Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 10 by The Maggody Militia Page A

county knows you have a still up on the ridge. One of these days the revenuers are going to locate it and reduce it to a pile of scrap metal. Moonshining’s a federal offense. That means you’ll be up in Leavenworth instead of enjoying the company of your relatives at the state pen.” His rheumy eyes met mine. “I ain’t got a still and ain’t nobody gonna find it. What do you aim to do about Diesel? He’s got no call to scare Marjorie like that, or me, fer that matter.”
    “I’m not going to do anything,” I said, shaking my head. “If you don’t have business on Cotter’s Ridge, stay off it. You and Marjorie shouldn’t be there during deer season, anyway. Neither of you resembles a buck, but that doesn’t cut any mustard with a bullet fired from a mile away.” I stood up in hopes he’d take the hint and leave, but he remained seated, glowering like a jack o’ lantern well past its prime. “Something else?” I asked.
    “I heard there’s gonna be some fellers dressed in soldier clothes crawling all over the ridge.”
    “There’s nothing I can do about that, either. It’s going to be crowded up there next week, Raz. Take my advice and stay away.”
    I held open the door and tried not to grimace as he shuffled past me and climbed into a muddy truck. The thought of Sterling Pitts and his followers had given me the stirrings of a headache; Raz’s redolence had escalated it to the quintessence. The report I’d planned to take to Farberville could wait until Monday. In the interim, I was going to crawl into bed, cram a pillow over my head, and imagine what it would be like to be somewhere else.
    Anywhere else.
    /\ /\ /\
    On the far side of Stump County, Sterling sat in his Bronco, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and watching raindrops slither down the windshield like transparent slugs. He was parked at one of their carefully chosen meeting places, a farm that had been abandoned more than ten years ago. The windows of the house were as vacant as a dead man’s eyes, and the rusted screen door groaned as the wind dragged it across the surface of the porch.
    Sterling reminded himself he was not the sort to entertain irrational notions about ghosts. He was organized, efficient, decisive, truly a general’s general. The fact that his underlings were so ill-disciplined was disturbing; he made a mental note to require them to study their manuals and the additional guidelines he’d typed up and stapled to the back covers. After all, the Second Amendment stressed the need for a “well-regulated” militia as necessary to the security of a free state.
    He pulled back his cuff to look at his watch. Red Rooster had agreed to be there at 1700. It was now 1720, and Sterling was growing increasingly peevish. It was cold, damp, and getting dark. His wife was expecting him to come straight home from his office to escort her to some fool dinner party. She had no idea what he did in his free time, but it was getting harder to come up with lies about conventions in other cities and emergency meetings at the office.
    Muttering to himself, he switched on the ignition and prepared to leave. Before he could back up, however, a pickup truck came up the weedy driveway and stopped.
    Reed climbed out of the driver’s side and came around to the car. “So, did you check him out?” he asked loudly.
    Sterling could smell the beer on Red Rooster’s breath. “I do not care to be kept waiting while you and your friend are drinking beer in a bar somewhere. Were you also shooting off your yaps about our activities? Should I expect a carful of ATF agents to pull up next?”
    “Naw, we just stopped off for a quick one on the way out here. Wasn’t nobody else in the joint except for a bony hooker, and she was talking the whole time on her cell phone.” He put his hand on the roof of the car and blearily smiled down at Sterling. “Did you hear back from Colorado?”
    Sterling glanced at the young man in the pickup who was