Wild Country Read Online Free

letter for letter, Sorel's own. The message was longer than most. Cipriano read it through, understanding most of it.
    It was always possible that a transmission could be monitored. That explained why Sorel did not want that shipment's location radioed from Texas. The shrewd Slaughter had no doubt cached the stuff secretly, and well. Cipriano would have bet that Felix Sorel intended to meet Longo and Slaughter personally somewhere near Junction, Texas. But Cipriano would have lost.
    The Indio scanned the message again; shrugged. "Your man, San Antonio Rose: he knows this Cielita Linda?"
    "That is not your worry," Sorel said curtly. "Be at ease, Cipriano; I would not entrust such a crucial operation to anyone who has less to lose than I do."
    "But—a woman," Cipriano said, fingering his encoder key.
    Sorel replied first with silent amusement, striding to the door. Then, "If San Antonio Rose is a man, why not Cielita Linda? I shall send Kaiyi to operate the comm set," he added aloud, stepping through, making certain the door latched. He hurried to change into swim trunks, only half-amused at Cipriano's complaint. The trouble was, Cielita Linda was a woman; and while she had much to lose, she also had powerful connections north of Wild Country. It was her infatuation with Felix Sorel, more than anything else, that compelled her to take heavy risks. Sorel would have preferred to rule her through fear for, as he had been taught, in his business fear was by far the most dependable motive.

Chapter Five
    As always after a month's absence from Sandy, Ted Quantrill felt buoyed by a sense of coming home. He always found changes—the corn stood in rosy golden rows, now, ready for picking, and the pumpkins would be turning color soon. Sandy's old windmill generator was gone, too, replaced by new vertical foils with a capstan drive. The new rig made more efficient use of ground winds and did not need to stand on a high tower, so it was not so conspicuous. Also, a secondhand hovercycle had been added since his last visit. Otherwise it was the same familiar little spread, he thought, strolling in the dusk with Sandra Grange.
    Time was when Sandy would have crowded near him, even in weather hot as this. Yet her independence had grown with her body. Sandy was no longer a grubby eleven-year-old, staring worshipfully up at him; nor an ardent, full-breasted seventeen, anxious to discover whether love and sexuality could coexist in a world as hard as the one she'd chosen. Now she was within a few inches of Quantrill's height, her arms tan as his, her hands roughened by farm chores. He knew she had changed to the bodiced dress and open sandals for him on short notice, but she walked beside him as an equal, the queen of her small domain.
    Pleased at thoughts of her self-sufficiency, Quantrill eased his arm around Sandy's waist, urged her to face him. "I've thought about you every day," he said, kissing her gently, one hand massaging her shoulder.
    "Have you thought about changing your line of work every day, too?" Her soft South Texas drawl was like her responding kiss: warm, vibrant, but with a reserve born of longstanding arguments.
    "That, too," he said, guiltily because he had done nothing of the sort. He let the massaging hand shift a bit. "You sure we won't have an hour before Childe gets home? I've missed you. Sandy."
    "I know what you've missed," she said, accusing, her full lower lip pursed as though scorning what they both enjoyed. She eased herself away, put fingers to her lips, blew a piercing four-toned blast that echoed from a nearby arroyo. " Now I'm sure. She'll be here in five minutes or I'll tan her hide."
    His smile was wry, his hands-out gesture full of defeat. "Umm, let's see; those first two notes say, 'Come in, all clear,' right? But I didn't get the others."
    "The third said, 'Ba'al, too,' and the last note stands for your name. That's why she'll bust her buns to get home, poor darlin'. She doesn't know what a nasty old man