Wild Country

Chapter Twelve

Quantrill spent much of the next day around the breeding pens, too busy to think about the Wardrop party, which had left early. The trained Wardrop ponies had been transported by hovervan to the far southeast reaches of Wild Country Safari. It was really none of Quantrill's affair.

It became his affair in midafternoon. He heard the emergency hooter, came running toward Marrow's office, saw Jess in a limping trot toward the chopper and beckoning him to follow. Not until Marrow dropped the little recorder in his lap did Quantrill ask what the hooting was all about.

Jess Marrow sped the turbine's warmup and jerked them away at low altitude, spooking their penned stock. Quantrill knew then that it must be serious. "Hutch maydayed for a rescue chopper; it's on the way from ranch headquarters. Called me and told me to bring you with a recorder."

Hutch knew Quantrill doubled as a deputy, but: "Do I have to guess why?" The younger man fumed.

"Old Placidas got hisself thrown out there. Boar came up under his pony. Hutch says. Couldn't shoot at first, since the boar charged Tony Plass and was all over him trailin' horseguts. Hutch nailed the boar, but SanTone may be short one judge."

"What am I supposed to do, take Hutch's statement?"

"Placidas's. Hutch claims the old bastard's opened from crotch to navel, but wants to talk. Guilty conscience, I gather."

"Good God," Quantrill muttered, staring at the recorder.

Homing in on Hutch's transceiver, Marrow made the trip in fifteen minutes. The rescue chopper was not yet on the horizon when Quantrill bailed out two paces above the dirt, leaving Marrow to set the chopper down.

Erect as a blond Masai, a tall sunburnt specimen with a clipped mustache leaned on an eight-foot lance, its weighted butt on the ground. The long, barbless point of the lance was bloodstained. The man gnawed his mustache and said nothing as Quantrill raced up.

At the blond man's feet squatted Cleve Hutcherson, talking to the old fellow who lay stretched out with a folded wind-breaker under his head. Hutch swatted at a deerfly brought by the smell of blood. "You wanted someone with a recorder," Quantrill said.

The old man's eyes fluttered open, seemed to focus with difficulty. "A lawman," he corrected. There was surprisingly little blood puddling the caliche dirt, considering his gaping abdominal wound. Quantrill had seen that transparent gray pallor on swarthy victims before; he judged that he was looking at a man who would not live much longer without a transfusion. The bloodless lips formed words through waves of evident pain, and Quantrill knelt on both knees to hear. The old man was stem: "ID, please." Even in this extreme, Judge Anthony Placidas was a man who could show caution.

Quantrill fumbled out his wallet. Three five-dollar pieces and a couple of smaller coins, the entire contents of his wallet, fell out as he showed his Department of Justice shield. Placidas blinked slowly; dropped the wallet on his breast. "Only seventeen dollars," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "You must be one of the honest ones." A spasm of agony. "I'll chance it. Recorder, please." Quantrill displayed the little machine, flicked it on.

"I, Anthony Somoza y Placidas de Soto, being — ah! — of sound mind and expiring body" — the faintest of smiles from this brave old curmudgeon—"understand and waive my rights to silence."

From time to time Placidas paused for long, shuddery breaths. The others scanned the skyline for that rescue chopper, but Placidas seemed resigned to dying. "Added to my income with — cash contributions from a loose cartel based — in Coahuila, to the best of my knowledge. Its activities include transport of illegal fuels, foodstuffs, and — ahh — drugs to outlets in — DalWorth, New Denver, and Kansas — Ringcity."

Placidas breathed more shallowly now, and quickly. Quantrill had heard nothing so far beyond what was already known. "Can you give me names?" He urged.

"Felix Sorel was — source of my funds," Placidas said, panting. "I used influence — to reduce bail for his people. Sorel knows the bail is to be forfeit. Man named Slaughter is — his favorite bodyguard. Slaughter has special — weapons, they say."

Quantrill: "There's got to be a regular thieves' highway for that stuff. What's their route?"

Placidas had trouble swallowing, and for a moment Quantrill thought he would hear no more. Then: "Never knew — details. Sorel — cagey. But conduit always — maintained — through Garner Ranch."

"Mul Garner?" This from Jess Marrow in disbelief. Marrow knew most of the cattle barons in Wild Country.

Softly, so softly that Quantrill almost missed it: "The young one." It was as if the mention of youth stirred Placidas toward another train of thought. "My apologies to Marianne," he said, loud enough for the erect Englishman to hear.

"The fault was mine, sir," said Wardrop, stiffening.

"Mierda." the old man cursed to himself. "My daughter would like to remember me as an honorable man. Do what you can," he whispered, his eyes boring into Quantrill's. "She is — naive about the likes of — Felix Sorel."

"I'll do what I can," Quantrill hedged. "You must know names of more of the people in that bunch."

A pause, then the faintest of headshakes. "Tell Jim Street — his channels are not secure," he said, shutting his eyes against the pain.

Then the old man relaxed. He was still breathing, but even that effort ceased before the rescue chopper appeared from the north. Quantrill sighed, stood up; wondered if there was a cool breeze in hell for men like Anthony Somoza y Placidas de Soto.