The Ranger - Ace Atkins [81]
“Stagg made a deal with the devil himself,” Gowrie said. “Hell awaits.”
Boom took a solid bead on Gowrie’s head with the chrome .44.
“You go ahead and get smart,” Boom said.
Gowrie looked at Boom and said: “All you got is a dyke woman and a one-armed nigger? Sleep tight.”
Gowrie gathered his boys in a big sunny field and headed out, marching down the gravel road.
Boom raised his eyebrows and lowered his gun as they crossed the creek bridge. “Who’s he calling a dyke?”
27
Quinn was at the courthouse when it opened at nine, heading down into the basement to the chancery clerk, the keeper of land records going back to when the county had been purchased from Choctaw chief Issatibbehah back in 1823. Since the last time he’d walked down those steps, it looked like they’d bought two computers, trying to get on into the twenty-first century. But they still kept those endless shelves of fat, aged leather-bound volumes, hand-inked transactions of deeds, liens, bankruptcy records, divorces, and delinquent taxes. The basement was always filled with a mildew stench and spindles of dust in the little bit of light from narrow windows at ground level.
The job was elected, but unless you ran away with half the county’s budget or performed an intimate act in public you could pretty much keep the job as long as you wanted it. For the last thirty years, Sam Bishop had run the office due to Sam’s interest in few things, outside church, bass fishing, and being a troop leader to the Boy Scouts. He’d been the man who’d kicked Quinn out of the Scouts at twelve for running a whiskey-fueled poker game one rainy night on the Natchez Trace.
“This is it,” Sam said, passing two printed-out sheets across the desk. “Lists people or companies owning adjoining land. I sure am sorry about your uncle.”
“I know these folks,” Quinn said. “I recognize all the borders except the one to the west.”
Sam reached for the sheet and looked at it through half-glasses, nodding. “Timber company, out of Bruce. That help any?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“You aren’t still mad about the Scouts.”
Sam had grown a lot grayer since the last time he’d seen him. He seemed smaller, bonier, and Quinn noticed he’d developed a limp. He remembered him being strong and vigorous, and leading hikes that seemed to go on forever. But Sam had grown old, and the thought of it was strange to Quinn. The man had always seemed ageless.
“No, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you think about Johnny Stagg?”
Sam Bishop took off his glasses, keeping his eyes on Quinn while he slipped them into his checkered dress shirt. Quinn pretty sure he was wearing a clip-on tie. He nodded and said, “Well, as he’s the head of the board of supervisors, I guess I’d say he’s my boss.”
“Y’all friends?”
Bishop walked back to a far wall and closed a door with a light click. He returned and lowered his voice, leaning over his desk: “Why?”
“I’d like to know just why Johnny Stagg is so interested in getting my uncle’s land.”
“Quinn, I could get in a hell of a lot of trouble speculating on land deals.”
“He said he’s going to file a lien.”
“He hasn’t yet,” Sam said, whispering. “If that means anything.”
“I just can’t figure how the land would be much use to him,” Quinn said.
Bishop reached for the two pieces of paper, slipping the glasses back on and running through each line with the eraser tip of a pencil, nodding. “You see this?” Bishop said. “That’s the land you asked about. Your uncle’s first tract. Would you like to see any additional parcels he might have owned?”
“How many?”
“Offhand, I recall three,” Bishop said. “If you’d like, I’d be glad to pull up those records for you. If Mr. Stagg were to file a lien, it would be for all of Hamp’s assets and land. You understand that.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Quinn said. “But I bet you know.”
“I really can’t say,” Bishop said, limping back to