The Quest: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 6 (18 page)

     Randy winked at Tom and said, “I wasn’t talking about them taking
you
hostage. I get the sense you’d be more than they could handle. I was talking about them taking Tom hostage.”

     She liked Randy. So did Tom. They’d bonded quickly and become fast friends.

     Neither of them liked the idea of the young Ranger going into a hostile town alone.

     But it was his call, and he’d done it many times before.

     And he was still alive.

     And seemingly no worse for wear.

     Except, perhaps, for the ugly red scar Sara had noticed creasing his neck, just below his collar line.

     She’d noticed it when he bent over slightly to reach for his horse’s reins, and wanted to ask him about it.

     But she wasn’t quite sure they were close enough friends yet to ask about something that might hit a raw nerve.

     So instead she asked, “Will we see you again? After you clean up the town, that is?”

     “I don’t know. Probably. I’ll have to take my prisoners to San Antonio and deposit them at the jail. And then I’ll report in for my next assignment. They usually let me cool my heels and rest for a few days. If they do I’ll ride back and see how your search is going.”

     Tom’s curiosity got the best of him.

     “How are you able to communicate with Ranger Headquarters in Austin when you’re always in the saddle?”

     Randy reached into the saddlebag behind the six gun he wore. He pulled out a well-worn set of papers, handwritten and stapled together.

     “This is my cheat sheet of radio operators.”

     He saw the puzzled look on Tom’s face and elaborated.

     “Pretty much every town and city in Texas has at least a few preppers. Some stored food and water and ammunition and that’s about it.

     “The serious preppers, though, went far beyond that. They stored vehicle parts, generators and ham radios.

     “The curious thing about preppers is that they’re almost always upstanding citizens. I don’t know why, but you very seldom find a prepper who’s a dirt bag. Nearly every one of them is a law abiding citizen who wants to do what’s right.

     “That’s why it’s so easy for us to enlist their help to communicate with Austin, and with each other.

     “This,” he said while indicating the handful of papers, “is our ham radio phone book, if you will.”

     “For nearly every city in Texas, this list contains at least one name and address of a good citizen prepper who has a working ham radio, and who has said we’re welcome to use it.”

     Suddenly Randy seemed to spot something in the distance and held a finger to his lips.

     Tom and Sara grew silent as Randy drew his Winchester rifle from the saddle sheathe.

     He took careful aim and shot a rabbit about eighty yards away.

     “I’ll tell you what,” Randy said. “I’ve shared this list with peace officers several times before. You’re welcome to make your own copy, if you want to take the time to copy it all down. I’ve got some extra sheets of paper and a pencil in my bag. And while you’re doing that, I’ll cook us up some supper.

     “After that, you can make your choice. You can ride into town tonight and I’ll wait until morning. Or I can go tonight and you can wait.

     “Your choice. Don’t make much difference to me either way.”

-40-

     Tom and Sara opted to wait until the next day to ride into Castroville.

     It was mid-morning on an unseasonably hot day when they rode past the city limit sign.

     They could see no signs of trouble. There were people milling about, speaking amiably to each other. Children, no longer burdened by having to go to school or to watch out for cars, played football and Frisbee in the streets.

     Several people waved or nodded as the pair rode by.

     Sara said, “Maybe Randy got some bad information. Maybe Castroville’s not as bad as he believed it was.”

     “Maybe. But let’s not let our guard down just yet.”

     They rode past several storefronts, Sara scanning every face in the hopes that one of them would be her mom.

     Tom had an idea.

     “Hey, did your mom drink?”

     “I’m sure she was drunk on the night I was conceived. Why?”

     “I’m talking about more recently, goofball.”

     “Yes. She liked Jack Daniels and Coke. Why?”

     “In my experience, one of the best ways to find someone is to ask in a local bar. Are you thirsty?”

     “Sure. I can use some cold water.”

     “I’m sure they have water. I’m not sure they have the cold.”

     They pulled up to a place called The Horned Toad Tavern and tied their horses to a bicycle rack out front.

     Heads turned as they walked into the place. Someone in the back saw Sara and let out an appreciative whistle.

     She ignored it.

     The two walked directly to the bar and asked the price for two bottles of water.

     The bartender seemed friendly enough, but felt the need to set the terms up front.

     “One gram of gold or two grams of silver. We don’t take nothin’ else.”

     Then he added, “Payable in advance.”

     Tom was in the mood to haggle.

     “Sounds kind of steep.”

     “Maybe. But these bottles are still sealed. Not no rain water like you get in other places around here.”

     Tom pulled a 1958 dime from the pocket of his jeans and laid it on the bar.

     The barkeep picked it up with one hand and reached under the bar with the other. He produced two twenty ounce bottles of Dasani and placed them in front of Tom.

     Sara watched, fascinated, as the man retrieved a small black scale about the size of a deck of playing cards. Then he took out a pair of pliers and a pair of metal snips.

     He held the dime with the pliers and used the snips to cut off a large piece of the coin.

     Then he put the piece on the scale and checked the weight. It was still a bit light.

     He snipped off a second piece, not much bigger than the head of a pin, then dropped it on the scale with the first piece.

     Satisfied, he turned the scale toward Tom so Tom could see the reading: 1.967 grams.

     Tom said nothing, but nodded.

     The deal was done. The bartender took the pieces off the scale and shoved them into a small cloth bag, which he then put beneath the bar.

     He returned the rest of the coin to Tom.

     “You know, mister, for another two grams you can get a shot of whisky.”

     “Maybe later. But tell me, where did you get the batteries to power your scale?”

     “From Tony Gomez. He figured out a way to keep some batteries from getting ruined when the power went out. He sells them for a hefty price. He’s got other stuff to sell too. Walkie talkies, binoculars and stuff. I can put you in touch with him for a slight fee.”

     “No, that’s okay. I was just wonderin’ is all.”

     “Y’all enjoy your water. Let me know if you want another.”

-41-

     Tom nursed his water and Sara scanned the bar. She saw Ranger Randy sitting in the corner playing poker with three surly looking men. Their eyes met briefly, but he didn’t acknowledge her and she didn’t linger.

     “Hey, stranger.”

     The words came from a gruff and dirty man who walked up behind Tom and sat on the barstool beside him.

     “That’s a fine looking young hussy you got with you. She for sale or rent?”

     Sara was shocked, and didn’t know whether to pull her sidearm and shoot the man on the spot, or whether to just punch him square in the face.

     Tom, on the other hand, kept his cool.

     He slowly turned toward the man and said, “This girl is my daughter. And if you want to leave this place with the same number of teeth you walked in with, I suggest you leave us in peace.”

     The man swallowed hard.

     “Sorry. I meant no disrespect. I was just…”

     But no more words were necessary. The man turned and walked away.

     Sara smiled and put her hand on Tom’s shoulder.

     “Thank you for not shooting him this time, Daddy. I always hate it when you gun men down in cold blood.”

     Another man, who was approaching from the other direction, heard Sara’s words and decided there was someplace else he’d rather be. He turned and left without saying a word.

     The bartender returned.

     “You two want another round?”

     Tom said, “Maybe. Still thinking about it. While I think, can you give us a hand on another matter? We’re looking for a woman about thirty five or so. Her name is Stacey. Word is that she came to Castroville a few months ago.”

     Sara produced a photo of her mom and placed it on the bar for the man to see.

     “Pretty woman.”

     “Yep.”

     “She looks a little familiar, but I can’t say for sure.”

     He looked around the bar until he spotted a familiar face in the corner.

     “Hey Marty! Come here a minute, will you?”

     An old drunk staggered over.

     He looked at the bartender and asked, “What’s up, Mike?”

     “Look at this picture, will ya, Marty? Is this the woman that Jack Payton brings in here sometimes?”

     Sara offered, “Her name is Stacey.”

     The drunk howled in what sounded very much like the cackle of an old witch.

     “I don’t know nothin’ about no Stacey. If that’s the woman what belongs to Jack Payton, her name is bitch.”

     He changed his voice slightly in an obvious imitation of what he thought Payton sounded like.

     “Sit down,
bitch
. Go get me another whisky,
bitch
. Stop looking at him,
bitch
. Time to go,
bitch
.”

     The drunk cackled again, obviously proud of himself for what he thought was a spot-on rendering of the man he knew as Payton.

     Sara wanted to punch the fool but thought better of it.

     Tom, in his slow Texas drawl, observed “Nah. That can’t be the woman we’re looking for. Stacey don’t take that kind of smack from anybody. She’d have kicked this Payton guy’s ass.”

     The drunk cackled again.

     “That’ll be the day, when some dame kicks Jack Payton’s ass.”

     Then he stumbled away, walking into a chair and almost tumbling to the floor.

     Once the drunk was out of view, Tom lowered his voice a bit and leaned closer to the bartender.

     “What can you tell us about Jack Payton?”

     As he asked the question, Tom slid a silver dollar across the bar. The bartender placed his hand over the coin and looked furtively around.

     His voice was little more than a whisper.

     “He’s a bad dude. Lives at the Lazy R Ranch about four miles east of here. He don’t own it. He just rode in there one day with three or four hired guns and killed the owners. Shot the whole family dead, including the three little kids. Now he lives there and barters off the livestock, one animal at a time.”

     Sara asked, “Barters them for what?”

     “Whatever he wants. Food, precious metals. Drugs. Women. Anything he wants. People will trade damn near anything around here for a young steer or a couple of chickens.”

     Tom asked, “Any idea how many men are in his gang?”

     “Don’t know for sure. He’s always got two or three with him when he comes in, and they’re not always the same two or three. My guess is that he’s got a dozen or more. They do his killin’ for him. He don’t carry no gun himself.”