The second wave hit him: or do they already know?
Old friends… good neighbors… Steve’s remarks about the “goddamn federal government”… Steve from California… a rancher Harley knew from California…
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
A hand pressed tight against his mouth. A knee pressed into the small of his back while the forearm pulled him up and backward, arching his spine to the breaking point and threatening to snap his neck.
“You’re a dead man,” a voice hissed. The point of a combat knife pressed against Neal’s ribs.
Well, Neal thought, at least I’ve found Cal Strekker.
To Neal’s disappointment, Strekker didn’t take him to the compound. Instead he dragged him to a clearing farther along the ridge and slammed him down at the base of a small cedar.
He chose the spot pretty well, Neal thought. You can’t see or be seen from here.
Cal talked quietly into a small field radio. Neal made out the word intruder.
“Mr. Hansen’s on his way up,” Strekker said. “But maybe I should just kill you and tell him you tried to escape.”
His voice had a dangerous edge to it. His eyes were shining with an excitement that was almost sexual. Psychotic. Neal knew all about psychotic-he had ridden the Broadway local train for years. So he also knew there was only one way to treat this kind of violent crazy, the type that gets his jollies off other people’s fear.
Strekker unholstered his pistol and waved it in front of Neal. “Why don’t I just blow your face off right now?”
“Why don’t you just eat me?”
He watched Cal’s face turn red. With the blush and the orange beard he looked like a mutant tomato. He was furious, but Neal saw something else come onto that face: uncertainty.
“You think you’re a tough guy?” Strekker asked.
“No, but I’ll do until the real thing comes along.”
“It has come along, shithead.”
Neal laughed. “You?”
There is a definite ebb and flow to this kind of interaction, Neal thought. Cal’s tide is going out.
“What are you doing up here?” Cal asked.
“What’s it to you?” Neal asked. “Oh, that’s right. You’re the dickhead of security.”
And a pretty damn good one, I must admit. I sure as hell never heard you coming. Fine “operational shape” I’m in. But you’re good. You’re very good. I’m going to have to find a way to deal with you before I can get Cody McCall back to his mother.
Strekker clicked the hammer back and pointed the gun in Neal’s face. “This is a 9 mm. Do you know what that would do to your head?”
Neal felt the almost paralyzing pins and needles of terror. He wanted to curl up in a little ball and cry.
But that would probably get me killed, he thought. So he answered, “Has anyone ever talked to you about handguns as phallic symbols? Listen, Cal, genital size isn’t everything. There’s also charm, good grooming, a sense of humor…”
Cal holstered the pistol.
“Get on your feet,” he said. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”
Neal had no doubt that if he got to his feet Cal would beat the hell out of him, so he stayed on his butt and said, “You’re going to do shit. Hansen’s on his way here? I’ll deal with the boss, not the hired help.”
He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until he heard footsteps.
Hansen wasn’t alone. He had brought one of the other hands with him. A thick, broad-shouldered short man with black hair and a beard.
“Get up,” Cal barked at Neal.
Neal made himself get to his feet very slowly. He dusted off his jeans and looked at Hansen.
Hansen said, “What are you-”
“Just hold on a second,” Neal cut him off. “I have a question for you. I’m out taking a simple walk on public land and your goon here jumps me, holds a knife to my ribs, points his gun at my nose, and holds me prisoner. I make that three counts of assault, plus kidnapping and unlawful detention, and I’m holding you responsible. So you make sure you keep that ranch of yours in good order, because I want it nice and clean when I take possession.”
Something Joe Graham taught him: when you’re hopelessly on the defensive, attack. When they catch you red-handed, slap them with it. Neal dusted himself off some more and started to walk away. Cal’s hand went to his gun.
“Government land starts another two hundred feet up,” Hansen said. “You’re on Hansen Cattle Company land. I have a right to protect my property against rustlers and horse thieves.”
Neal spun around. “Where am I going to put a cow? In my pocket?”
“You could be scouting the place out,” Hansen replied.
True enough, Neal thought.
“What are you doing with those fieid glasses?” Strekker demanded.
Scouting the place out.
Neal made a show of calming down. He stared at the ground as if trying to recover his temper, and then said in a tone of determined reasonableness, “I wanted to see a mountain lion.”
Hansen and the black-haired man laughed.
“A mountain lion?” Hansen asked.
“Yeah, Steve Mills said there were mountain lions up here. I’m staying in his cabin, thought I’d take a walk and try to see one. I’m from New York. I’ve never seen anything like a mountain lion.”
Neal watched as Bob Hansen tried to decide how to react. Cal Strekker’s lupine grin left him in no doubt as to what would happen if Hansen gave the thumbs down.
“Well, you’re a friend of Steve Mills,” Hansen said, “so we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.
Which is when Neal decided to push it. “Jesus,” he muttered just loud enough to be heard. “I might as well be back in the joint.”
“What?” Hansen asked.
Neal opened up the tap on his feigned temper a little. “I said I might as well be back in the joint! I came out here so I wouldn’t have people ‘keeping an eye’ on me!”
“Where were you in jail?”
“New York.”
“What for?” Hansen asked.
Do I push it some more? Open it up, step on the gas, let it rip? Or do I play it safe? “Shooting a nigger,” Neal answered, looking Bob Hansen straight in the eyes.
And the eyes told him that he had Hansen’s interest.
“Well, hell,” Hansen said. “I didn’t think you could shoot a gun in New York and not hit a nigger.”
His boys laughed.
“Mr. Hansen, I wish you’d been the judge,” Neal said. “He took it pretty seriously.
“Did you kill him?”
“The judge?”
“The nigger.”
“No. To tell you the truth, I’m not a very good shot.”
More laughter. The atmosphere was starting to change.
We’re getting to be buddies, Neal thought.
“What was he?” Hansen asked. “A pimp? A pusher?”
People will always tell you the answers they want to hear, Neal thought.
“Both.”
“I’ll bet the judge was a Jew,” the black-haired man said.
They’ll even tell your story for you if you just take the time to listen.
Neal nodded. “The judge and both lawyers. Mine told me to plead guilty. I got six to ten. Served three.”
Hansen shook his head angrily. “That’s the jew-dicial system we got. I’ll bet the nigger is back out selling women and dope.”
“I didn’t look him up,” Neal said. “Parole officers frown on that sort of thing.”
“Your parole officer know you left the state?” Strekker asked.
Neal picked up on the tone of doubt.
“What do you think?” he answered sarcastically.
“So you’re skipping,” Strekker said.
Let’s push it a little more, Neal thought. “I’m not going to live my life with Big Brother looking over my shoulder every minute, telling me what to do, what not to do, where I can work, who I can see. Seems like a white man can’t be free back East. I thought it would be different here. I guess I was wrong. I’ll stay off your land, Mr. Hansen, but you keep your eye on your own business,” Neal said. Then he looked at Strekker, “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll kill you where you stand or die trying.” And, by the way, don’t tread on me.