Mal and Jinny rode the cow for half a mile, by which time the stampede had begun to lose impetus. As they slowed, they looked around for Jamie and Toby, and discovered that the two of them had copied their example and were also mounted on cows. All four exchanged grins of exhilaration and relief.
“That was about the craziest thing ever, you bareback-riding a steer,” Jamie said to Mal. “Hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it. But I thought, ‘You know, if Mal Reynolds can manage it, so can I.’”
“I fell off twice,” said Toby. “Reckon my butt’s gonna be black and blue for days. But it was worth it. We did it! We’ve gotten away with it!”
They dismounted and rounded up the roped-up cows, which they drove towards the spot where they’d left the horses. The remaining cows were at liberty to do as they wished, which probably meant traipsing back to the Ponticelli corral eventually. Cows were homebodies that way.
It was a short hop to the Hendrickson farm. Day was dawning as the Four Amigos led the cattle down the front drive, anticipating a heroes’ welcome.
What they got was Anders Hendrickson emerging from the house in the company of Sheriff Bundy. Hendrickson looked perturbed, even frightened. Bundy had his thumbs hooked in his gun belt beneath his bulging gut.
“Get down off of them horses,” he ordered.
The Four Amigos complied. None of them was armed, whereas Bundy had a pistol at his side and a hand hovering close to it.
“Shoulda known it’d be you four,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “You think Mort Ponticelli didn’t call me soon as his cattle were taken? You think I wouldn’t know where they might be coming? Paid Anders here a visit first thing, and he swore to me it weren’t nothing to do with him.”
“It ain’t,” Hendrickson said. “Honest to God.”
“You didn’t put these kids up to it, then?”
“No, Sheriff.”
“Might be as I believe you,” Bundy said, “seeing as how this is just the sorta stunt these four would pull without needing to be asked. It’s you I particularly feel ashamed for, Jamie and Jinny Adare. You two could make something of yourselves, and you’re just fritterin’ it all away. Toby there is too young and callow to know better, while Mal Reynolds ain’t been nothin’ but a disruptive influence since the day he was born and will likely continue to be such till the day he dies, which the way he’s going won’t be that far in the future.”
“I have a problem with authority,” Mal said, “not least when said authority is a big, fat, corrupt lawman with poor personal hygiene and a face that’d give a moose nightmares.”
Bundy strode down the front steps and sauntered over to Mal, thrusting his face up close.
“Say that again, boy,” he growled.
“Did I mention bad breath too?” Mal said. “Because seriously, Sheriff, would it kill you to try a mint every once in a while?”
The backhand slap came out of nowhere, hard enough to send Mal reeling to the ground.
Clutching his face with one hand, the other clenched into a fist, Mal sprang up again. Bundy’s gun, cocked and leveled with his face, halted him in his tracks.
“Just try, Reynolds,” he said. “You just try, you insubordinate piece of fèi wù. I won’t regret blowing your brains out the back of your head. I’ll even take pleasure going and telling your momma what I did and why I did it. Wonder if she’ll cry or she’ll just shrug like she knew you had it comin’?”
Mal ground his teeth. Jinny, who could see he was getting ready to hit Bundy come what may, put a restraining arm across his chest.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t give him the excuse.”
Mal backed down reluctantly. If it had been anyone but Jinny, he might not have heeded the advice.
“We’re sorry, Sheriff,” said Jamie. “It was high spirits, is all. We didn’t mean nothing by it. We’ll return Old Man Ponticelli’s cattle.”
“You better. You’re also gonna pay him reparations.”
“For what?” Mal said.
“Because I damn well say so, that’s for what!” Bundy snapped. He named a figure that was equivalent to a month’s salary for the average working stiff. He knew it was far more than the Four Amigos could readily scrounge up between them. “And I want it in his hands by tomorrow sundown, or else the four of you are going to be spending time in the county lockup and I’m gonna see to it myself that you get half rations and the most lice-ridden bedrolls we got.”
It was Toby who got them the money. The Finns were well off by Shadow standards, Liam Finn being a land surveyor and Marla Finn a practicing lawyer. Toby begged them for a handout, which they gave unwillingly. Every spare coin the four of them earned over the next few weeks went towards paying back the debt.
In hindsight, they’d had a heck of an escapade, but it was a couple of months before the Four Amigos could truly laugh about it, and it was another couple of months before they plucked up the nerve to try anything even near as audacious again. During that time, Toby seemed to stand a little taller and carry himself with a little more confidence. Since he was the one who’d bailed them out — with parental assistance, but even so — he seemed to feel he had attained an elevated status within the group. He was no longer just the kid who tagged along. He was the equal of any of them.
This clearly gave him the impression that he stood a better chance with Jinny now, and he stepped up his campaign to make her his girlfriend.
And, much to Mal’s chagrin, it appeared to work. Jinny, at least, ceased treating Toby like a little brother: she no longer patted him or smiled at him with the same hint of condescension, but had gained a newfound respect for him, mirroring the newfound respect he had gained for himself. Now she and he would share confidences. Mal would catch them, in unguarded moments, with their heads together, chatting, sometimes giggling.
It stuck in his craw. And yet he couldn’t challenge Toby for Jinny’s affections, not now. It wouldn’t have been right. They were the Four Amigos. They were as tight as a knot, as thick as thieves, bonded together by a shared love of roguery, famous for it, notorious.
Mal couldn’t let his jealousy jeopardize that.
Could he?
17
“Toby,” Mal said softly. “Toby Finn.”
Toby, his one-time Amigo, his another-time brother-in-arms. The man he would have gladly given his life for both before and during the war.
Now, here he was, up on the platform, and from what Mal could make out of his appearance, Toby was much changed. He was thin, positively emaciated, and was stooped over like a crookbacked octogenarian. His face was gaunt, and the mop of unruly ginger ringlets that Mal remembered was now a wispy cap, the few strands remaining atop his head coarse and kinked like copper wire. Toby used to catch holy hell in Independent bootcamp over those carroty curls of his. The other recruits called him Rusty and Little Orange. Seemed the postwar years, as for so many others, Mal himself included, had not been kind to Toby.
But he was alive, and here, and Mal was overjoyed. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Tobias! Tobias Finn! Toby!”
His voice ricocheted off the surround of rock walls and ceiling. From the cavern floor, heads twisted in his direction. On the dais, Toby Finn stared up, his expression blank, unreadable. Mal was taken aback. Did Toby not recognize him?
“Toby, it’s me,” he called. “Mal. You remember me, right?”