The Ranger by Ace Atkins

smiling, wild-eyed and happy, giving a jailhouse wink before they turned onto the main road.
     
     
    Quinn made coffee in an old speckled pot on the propane stove, and he and Wesley sat on the porch rocking chairs—just as cold inside the house as outside—drinking and talking. Quinn had a couple cigars in his truck, and they fired them up, Hondo now at his feet.
    “So you found the dog,” Wesley said, studying the tip of the cigar like he was surprised by the glow. He wore a flannel shirt under his old Tibbehah High letter jacket, occasionally taking off his ball cap and rubbing his head.
    “He found me.”
    “You say there were five of them.”
    Quinn described all the men.
    “You think your uncle may have sold the cattle?”
    “You know a lot of folks who work cows in the middle of the night?”
    “I put out word to look for that King Cab and the trailer.”
    “I guess I need to do something with those damn cows,” Quinn said. “Anyone caring for them?”
    “I heard Varner was tending to your uncle’s business.”
    Quinn nodded, and the men sat in silence for a while. “I saw Anna Lee tonight.”
    Wesley cracked a grin, the cigar clamped in his teeth. “That didn’t take too long.”
    “She was babysitting Caddy’s boy, and I stopped by.”
    “Your momma is a saint for helping out Caddy.”
    “I don’t think she had much choice.”
    “Caddy was a wreck when she finally left Jericho,” Wesley said. “I picked her up twice for driving drunk and high. Took her straight home.”
    “Can we discuss the matter at hand?” Quinn asked.
    “Does Anna Lee still make it hurt?”
    “How old are you?”
    “You know, every time I see Meg I still want to take her to bed.”
    “We weren’t married.”
    “But it still hurts,” Wesley said as he walked to the porch edge and tapped the ash. “Even when she’s chewing my ass out. I’d even say especially when she’s chewing my ass out.”
    “What happened?”
    “Let’s not share a special moment. Okay, Quinn?”
    “Just asking,” Quinn said.
    “I think she got something different than what she signed up for,” Wesley said, a hard flash in his eyes. “She was counting that NFL money before my junior year.”
    “She wasn’t like that, man. Not that I recall.”
    Wesley just looked at Quinn, smoking down the cigar, dropping it to the front steps, not even half spent, and crushing it out. “Shit.”
    “Can I show you something?” Quinn asked.
    Quinn found a kerosene lantern in the shed and set it on top of the kitchen table, which was covered in checked oilcloth. He pointed out the patterns of blood that he’d seen on the wallpaper, careful not to touch any of it. The spatter—which someone had tried to blot away—looked like an enormous halo, flecks of dried blood across the flowered print.
    “What’s this tell you?”
    “That Leonard didn’t clean up what I asked him to clean up.”
    “But all this was examined with whatever you people do?”
    Wesley nodded. “We do have a little sense around here.”
    “How long does that take?”
    “Could take several weeks. Maybe a month. State lab is backed up.”
    “You know what happened to the gun?”
    “You want to tell me what you’re thinking?” Wesley said, holding on to the edge of the table.
    “Johnny Stagg says he owns all this land,” Quinn said. “He’s putting a lien on the property.”
    “I know you don’t like the idea of Stagg finding the body, but they’d been friends for the last few years. Stagg would come over just to check on his equipment.”
    “And make loans.”
    “I wouldn’t be telling folks about your uncle’s gambling problem,” Wesley said. “What good would it do?”
    “Since I’ve been back, everyone seems to want to tell me my uncle was a great man before they whisper secrets in my ear.”
    Wesley shrugged, every movement in the old house magnified in the emptiness. The men turned down the hallway back to the front door, moving back outside, the