Ride the Thunder Page 5

  "You came to me for twenty thousand, you arrogant bastard!" Max fumed through clenched teeth. "If you think I'm going to crawl on my knees and kiss your ass so I can have a few minutes of your precious time to tell you how you can get it, you're wrong. "

  "Am I? You were always very good at doing it with the old man, " he baited, amused by the impotence of his cousin's anger, because Brig knew it was all hot air. "Do you want to talk or trade insults?" He smiled as he watched Max struggle to collect himself.

  "It's simple, " he began in a stiff voice. "I have someone who might be interested in buying the company. I've been trying to sell him my stock, but it wouldn't give his management firm control unless they had your proxy. According to the will, you can't sell your stock to anyone except a family member unless it's a total buy-out of the company or a merger. I think I can talk them into a buy-out. "

  "The poor sucker hasn't seen the latest audit, has he?" Brig guessed.

  "I told you I just got it!" Max snapped. "It doesn't matter anyway. The guy is looking for a tax write-off. He's got more money than God. "

  "If he has, then he didn't get it by being a fool. All he has to do is wait a couple of months and he can pick up the company for a song through the bankruptcy courts. "

  "Yeah, well, that doesn't do you or me any good, does it?!" he flared, in sarcastic challenge. "The annual company audit isn't due until the end of October. I ran this one early, because... I didn't think it was in that bad a shape yet. So what do you think?"

  "I think it smells of misrepresentation, " Brig declared in a disgusted breath. "I've never cheated a man in my life. And I'm not going to start for a lousy twenty grand. " The cab swung into the circle in front of the hotel and stopped near the revolving doors. Brig leaned forward and handed him a bill. "Keep the change. " As he stepped from the cab, Max climbed out the other side.

  "You're always so damned righteous, McCord!" he snarled as he followed him through the revolving door, walking swiftly to keep up with Brig's longer strides. "You're a hypocrite. That's what you are. I haven't forgotten that you used to get paid to kill people. "

  "Governments paid me to fight, " Brig corrected in a savage underbreath and stopped at the cashier's desk.

  "I'm... asking you, " Max hesitated over the verb, then emphasized it, "to at least think over what I've said. The man has got the money and he's interested. He... " He stopped, staring down the wide foyer that ran the length of the hotel's ground floor. "There he is now. " He pointed. "The tall man with the gray hair standing outside the restaurant. "

  Disinterestedly, Brig let his gaze follow his cousin's discreetly pointing finger. He saw the man, but it was the woman with him that caught his eye. She had a long, leggy look although she was a few inches shorter than the man she was with. Her hair was auburn, a brown that seemed to catch fire in the light shining from overhead. There was an animal earthiness about her, a latent sensuality. She was a fascinating creature —young, yet with an air of maturity. His blood warmed at the sight of her. In fact, there was a certain ripeness about her that asked to be picked. Brig felt an urge to do the harvesting.

  His gaze strayed to the man. There was easily thirty years difference in their ages, if there was a day. Physically the man looked fit and virile. There was something vaguely distinguished about his presence, an aura probably described as charismatic. Nothing was wrong with his health. Or his appetite, Brig decided, as he saw the man take some money from his pocket and slip it in the woman's hand.

  His attitude toward the attractive brunette began to harden. When she lightly kissed the older man, his eyes darkened sardonically. With a wave, she hurried toward the far exit with long, graceful strides. Near the door, Brig saw her pause to put the money in her purse—and probably to count it too, he thought cynically.

  "Come on. " Max took hold of his elbow to steer him forward. "Ill introduce you to him. " Brig started to draw back, but the man had already seen them and lifted a hand in greeting. "Hello, Fletcher. This is a surprise seeing you here, " Max declared as they met midway.

  "I could say the same for you, too, Max. " The man made no explanations as to why he was at the hotel. Brig wasn't surprised. Few men of any worth went around bragging about the girl they'd just laid in a hotel room upstairs. "What brings you here?"

  "Brig is staying here. He just flew in from the West to discuss some company business. Let me introduce you. Fletcher, this is my cousin. Brig McCord, " Max said, then reversed it "This is Fletcher Smith. Most people know him from the articles in the sporting magazines about his big game hunting, but I know him as a businessman extraordinaire. "

  Brig thought the praise by Max was a bit too obvious. Fletcher Smith seemed indifferent to the description of himself as he clasped Brig's hand in a firm handshake.

  "It's a pleasure, Mr. McCord. " The calm, relatively unlined features on the sun-bronzed face held the look of a man who had learned the wisdom of patience and persistence, two essential qualities for a successful hunter. "Were you in California? Max has told me a lot about the project he has there. "

  "No. I'm from Idaho, " Brig corrected, wanting no connection with his cousin's development.

  "Brig has a ranch there, " Max hurried to explain. "I have his proxy to vote his stock in the company, but we generally discuss the issues beforehand. "

  "Where in Idaho is your ranch located?"

  Brig couldn't help noticing the way Fletcher Smith was ignoring his cousin's attempts to bring the company and its shares of stock into the conversation. The man was shrewd. Max would never fool him for long.

  "In the mountains near the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, " he answered.

  "That's a primitive area, " he nodded as if he'd already located the area on a map he kept in his head. "It must be good hunting. "

  Brig shrugged and avoided a direct comment "I usually kill two elk a year for meat. "

  "I like elk venison myself. " The man smiled in agreement.

  "Isn't that something? Brig has a cattle ranch and he eats elk. " Max forced a laugh. "He has to come all the way to New York on company business to have beef. Which reminds me—Brig and I were just going to have some lunch. Would you like to join us, Fletcher?"

  The older man hesitated, glancing at Brig before he made up his mind. "I'll have some coffee with you, " he accepted.

  "I don't care for any lunch, Max, " Brig stated.

  "Jet lag, " Max explained to Fletcher with a laugh, and shot a furious look at Brig. "You and Fletcher can have coffee and I'll eat. "

  "We'll let him gain the pounds, " Fletcher smiled and turned to walk to the restaurant. Glancing sideways at Brig, he remarked, "I heard you had a severe winter this year. " He started walking.

  A glint of admiration entered Brig's eyes. The man was quite a hunter, luring his quarry on. And he was the hunter's quarry. If he was going to reply to that comment from Fletcher, he had to walk with him. Fletcher looked back and read in Brig's expression that his game had been discovered. He grinned and stopped. Max glanced from one to the other in total puzzlement.

  Brig started walking. "It was a bad winter, " he admitted. "Parts of the rest of the country were hit pretty hard, too. " This time they were on equal terms.

  "How did the wild game come through it?" inquired Fletcher.

  "They always do better than the cattle. Deer, elk, and sheep will dig through the snow for forage. A cow will stand and starve even if there's only four inches of snow covering the grass. "

  Brig wasn't sure why he had agreed to the lunch invitation. He should be checking out of the hotel and catching a cab to the airport. But this cagey hunter appeared to be an interesting man. In the span of a few minutes, his curiosity had been aroused. What was an hour or two? Brig sized the man up again as they entered the restaurant and were shown to a table.

  Fletcher Smith was as tall as he was, an inch or two over six feet. His build was heavier, thicker and broader, but Brig wasn't deceived by the bulk. The man was solid. There wasn't
any fat on his bones, only muscle. His hair was metal gray, whiter at the temples, but it had once been brown. He was loose and relaxed, yet possessing a hunter's reflexes. Their timing might have slowed, but Brig suspected it was still faster man most men's. Brig noticed the bulge in the inside chest pocket of the man's suit—a glass case, which meant his eyesight was going. Fletcher Smith had reached the crest of his prime and begun the downward slide. The man knew it. That probably explained the young auburn-haired woman. He had been trying to show he still had what it took, reproving his manhood.

  While the waiter was pouring their coffee, Brig watched the way Fletcher's brown eyes centered on his cousin, as if focusing on a target. "I haven't seen you at our apartment for a long time, Max. "

  "I was out of town or had other engagements recently and had to refuse several of your invitations. " Max smiled blandly as he opened the menu. "I guess your wife stopped inviting me. "

  "We're having a small party tomorrow evening. Why don't you come?" Fletcher suggested.

  "I'd like that, " Max nodded. But his acceptance hadn't been eager. In fact, Brig noticed that he had hesitated.

  "It isn't a black tie affair, just an informal get-together. He glanced at Brig "Naturally, you are invited, too, Mr. McCord. "

  "I'm flying back to Idaho. Thanks, anyway, " he refused.

  "You said your ranch was located near the Middle Fork of the Salmon? That's isolated country. " Fletcher sipped his coffee, looking at Brig over the rim of the china cup.

  "It is, but I like it that way. It suite me. "

  "A tribe of Indians called the Sheepeaters lived in that area before the white man came, " he remarked.

  "They were called Sheepeaters for the obvious reason that wild sheep were the mainstay of their diet, but they were more commonly known as the Shoshone Indians. " Brig smiled to himself. His knowledge was being tested and he wondered what this game of wits was all about.

  "Have you seen any bighorn sheep in the area?"

  "Some. They keep pretty much to the high country. "

  "Any that were trophy size?"

  Brig remembered the ram he had seen in the spring, but he didn't mention it. "It depends on what your definition of trophy size is. "

  "The horns should be a full curl or better. After that it depends on the circumference of the horns and the spread of the tips. " Fletcher leaned back in his chair, regarding Brig with a steady look. A wry smile touched his mouth. "You know how it is. A hunter is always planning his next hunt. I've been talking to an outfitter in the Bitterroots about setting up a hunt in his part of the country for a bighorn. "

  "It sounds exciting, " Max tried to participate in the conversation.

  "The Rocky Mountain Bighorn is the only big game trophy that has eluded me in all my years of hunting. I've successfully hunted the Stone Sheep in British Columbia and the Dall in Alaska, but I have yet to get a Bighorn. " There was a haunting grimness in the determined expression.

  "What are you trying for—a grand slam in sheep?" Brig's gaze held a dusty, dry look of contempt He'd heard of rich sportsmen resorting to any method, legal or not, to obtain trophies of all four North American sheep—the Dall, the Stone, the Rocky Mountain Bighorn, and the Desert Bighorn.

  Amusement glittered in Fletcher Smith's eyes. "That's a dilettante's goal. No self-respecting hunter cares about getting his ticket punched. The thrill is in the hunt. A hunter is like a fisherman. He'd be out there doing it even if the big one got away every time, because he loves the sport, " he stated, then sobered. "This may be my last chance at a bighorn. I may be too old when my turn comes around again. This time I'm going to give it everything I've got to bring one back. If I don't, I'll know I tried. "

  There was a lull in the conversation as the waiter took Max's order. Brig's coffee was lukewarm and he drained the cup. He leaned sideways in his chair, resting an elbow on the table and thoughtfully rubbing the soft broom of his mustache.

  Brig realized he had guessed right. Fletcher was conscious of his advancing years and had started to grab for the pleasures of life before they passed him by for good, whether it was a young, beautiful woman or the thrill of a hunt. He couldn't condemn the man for it, because he couldn't be sure he wouldn't act the same way in fifteen years. But who the hell could know?

  "Is yours strictly a cattle ranch or do you have sheep, too?" Fletcher asked after the waiter had left "Both. "

  "Domestic sheep are the most dangerous enemies of the bighorns, " Fletcher remarked. "They not only graze on his feeding grounds, but the domestic sheep carry diseases they have become immune to and transmit them to the wild ones. "

  "The old, bitter argument between the rancher and the hunter. " Brig laughed without making a sound.

  "A rancher can wipe out an entire herd of bighorn with the disease transmitted by his flock of sheep. A hunter is looking for the trophy animal, if he isn't taking it for meat Trophy size horns only belong to the old rams, the ones nature and the mountains would be killing anyway, " Fletcher pointed out.

  "I've heard that argument. But all species on earth have to mutate, adapt, and grow stronger with the changing times. It's the law of survival, nature's law. My sheep carry diseases nature put here. If they didn't transmit them to the bighorns, something else would. The bighorns will acquire immunity or they will become extinct. That is nature's law, not man's. "

  "Then you don't believe in preserving a species?" Fletcher challenged.

  A smile played with the edges of his mouth, deepening the corners. "Personally, I thank God that we didn't have any zealous conservationists back in the cavemen days running around yelling 'Save the dinosaur!' Can you imagine if we had a couple hundred of them in some sanctuary now where man would have to recreate its habitat and food supply as closely as possible? All creatures have a lifespan. So do all species. Man might become extinct someday. By his hand or nature's, it's one and the same thing, " he concluded.

  "Man believes he can save the world, " Fletcher said with a bemused smile. "You're saying he'll be lucky if he can save himself. That is a rather profound philosophy. " He took a deep breath and released it as a sigh. "It's probably closer to the truth than any of us cares to admit. "

  "The laws of nature often seem brutal and harsh because it's only the fittest that survive. " Brig lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the ashtray.

  "Ah, but it's the arrogance of man to believe he is above nature. " Fletcher murmured. The waiter arrived to place Max's lunch in front of him. "I hope our slightly morbid conversation didn't dull your appetite, Max. "

  "Not at all. It was very enlightening. " He shook out his napkin and placed it on his lap. "Brig is something of an expert on surviving through personal experience. When he was nine years old, he spent almost three months alone in the wilderness after his parents were killed in a plane crash. Later he saw action in Southeast Asia. " Max hesitated, as if intending to say more, then changed his mind. "And you are something of an expert on nature with all your hunting experiences. Fletcher You know all about the predator and the prey, and the changing conditions mat have produced the decline in big game animals. The two of you figuratively stand on opposite sides of the fence, one the hunter and the other the rancher. You are the harsh romanticist and Brig is the cold realist. "

  "You are very observant, Max. Sometimes I underestimate you. " There was a faint narrowing of Fletcher's gaze. "You've done some hunting yourself, haven't you?"

  "I have, but it was a long time ago. Certainly nothing on the scale that you've done, " Max insisted modestly.

  "We should go hunting sometime, you and I. " Fletcher spoke as the thought occurred to him.

  "It sounds good, " Max agreed and laughed, "as long as you let me know far enough in advance so I can get in shape for tramping through the woods. "

  Tapping his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray, Brig realized that in many respects his cousin was an intelligent man, aware of his limitations and capable of exploiting his assets. What was the flaw in
his character that prevented Max from being a success? Was it because he was willing to use any means to get what he wanted or because he always wanted what was someone else's?

  "You never did give me a direct answer about the game prospects in your area, McCord, " Fletcher reminded him.

  "For bighorn?" Brig raised an eyebrow in query.

  "Yes. "

  "I've seen some, " he admitted.

  "Trophy size?"

  "It's possible the ones I saw could qualify. " Brig took a drag on his cigarette and squinted at the smoke that curled into his eyes.

  "Has it been hunted much?"

  "Not in the area that I'm familiar with. " He shook his head. "The sheep are far back in the wild, high country. They aren't easy to get to, even with a pack-string. It's hard getting in and hard getting out. "

  "Have you ever done any guiding, or considered it?" Fletcher studied him thoughtfully.

  "Nope. "

  "What would you say if I told you I'd like to hire you to guide and outfit a hunting trip for me?" he smiled complacently as he asked the question.

  "Why would you want me?" Brig tipped his head to a wary angle. "I haven't any experience. Besides you're already making arrangements with an outfitter in the Bitterroots. "

  "From all the information I've received, the bighorn sheep in his area and in Montana are young. Which means my chances of finding a ram with trophy size horns are next to nil. From the little you've told me about your area, I'd say my chances are better there. You are familiar with the landmarks and terrain. You own a ranch, which means you have access to good mountain horses for a packstring. As for your lack of experience, " Fletcher paused, "you strike me as a man who would make certain that if you took someone's money, he would receive what he paid for. "

  "I've heard about guides who have planes to haze sheep toward the hunters, " Brig remarked.

  "That's illegal. "

  "You know that. And I know that. But some hunters want a ram real bad. " A thin trail of smoke punctuated his drawling statement that was half challenge.