the few who can afford the gear, yes,” came Ridley's testy reply.

“Don't even think about giving an order. You give enough in real life.”

“What did officers do?” Ridley questioned, half laughing.

“Die by the truckload.”

“I've no intention of doing that. Anyway, the Union men fire over our heads and we fire over theirs. Aren't the rules never to point a firearm directly at your opponent, and not to ram a real ball down your rifle?”

“Yes. But don't give orders. You're new to this and even though you're a—”

“Colonel.”

“How perfect,” Archie slyly said. “You don't give orders. You walk by the side of your men, on the front corner.”

“I'll ride.”

“Ridley, you can't ride a hair of a horse. Walk or be an artillery officer.”

“All I have to do is walk along. I think I can manage that.”

“Listen, bonehead, Fair Haristeen's worried about riding and he can ride. None of the horses are accustomed to gunfire. You'll walk.”

“But I've got yellow trim on my uniform and a golden sash for my sword,” Ridley protested.

“Light blue. Infantry. Don't make an ass of yourself. Take this back to Mrs. Woo and have her sew on blue facings. Her shop is that little building behind Rio Road Shopping Center. Just do what I tell you. I know what I'm talking about and I don't want to see you make a fool of yourself.”

Ridley wanted to say, “You're making a fool out of your own self. Why worry about me?”

Archie droned on. “We're going to shut up H. Vane. The man thinks he can run the world. Pompous limey! He's upset because we're filling the rank with men who aren't true reenactors. I said we had to do it. The public will be in attendance and we need this battle to warm up for the Wilderness reenactment.”

“Still bodies in that Wilderness.” Ridley shuddered.

“There's so many bodies in the ground in Virginia, you can't plow without hitting one, especially around Richmond.”

“Maybe that's why our crops grow so well.”

Archie narrowed his greenish eyes. “You're not taking this seriously.”

“Seriously enough to spend good money.”

“Hell, Ridley, if you aren't throwing your money away on women . . .”

“You've got room to talk?” A thick auburn eyebrow jutted upward.

Crimson washed over Archie's face. He blushed easily. “A gentleman doesn't discuss those matters.”

“Who said we were gentlemen?” Ridley laughed.

“We were raised gentlemen even if we can't always be gentlemen.” A guilty conscience haunted the county commissioner.

“Archie, one of these days you're going to get caught, and if your wife doesn't kill you somebody else will.” A half-smile gave Ridley a rakish air. “You're a Casanova in disguise.”

“What's the disguise?” Archie liked the description more than he cared to admit.

“Pug ugly.” Ridley laughed.

Archie breathed in, thought a second, then laughed himself. He rolled another cartridge. “Charles Bronson wasn't classically handsome.”

“Charles Bronson's ass would make your Sunday face,” Ridley teased, for Arch was good-looking.

“Ridley, you really know how to hurt a guy.” Archie's gloom lifted a bit.

Ridley could make anyone laugh. His infectious spirit, too often fueled by booze, made him a boon companion. Women adored him. The compliment was returned.

Ridley got up, returning with a three-banded Enfield rifle. Four hundred and eighty dollars. Was I robbed?”

“No, that's the going price.”

He polished the brass on the musket.

“If you're behind a line of infantry, you hold your rifle so that the first and second bands of your weapon are over the ear of one of your men.” He pointed to the part of the barrel. “That way no one will get a singed ear.”

They worked quietly, then Ridley, voice low, said, “Arch, if you don't mend some fences you're going to lose your commission seat. Mim's in a rage.”

Archie flared his nostrils. “She is?”

“What did you expect? You acted like a jerk at the commission meeting.” He smiled to soften his words. “You didn't seem like yourself.”

Archie shrugged. “I'm sick of being the bad guy in the county-commission meetings.”

“You're only the bad guy to the developers. Plenty of people think you're doing a fine job. No one understands why you're so emotional about the reservoir, though. I'm on your side, Arch, that's why I'm telling you what others won't tell you. You need to mend fences,” he repeated.

“H. Vane is behind this.”

“He may be behind it but I'm telling you Mim's in front of it.” Ridley put his cartridges in stacks of ten. “And why did you deny Vane-Tempest's request for a zoning variance last winter? Establishing a quarry on the north side of his land is a good idea. No one will see it and it will create jobs.”

“He needed better plans.”

“Come on, Arch, his plan included a responsible solution to reclaim the pits. It was environmentally progressive.” Ridley lowered his voice. “Are you on the take?” Archie's jaw fell slack. Ridley pressed. “That's what some people are saying. I'll never tell but I'd sure like to know because you're acting like you're a nickel short of a dime these days. People think hard-line environmental groups are slipping you money. Crazy. But they're talking like that.”

Archie got up, heading for the door. Ridley ran after him. “Arch! Come on, Arch. I'm trying to help.”

“Help? You accuse me of betraying the public's confidence!”

“I don't want you to lose what you've worked so hard to get. Come on, sit down.”

Archie rejoined him. “I am not on the take.”

“Okay.” Ridley paused. “Hey, did you hear that Tommy Van Allen is missing?”

“He's not missing. He's probably in Santa Fe or Buenos Aires, for God's sake. That is the most self-indulgent man I've ever met.”

“Rick Shaw called me. They're treating it as a missing-persons case. His plane is missing, too.”

“I'm glad we never pitched in and bought that twin engine. I don't know how I could have fallen for that.”

“It was fun . . . our flying club, but I don't get the power charge from flying that you guys do.”

“At least you could afford it.” Archie absentmindedly polished the brass bands on the rifle.

“Tommy and I already knew how to fly, of course, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. And H. Vane learned in the RAF. Maybe being up in the air again reminded me too much of my service days or maybe I really am up in the air. It was too close for comfort.”

“Blair sure learned quickly. I thought a pretty guy like that would chicken out. I'd rather he had dropped out instead of you.”

“I can't warm to that guy.” Ridley offered Archie a beer. He passed. “He's not cold-blooded but he's not hot-blooded either. Like last fall, when he had that affairette with Sarah Vane-Tempest—”

Arch interrupted, “He did not.”

“The hell he didn't. They were discreet about it, that's all.”

“I can't believe she'd go to bed with Blair Bainbridge,” Archie said with disgust.

“Didn't last long. Maybe he got bored with her or she got bored with him. Then, too, I wouldn't want H. Vane breathing down my neck.”

“What's H. Vane expect, marrying a woman half his age?”

Ridley walked to the fridge. “Drink a beer, buddy, you look peaked.”

“Huh? Okay.” Archie took the cold beer, peeling back the pop-top. “I know I've been irritable. Too much work, Ridley. Just too much. My wife complains that she never sees me and since she only complains when she does see me, I don't want to go home.” He drank a long, slow swallow. “Being a county commissioner can sometimes, well, let me put it this way—if there's a buffoon, an asshole, or a certifiable psycho, not only will I meet them campaigning they'll show up in my office. And this reservoir stuff brings them all out of the woodwork.”

“Forget about it for a night. I'll make popcorn. We can tell lies about the women we've conquered.”

“Sounds good to me.” Archie drained the beer can, got up, and fetched another.