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“I’m the one holding this shotgun on you, and that’s all you need to know,” the man countered in a cold, hard voice. “Now you just climb back in that car and go tell Rutledge that whatever mischief he was wanting you to do here will have to wait for another time.”
The man thought he was o
ne of Rutledge’s men. Quick to seize on that slim opening, Quint said, “You’ve made a mistake. “I’m—”
“No, you’ve made a mistake,” the man broke in, a heat in his voice that warned against further argument. “Now you get back in that car and haul your ass out of here. I’m not going to tell you again.”
The ominous click of a cocking hammer lent its own emphasis to underscore his words.
“All right. I’m going,” Quint conceded.
With deliberate, unhurried movements, Quint retreated to the car and slid behind the wheel. The shotgun barrel followed him every inch of the way, but Quint still couldn’t get a good look at the man holding it.
Taking his time, Quint reversed the car away from the barn and made a wide, lazy swing toward the lane. All the while his gaze scoured every inch of the yard. Logic told him the man had definitely not arrived at the ranch on foot. His vehicle was parked somewhere. Since the area behind the barn was blocked from his view, it seemed reasonable to assume that was the site.
Quint followed the lane’s curving route until he was certain he was well out of sight of the ranch yard. Leaving the car parked on the shoulder, he slipped between two sagging fence wires and set out across the pasture, intent on circling around to approach the ranch yard from the rear.
The terrain offered little in the way of cover, forcing Quint to keep to the hillsides. With the barn’s roof peak serving as his guide, he worked his way around to the back. He crept forward for a look. There, parked in the full glare of the morning sun, was an old white pickup, its finish dulled with a coating of road dust and its edges eaten with rust.
A scan of the area failed to turn up any sign of its driver. With a good forty yards of bare ground to cross, Quint could only hope the man was still in the barn and still watching the lane.
Alert for any sign of movement, Quint rose in a crouch and took aim on the pickup, the closest cover. With silence more important than speed, he moved as quickly as he dared over the hard-packed ground. He didn’t draw an easy breath until he reached the cab of the pickup.
He hugged close to its side for a moment, listening. But there was little to be heard beyond the clucking of a chicken and the faraway bellow of a cow. Quint waited a few beats, then left the protection of the pickup for the barn. Pressing close to its rough siding, he listened for any sounds coming from within.
He caught a faint rustle, but it was impossible to tell if it was made by a human or a chicken. With the rear barn door closed and no windows on this end, Quint had no choice but to edge around to the side. He stopped short of the window frame and removed his hat before stealing a look inside. He glanced first at the open barn door without really expecting the man to still be standing by it.
For an instant Quint could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the shotgun propped against the door. A hen squawked and scurried into view, disturbed by something or someone on the opposite wall of the barn. Quint ducked down and shifted to the other side of the window. When he peered through its dusty pane, he immediately spotted a hatted figure poking around in the manger of one of the horse stalls, his back to the window. That was all he needed to see.
Moving away from the window, Quint glided swiftly around the barn door and paused inches from its opening. More faint rustling came from the vicinity of the stalls. Hearing it, Quint stepped inside the barn and almost simultaneously scooped up the shotgun.
With no hesitation at all, he broke it open, removed its two shells, and snapped it together, no longer caring that the sound betrayed his presence. The rustling noise stopped instantly.
“You might as well come out of that stall,” Quint called. “I know you’re there.”
A narrow-hipped man, wearing a lined jacket that gave extra bulk to his torso, stepped out from behind a partitioned stall. The brim of his dark cowboy hat shaded his eyes, but it didn’t conceal the lower half of his age-weathered face or the tufts of gray hair that poked from beneath the sides of his hat. He didn’t say a word, just stood there glaring at Quint.
“All right,” Quint said, “let’s try this again. Who are you?”
“Empty.”
Quint thought he was referring to the shotgun, currently cradled against the crook of his arm. “I know it’s empty. I unloaded it.”
“No,” the man grumbled irritably. “That’s my name—Mordecai Thomas Garner. M.T. for short.”
“What are you doing here?”
The old man spunkily cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know that it’s any of your damned business.”
“I can promise you it is.” Quint smiled and began a leisurely approach to the man. “If you had given me a chance to explain earlier, I would have told you that I don’t work for Rutledge.” He halted a few feet from him and gave the shotgun a toss into the old man’s arms. “I work for the Triple C.”
Empty Garner clutched the shotgun and stared at Quint for an uncertain instant. “The Triple C—that’s the Montana outfit that owns this place, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Quint confirmed.
The old man eyed him leerily. “How do I know you’re who you say you are? That car you’re driving has Texas plates.”
“That’s because I rented it after I flew down here.”
