The Ranger - Ace Atkins [14]
You used to could drive into the judge’s land straight from the road, but now Quinn had to stop at a locked cattle gate and unlatch a chain, closing the gate behind him, knowing the old man must lock up at night with his pistols and shotguns. As he drove closer to the simple one-story home, noting two trucks and a car in the drive, two pit bulls ran out to greet him, circling Quinn as he stepped out, growling and bristling until the old man emerged from the horse barn and whistled.
Judge Blanton was a short, wiry man who probably didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. But he’d had the reputation as being one of the toughest figures ever to sit on the circuit bench, later serving on the state supreme court before retiring. He’d been a Marine in Korea—seen lots of action at Chosin Reservoir—and had been a mentor to Quinn’s uncle. His skin sagged a bit from his chin, but he still kept that same white crew cut he’d had since forever.
Mr. Jim and Luther Varner walked out onto the front porch and waved to Quinn while Quinn shook the judge’s hand. All the men wore heavy jackets and boots and were drinking coffee and smoking cigars. Luther Varner, lanky and angular with long, bony fingers, handed Quinn one wrapped in cellophane, and Mr. Jim fiddled with an old Zippo to light it.
Mr. Jim kept a well-worn Bible under his arm, Quinn figuring he’d interrupted some kind of meeting between the men, a regular Saturday routine where they argued politics, religion, and women.
“Had a visit last night from Johnny Stagg,” Quinn said.
“What a pleasure,” Blanton said.
“He claims he owns my uncle’s land.”
Varner asked, “Can he back it up?”
Quinn unfolded the amateur document Stagg had given him, and Blanton pulled some reading glasses from his weathered plaid mackintosh jacket and read through the piece quickly, folding it and handing it back. The smoke on the porch was heavy but blew away with a sharp chill of wind.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I’ve seen shittier things than this hold up in court.”
Quinn nodded, getting the plug of the cigar going in the cold, adjusting his feet, as the judge looked up squinting into the white light.
“He could fight you for it,” Blanton said. “Even without a contract. Everyone knows your uncle played around with those machines like a kid in a sandbox.”
“Son of a bitch,” Mr. Jim said, settling his portly body into an old rocking chair and tugging down his Third Army ball cap over his bald head. “Y’all know about that deal?”
Blanton shook his head.
“Hell, he kept those bulldozers and backhoes at the farm. In exchange, Stagg said he’d let Hamp use ’em whenever he wanted. Hamp used ’em to dig that bass pond last summer, bulldozed a bunch of deer trails through the woods.”
Quinn said, “Stagg says my uncle rented them.”
“That’s a black lie,” Mr. Jim said, shaking his head, cigar clamped down in his teeth. “No other way to put it.”
“So these were just personal loans,” Quinn said. “Y’all know about some casino trips?”
Every one of the men nodded and mumbled but still kept on calling Stagg a son of a bitch for lying about the use of those earthmovers.
“He claims to have gone straight,” Quinn said. “Said he sold the truck stop and titty