Authors: Rick Boyer
I came to less than a minute later, stunned and
shaking. There was a bruise as big as a saucer on my chest, but my
ribs were intact. I had a nice egg on my noggin, too. Fred was
steaming, and he cussed out all the help in Spanish. But if memory
served me right, he had been the last man at the gate. I walked off
the injury, deciding to let the whole thing drop. It had been a close
call, and I mainly felt lucky to be alive.
When everyone was sure I'd be all right, Fred and I
walked back to the jeep. He apologized for the mishap, and seemed
shaken, too. I told him to forget the whole thing. He seemed
relieved, and we sped back toward the ranch house in the soft early
evening light. The sun was low in the sky, with pink and purple
clouds around it. The rolling hills were full of light and shadow.
Suddenly Fred turned and accelerated. I saw a vague shape jump and
flicker ahead of us and to our left. It was an animal, bounding over
the plains at an unbelievable speed. Was it Lothar, the German
shepherd? No; Fred had told me he stayed on the ranch house grounds.
Fred braked to a halt.
"Drive, Doc. Follow that coyote. Better belt
yourself in good first. Go!"
He was already on the high pedestal seat in back, the
carbine across his knees. Soon I had the jeep in high gear, chugging
and bouncing along at about forty, which felt just great on my
bruised and aching body. We gained on the coyote. Fred shot once and
I saw a puff of dust ahead of the animal. The second shot connected
and sent the little wolf into a double somersault before it crumpled
into a heap of fur and lanky bones. We got out and looked. The
animal's eyes were open, and its dog face wore an ironic, toothy
grin. I wasn't too pleased. I know that coyotes are varmints that
kill livestock, but I still felt like an accessory to murder. The
feeling was intensified by the coyote's doglike appearance. It just
looked too much like a pet to me. The whole thing seemed to have
happened before I knew it; I never even expected Fred to connect. The
shot was nearly impossible, considering the speed of the chase, the
motion of the coyote and the bouncing vehicle, and the low light. But
then I remembered Roantis recounting Kaunitz's incredible skill with
firearms. He had remarked that whatever got in Fred's line of sight
was dead. It was true. Fred put the animal in the back of the jeep,
and we drove on until we came to a high spot overlooking a dried-out
creekbed. Fred got out and gutted the animal, leaving its entrails
for the buzzards, and replaced the little wolf in the rear of the
jeep. I walked toward the front seats on the passenger side of the
vehicle.
Spang!
Two feet from me, the side mirror exploded in bright
pieces. My hands and wrists stung with flying fragments of glass. I
heard a nasty buzzing over my head and F red's swearing as he leapt
for the carbine at the rear of the jeep.
"Get down, Doc! Hit the dirt!"
Spang!
The spotlight casing blew apart. I saw a sputtering
electric spark inside it in the dusky light. I was down, eating some
of that good old red Texas dirt. Not again, I thought. I'm really
getting sick of this.
"Let's go!" I shouted to Fred as he rolled
to my side of the jeep and came up on the balls of his feet, carbine
to his cheek. He crouched forward, keeping low, his eyes scanning the
dry creekbed in the distance. The tiny canyon, or arroyo, as it's
called, was choked with thickets. Here and there dwarf, bent willows
hung over the gully. A tiny brown trickle of a stream ran through it.
What it was was a perfect place to hide, and both of us knew it.
"We're not going, Doc. Not just yet. Listen:
roll under the jeep and stay there a minute. I'm gonna crawl up to
that rim and wait to see a spark. Shooting at their muzzle flash is
the only way we can connect. They're well hidden, and it's almost
dark."
"Who the hell are they?"
"Wish I knew. We've had trouble with some labor
agitators, though. Want all our guys to swear allegiance to Chavez.
Well, the Flying K isn't giving in, and our guys don't want it
either. But they're mean and pushy. They've taken some pot shots at
the help in the past coupla months, but never at me. If I get them in
my sights on my land, they're gone."
He belly-crawled up the sandy slope and hunkered down
under the rim, motionless and waiting. We stayed this way for fifteen
minutes. Not a peep. From underneath the jeep I gazed at the
thicket-clogged arroyo in the dying light. Hell, you could hide a
platoon in there; it would be suicide to approach it.
"Doc, listen: don't do anything you don't want
to do, but it'd be mighty helpful if you could crawl up to the
driver's side and cut the lights. just stay down and reach up to the
knob?"
"No problem," I said. I squirmed forward,
raised my arm, and hit the black knob on the dashboard, shoving it
in. We were now in the dark, and almost immediately I heard the
keeeyeew-ahhh! keeeyeew-ahhh! echo of rifle shots. This was followed
by a steady drumming of Fred's carbine, spitting out slugs as fast as
he could pull the trigger. With the carbine empty now, he skidded
back down the slope, jumped into the jeep, and raced the engine.
"Jump in now, Doc, and hold on!"
I did, and we flew out of there, bouncing and
jouncing. We went the first several hundred yards without lights,
then Fred switched them on. Shortly, we hit the gravel road again and
headed back to the ranch house. As we walked through an archway of
adobe and timber into the walled garden, I could feel my knees and
legs tremble slightly from fatigue and stress. I eased myself down
onto a stone bench and groaned. It had been quite a day. The big dog
came up and sat staring at me. I petted it. Fred hopped inside and
reappeared with two cans of Lone Star, which we cracked open and
drank sitting on the bench next to the Spanish fountain. The sky in
the west was still red, and the warm light reflected down into the
garden, where the trees sighed softly in the evening breeze. Swallows
and grackles called. The breeze was cool now. I stretched out my feet
and grunted. I would be sore and stiff all over in the morning. A
nighthawk sailed overhead and cried a high, nasal
breeen!
. . . breee-oop!
"You sure you're okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. I hurt a little, but it's nothing
serious."
"Good. Well, it's been a day full of surprises.
I don't know if I winged that dry-gulcher or not, Doc. One thing: the
firing sure stopped quick after I gave him a dose. I just hope you're
not too shook up, is all."
"No. I'm a little shaky now, but it'll pass. You
don't think they'd sneak up to the house, do you?"
"Naw. They're chicken shit. Anybody who
sneak-shoots from cover is a chicken shit. Besides, if anybody
strange approaches this place, Lothar will let us know. Maybe that
dusting I gave them will end it. If not, I'm taking some of the boys
and ride 'em down. Listen Doc, I hate to leave a guest, but I've got
to have a word with my dad about ranch business. I thought you'd want
to clean up a bit, then if I'm not back here when you're through, you
can just wait here or in the gunroom, okay?"
We both left the garden and I went to my room and
took a long cool shower, changed clothes, and returned to the garden,
which was now chilly. I did two circuits of the garden and was
heading back to the cloister way that led to the gunroom when I heard
voices arguing. I did another round of the garden. The voices were
softer, but still raised. They were coming from a far corner of the
compound, away from the garden side. I ambled along the white adobe
wall, left the garden through another archway, and began a circuit of
the main residence. Soon I was standing directly underneath a high
double window.
". . . so a lot of those finishing expenses will
depend on the sorghum crop," I heard Fred say. "If it's as
good as it should be, we'll use it in the main feeder lot. That will
pretty much take care of that column."
"And that leaves how many notes on capital
improvements?" said a gruff voice.
"Four. And I've got two more lined up in San
Antone."
"Let's hope to God the weather holds. Any word
on the plane?"
"Still got a guy interested up in Waco."
"Well Fred, if it doesn't move in a month we've
got to put it on the block. Hate to do it—I know how much it means
to you —"
"Let's hope something turns up," snapped
Fred.
"Well it probably won't. Just be prepared for
it."
I completed my walk around the house, returned
through the same archway that Fred and I had gone through before, and
went into the gunroom. I racked up the balls on the pool table,
scanning the trophies that hung high on the wall over the gun
cabinets.
I fired the cue ball at the racked triangle of balls
and watched it explode with a loud whack. I gave a low whistle of
amazement at the frozen menagerie that stared down at me. The
trophies certainly were impressive. The Kaunitz family had taken all
the North American big game: all three deer species, moose, elk,
caribou, antelope, cougar, and a grand slam in sheep: Desert, Stone,
Rocky Mountain, and Dall. They had one each of the three big American
bears: grizzly, brown, and polar. If this weren't enough, they'd
managed to bag two jaguars, a leopard, most of the major African
antelopes, and a cape buffalo. I couldn't imagine what these hunting
expeditions had cost. It also boggled the mind to think of taking all
those endangered species from the planet. I walked over and looked
closely at the mounted heads. Then I knew. They were old trophies.
Very old. Well preserved, but the dullness of the fur and horns
revealed their age. They looked as if they'd been taken about thirty
or forty years earlier, perhaps before Fred was even born.
From the sound of the pieces of conversation I'd
eavesdropped on, the financial situation at Flying K wasn't
altogether rosy. What had happened? Several bad droughts? Soft beef
market? Labor problems? Water rights? Poor planning and decision
making? Whatever it was, it was clear that Flying K and its
inhabitants were not now enjoying the gentrified life that they had
in the past.
Next, I looked closely at the guns in their stained
oak cabinets. I knew the rifle I was looking for: Belgian FN-FAL
assault rifle, black plastic foregrip and stock, carrying handle . .
. three vent I holes in the fore end.
I didn't find it.—
And then Fred and his dad walked in.
The elder Kaunitz, Walter, was almost as big as his
son. Although age had shrunk the massive chest and arms somewhat, the
giant frame was still in evidence. His face was heavily lined with
deep creases and fixed with what seemed to be a permanent tan. He
took my hand with a gorilla grip and proceeded over to the bar to
pour himself a hefty gin and tonic. Fred and I did likewise, and then
we all sat in low chairs, upholstered in Navajo cloth, in front of
the empty fieldstone fireplace. It was almost cold in the room due to
the air conditioning. It felt good after the hot afternoon's work,
but I could feel my sore muscles beginning to lock.
"I hope you're enjoying your stay with us at
Flying K," said Walter Kaunitz as he lighted a Camel, "even
though you got more of the Old West than you bargained for, eh? Fred
told me about that sniper. I think it's time to take off the gloves
with those bastards. Nobody's doing that to Flying K, let me tell
you."
"Well, it's been an adventure. You gonna go to
the law, or what?"
"Yeah. We'll meet with the sheriff and the
highway patrol. But I'd like to catch 'em myself, red-handed. Sure
Fred feels the same way. Appreciate it, though, if you didn't mention
it at supper, Dr. Adams. The women worry, you know. Hey, Fred also
tells me you're quite a ranch hand. Well, enjoy it all while it's
still here. The medium-sized ranches, like this one, are fast
disappearing. They're selling out, either to the huge outfits or to
the real estate developers. Damn shame. Part of the reason is that
crow bait who bushwhacked you. Look over your shoulder. See that
bearded gentleman and his family? That was my great-grandfather,
Franz Josef Kaunitz. Behind him is the sod house he built on this
site back in 1868. That's when the ranch was started."
"Is there any reason to think that this ranch
will disappear soon, Mr. Kaunitz? I sure hope not. I haven't had such
a good time in years."
"Naw. We'll hang on to this speck of land for a
while anyway, won't we, Fred?"
"For sure, Dad."
"I'd hardly call five thousand acres a speck of
land," I said. "Well, you come from where? Massachusetts?
Well hell, no wonder. That state's only as big as a postage stamp.
Out here,
though, we're a speck."
"Did you take all these?" I asked, waving
my arm around the room.
"'Bout half of them. The others my father took
in the twenties. Freddie here took two of the bears and that Greater
Kudu. Did he tell you what he did in Vietnam? Now that's really the
most challenging hunting, right, Fred?"
His son grunted a reply. I had the feeling Fred
wasn't anxious to discuss his career with the Daisy Ducks. A boy of
twelve skipped in. It was little Freddie Kaunitz, who announced that
dinner would soon be served. We followed the boy back through the
garden and into the kitchen-dining building, where I met the wives.
Beth and Margaret Kaunitz were attractive, reserved women. Margaret,
Fred's mother, wore her salt-and-pepper hair back in a bun. She was
very tall, which helped account for Fred's height. Beth was about
thirty-five, with dark eyes and hair. I thought she might have some
Latin blood in her. She was as dark as Mary, and that's dark. The
dinner was beef Bourguignon with vintage French red, which was a
pleasant surprise. I was, of course, expecting chili, barbecue, or
giant steaks. Every attempt I made to bring the ladies into the
conversation fell flat. They answered my questions politely, but were
careful not to offer their own opinions. After dessert, I was
beginning to wonder if they even had their own opinions. I also
discovered that the women never ventured into the gunroom. I was
surprised at all of this, but figured it might be common in rural
Texas to have this kind of domestic relationship. In any case, it was
apparent that the women of Flying K, while enjoying every material
comfort, did not participate in the daily ranch decision making. Nor
were they friends or companions to their husbands.