The Ranger - Ace Atkins [24]
Quinn couldn’t get lost.
He tried his damnedest, but even after the third beer all of Tibbehah County seemed as clear as a road map. He headed up near the Trace, thinking of following it awhile, just as he popped open a fresh beer. This was the first time he’d been able to get a little loose in several years. As the platoon daddy, he had to pretty much hold it together while his boys could go out and raise hell, Quinn being the one on call to break up fights or raise money for bail. He had to stand tall and be responsible when sometimes it was the platoon sergeant who craved a drink more than anyone.
Not that he didn’t have his fair share of hell-raising as a private. Privates were always into stupid shit, and he hadn’t been any exception. Not long after earning his tab, the 3rd Battalion found itself waiting outside an airstrip in Oman with some of the most elite Special Forces guys in the world. Most of these guys were battle-hard and older than Quinn was now, working with Rangers who weren’t even old enough to drink.
After a few days, one dumb Ranger decided to slip into some black cold-weather gear and don a black balaclava and carry throwing stars made out of Copenhagen cans and nunchucks fashioned from duct tape and 550 cord. While the Delta guys sat in their tents discussing dangerous secret missions, this Ranger private, dressed all in black, was throwing Copenhagen tins at them and yelling, NINJA!, before hauling ass.
The officers never found out the identity of that man in black. But whoever he was, he’s still a legend in the battalion.
Quinn smiled to himself and took a hard turn over the creek and down the gravel road and up into the farmhouse driveway, slamming the truck door behind him and using the front fender to steady himself while he took a leak. He kept on smiling and laughing at that ninja. He enjoyed the way the big oaks and pecans in a distant cattle field had many different branches.
As Quinn finished up, he saluted the moon, and reached into the truck for the last two beers, popping one, saving the other for a nightcap. About halfway to the dark house he heard a dog barking, his first thought being that Hondo had treed something, and the last thing he wanted to do was walk half a mile to save a scared raccoon.
The bark was quick and popping. And then he noticed the sounds of the cows.
And the voices of men in his uncle’s pasture.
Quinn moved into the house and retrieved an old Winchester .45 lever-action, then followed the road, a long dark tunnel with nimble, wiry branches overhead. The cows’ crying growing closer, Hondo’s barking. Men yelling, and then the dog’s yelp.
He levered the gun, put a .45 in the chamber, and continued to walk. Hondo zipped under the barbed wire and walked at his side under the moon. A cold wind shot down from the foothills.
At the fence, he could make out three men, and then five, kicking and swatting at the cows and loading them onto a long rusted trailer. Quinn moved along a ditch, then steadied his hand on a cedar post, staying there for maybe a good five minutes, rubbing Hondo’s ears, before one of the miscreants spotted him and nudged another in the ribs.
They weren’t ranchers. Three of them were nothing more than kids with shaved heads and wearing ragged jackets, another was a fat man with a shaved head, wispy red beard, and a scrawled tattoo on his neck. Quinn took the last fella to be running the show, from the way he was bossing everybody around. He was older, tall and skinny, with hollow dark eyes, and was shirtless under a camouflage jacket with all matter of patches and symbols.
Quinn’s hand left Hondo’s head and waved to them. “Hello.”
The skeletal man broke away from his group and walked to a midpoint between them and Quinn.
Quinn walked toward him, seeing himself and the dog as moon shadow. He held the rifle loose and easy in his left hand.
“Evening” was all that came to Quinn’s mind.
8
The skinny guy didn’t say a word, just kind of stood there. He was a little shorter than Quinn, sporting