Free Astride a Pink Horse by Robert Greer Page B

Fighting Irish of Notre Dame; stenciled “Breen’s Moving & Storage Company” on the side panels; and gone into the moving and hauling business.
    Using his brawn and contacts that his father had from twenty-five years as an army supply sergeant, he’d made enough money since starting his business to think about hiring someone to help him, and maybe after that to buy a second truck.
    But those were matters he planned to look into after he finished his current job, a long-haul trip that would earn him big dollars. He wasn’t sure why he’d ended up landing the plum of hauling old hospital equipment from Ottawa, Ontario, to Amarillo, Texas, especially since he was being paid 20 percent over scale, but he was happy he had.
    There were a few oddball things about the gig besides the fact that it had materialized out of the blue, the most glaring one being the fact that he didn’t know for certain who’d hired him. But when it came to the sort of money he was getting, Silas didn’t much care.
    What he did know about the person who’d hired him was that only their first communication had been by phone. Every contact since then had been by fax, including the one telling him he’d been hired. He’d been paid half down for his services: $3,100 in cash that had arrived at his apartment in Buffalo, New York, in a padded, heavily taped ten-by-thirteen-inch manila envelope one day before he was to start the job. The envelope had borne a Las Vegas postmark and no return address. The only other things he knew for certain were that the name F. MANTEW always appeared in capital letters on his correspondent’s faxes and that F. Mantew wanted his shipment delivered within three days.
    When he’d picked up his load three hours earlier from a warehouse in Ottawa, most of the seven-ton shipment had been crated. He hadn’t paid serious attention to his primary cargo, twentyheavily banded eight-by-four-by-four-foot crates, other than to marvel at their stoutness, and since he wasn’t about to look his gift horse in the mouth, he’d attributed that stoutness to OSHA shipping regs.
    The combination of his cash down payment and F. Mantew’s secrecy had, nonetheless, put him in an inquisitive mood, and he’d made certain that the twenty crates matched up exactly with what was printed on his shipping documents and bill of lading. He’d also decided to take a more thorough look at his cargo when he stopped for the night in South Bend, Indiana, to pay homage to the Notre Dame campus and the Fighting Irish.
    Now on the outskirts of Syracuse and cruising along comfortably at sixty-five after a forgettable trip down I-81 from Ottawa, Silas had a feeling that although he wasn’t necessarily headed for trouble, he might be headed for a surprise. Trying his best to convince himself that concern about his shipment was unwarranted and that he had three full days ahead of him to ride his current wave, he slipped a Muddy Waters disc into his grease-stained dashboard CD player and began humming along to the old blues master’s four-minute-long lost-love lament. Reminding himself that he, not F. Mantew, was in the driver’s seat for now, he hummed a little louder.
    He had half the money due him in his pocket, and, more importantly, he was in possession of F. Mantew’s goods. Leaning down and feeling beneath his seat for the crowbar that had once belonged to his grandfather, he forced a smile. He’d never liked surprises, even as a child. So if any surprises were in store, he might as well be ready with a surprise of his own. And if Granddad’s crowbarwasn’t enough to handle that surprise, the .32 in his glove compartment certainly was. His reluctant smile turned into a grin as he sat back up to focus on the road. The grin became broader as he hummed along with Muddy and fantasized about what would be his first trip ever to Notre Dame.
    Bernadette left Cheyenne for Hawk Springs, Wyoming, an hour and a half ahead of Cozy’s departure for the