Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [145]
“Got ID on you?” the first uniform demanded.
“What for?”
“We’re just trying to help you out here. Your name Delfino Montoya?”
That was choice.
“Is yours Kip Calder?”
“Who’s Kip Calder?”
One of them wrote down the name in a notebook.
“Nobody.”
“You know, you’re starting to rub me the wrong way, Mr. Montoya. Who is Kip Calder? Is he one of your three friends?”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
“This is going nowhere,” one scowled.
“He doesn’t look too good,” said another.
“You don’t look too good yourself,” Kip managed.
“Let’s take him in.”
“I don’t think so,” said Kip.
“You’ve done enough thinking for the time being, my friend.”
They saw no need for handcuffs. In spite of himself, their perp seemed grateful for the water and candy bar they gave him. There were no medics riding with this detachment, but they went ahead and treated his bloodied feet—which were still securely fastened to his legs, as it turned out—with hydrogen peroxide from the first-aid kit in the vehicle. He would have screamed had he any feeling down there, but he didn’t.
“I’m pretty tired,” he wheezed, before passing out in their custody.
They radioed for medevac. Didn’t need to lose a civvy. And plus that, the crazy fucker had guts. Whatever the devil he thought he was doing, this Montoya had definitely shown some serious intestinal fortitude, even if he was a wiseass. Sunstroke, exposure, lack of sleep can do that to a person. He’d probably be okay after a few days’ rest. They needed to find out who Kip Calder was, though. No doubt he was one of the three over at Dripping Spring. That could be a different story.
One of the reasons Delfino had sited his house where he did, on this bluff overlooking the draw and plain beyond, was so he could see when company was coming. Now, having dressed himself formally for this long-awaited day, he walked out onto the ruinous ramshackle porch and over to the cold fire. A match under kindling got things going again. He gathered a faggot of shed planks and tendered it into the pit. Wood he himself had probably sawn and nailed into place fifty years and better gone by, now fuel for a fire. Well, it was fine. All right. He would make coffee for himself and the kids. And sure, if these four horseless horsemen of the apocalypse, these four men marching in no rush up the dry draw, were of a mind, they could share a cup with him before returning to whence they’d come. He moved around with a slow nonchalance that would have suggested to any onlooker nothing out of the ordinary was happening here. Not that he was cavalier, but Delfino had lived out this moment in his head so many times that its actuality did seem routine.
Marcos and Ariel lay asleep in their bedrolls inside. Sun had breached the eastern mountains. A dragon-shaped cloud high overhead laced itself in pinks and whites. Delfino fed the horses, watered them. They were hungrier than he remembered his own horses ever having been, and their feed wasn’t lasting as long as he’d planned, so he might have to ask the rangers for oats, or better yet just give them the hungry beasts. Then again, no point thinking of them as friendly neighbors dropping in for a breakfast to discuss the welfare of his livestock.
After setting a pan of water on the fire, he gathered the several placards he had painted earlier. Down along the front edge of the dirt yard was the remnant of a stone wall, and now, using rocks and sticks, he propped his No Trespassing signs at different intervals along the low bulwark. Knowing that the rangers would see him stirring through their binoculars, just as he watched them approach through his, he left the shotgun inside the casita leaning against the wall by the door. No need to get anybody riled up yet. At least not more than they likely already were. The smoke smelled good. What did it matter that they’d consider him no better than a Mescalero marauder—or hell, even a hair worse? It was right to be back, whatever the consequences.
Once upon a