Free Hostile Borders by Dennis Chalker Page A

up,” came a loud voice from inside the house, “you know him.”
    â€œYeah,” called out Reaper as he opened the car door, “but does he like me? And what about his friends here?”
    â€œHe’s not the one you have to worry about,” said the man who stepped out of the house and into the walled patio, “it’s that big dummy next to you who’ll knock you over just saying hello.”
    â€œGrunt?” Reaper said as he held out the back of his hand for the rottweiler to sniff. “Is that you? Damn, you’re a big dog now.”
    â€œWell, it’s been almost two years since you saw himlast. They do grow when you keep feeding them.”
    Jerry “Cowboy” Hausmann walked up to Reaper and wrapped his arms around him in a big, masculine hug.
    â€œGood to see you, Ted,” Hausmann said. “Glad you could manage to find your way back. Looks like Grunt remembers you, Sarge, too. Got some cold beer on tap inside, if I can force one on you.”
    â€œYou may be able to twist my arm,” Reaper said as he vigorously rubbed Grunt’s big head. The short tail of the rottweiler was wagging so quickly it looked as if it would break the sound barrier. Sarge, the other rott, had seen that Hausmann was happy to see the man in front of him, and that was good enough for the dog. He came up to Reaper for his share of attention. The German shepherd had gone back to lying down on the grass in the shade of the tree.
    â€œWhat’s with Major?” Reaper asked as they walked through the yard and up to the house.
    â€œJust getting a bit old, is all,” Hausmann said, “just like the rest of us. His arthritis slows him down a bit now. Anyone comes into the yard, all he does is ask for their license and registration—lets his deputies do the heavy lifting.”
    Stepping through the arched entrance to the patio, Reaper followed Hausmann into the adobe-style house. The inside of the building was light, airy, and comfortably cool. The center of the room was dominated by a large pool table. Surrounding the table was a leather couch and well-padded leather chairs. A bar with four stools in front of it was on the opposite side of the room from the door.
    As Reaper was standing at the door, a big chunk of dog waddled into the room and shoved itself up against his legs. The massive, heavily wrinkled face looked up at him as the heavily muscled body sat right down on his feet.
    â€œJarhead!” Reaper said as he bent over. “Still waddling around I see.”
    As Reaper scratched the fawn-and-white English bulldog on the back, the animal practically convulsed with pleasure. Behind the bar, Hausmann opened a small freezer.
    â€œJust don’t fall for his begging bit,” Hausmann said. “If I really starved him as much as he acts, he wouldn’t weigh nearly sixty pounds.”
    Jarhead looked up at Reaper with a wide bulldog smile as his tongue came out and the dog started panting. The comedy of the big lump of a dog made Reaper laugh as he stood back up and went over to join Hausmann. The bulldog decided that rolling over on his back and doing the happy-doggy wiggle on a rug was the best way to continue his personal pleasure.
    With a grin on his face, Reaper took a seat at the bar, and looked around at the definitely masculine Western-style decor of the room. Filled gunbelts hung next to framed Western artworks. And there was more than one Stetson hat and set of horns hanging from the walls. Past experience with Hausmann and his habits told Reaper to expect that every one of the weapons in the room was loaded—from the single-action Colts to the Winchester and Sharps rifles hanging in scabbards or on racks.
    It wasn’t that Hausmann was paranoid. He just believed that tools should be kept ready for use. Besides, anyone invited into the house was an adult and usually a long-time professional with weapons.
    â€œStill roughing it out