by Baxter Black
He pointed to the crowd behind him. Cowboys and cowgirls were unloading horses from the back of the open-topped semi trailers. Some were lugging tack from their vehicles and saddling the beasts. Others were unhooking their horse trailers.
Lick took a harder look at the enthusiastic crowd. It looked like a potty break at a seniors’ picnic. “Ain’t a guy there under seventy, Al. They’re liable to get hurt,” he said.
Al gave him a cold stare. “Lemme tellya, tenderfoot, there’s boys in that bunch who could still do a day’s work on horses you couldn’t saddle,” he stated, quasi-quoting a line from a Larry McWhorter poem.
Lick was chagrined. He climbed up on the cab of one of the semis and whistled the crowd to attention. “I am going to assume,” he shouted, “that Al Bean, here, has told you what’s goin’ on. If he hasn’t, there’s no time to explain. Out there in that giant piece of desert is a bunch of high-rollin’ lowlifes, takin’ a bunch of big-money mafia types on a hunting safari. It’s all a setup. Shootin’ fish in a barrel. Every critter they’re hunting is illegal to hunt. These folks think they own the world. They think they’re tough. I say, they don’t know what tough is. We’ll hunt down every last one of ’em and pee on their fire! Grab a horse, a car, or climb in the back! If you’ve got guns . . . shoot low! Let’s move out!”
Lick climbed down from the semi and dropped in front of T.A. Their eyes locked. He saw passion rise in the malamute steel-grays. She grinned. Sparks crackled between them. His heart was pounding.
“It’s time,” he said.
“I’m grabbin’ a horse,” she said, and started to walk away. Then she turned back, put both hands on Lick’s upper arms, and kissed him on the lips. They held eye contact for a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Then she spun and ran back to gather a mount.
Lick climbed on the motorcycle behind Cody. With the snap of an ankle and the twist of a wrist, they were off in a roar! Within the next ten minutes, an army of assorted cowboys and cowgirls rolled out across the sagebrush flats, spreading like cheap wine on a white tuxedo.
64
DECEMBER 13: THE HUNT BEGINS
“I see you,” said F. Rank into the walkie-talkie. Count Downs’s motorcycle had appeared in the rearview mirror of his pickup.
“Good,” said Cody. “I see you, too.”
The truck slowed as Cody approached. “The leopard is about two miles to the northwest,” F. Rank said over the two-way. “In quadrant twenty-two, if you remember the map. Best way the guide says to handle it is for you to get within half a mile. Then we’ll give them the signal to release the leopard from the cage. He’ll hear you comin’ and you should have about three-quarters of a mile to get in behind him with your scooter and line up on him with the machine gun. Pull alongside me so you don’t have to ride in all that dust.”
Cody didn’t respond, just stayed the course. Lick was hunkering down behind him, with his eyes shut tight against the wind and sand and his hat pulled down tight over his ears. He looked like Gabby Hayes in the wake of a B-52.
F. Rank was puzzled why Cody hadn’t pulled up next to him yet. “What are you doing back there, Count! Answer me! I can’t see you for the dust. Can you hear me?”
F. Rank stuck his head up through the sunroof in an attempt to see the trailing motorcycle. They were only going forty miles an hour, but on rough ground it made for a bumpy ride. Cody pulled within two car lengths of the pickup and F. Rank could make him out.
“What are you doing, Count? Everything okay ?” shouted F. Rank into the handset.
“Pull over right now, Pantaker, or I will blow up your truck!” shouted Cody.
“What are you talking about? Are you crazy?”
“Pull over, Pantaker! This is your last chance!”
F. Rank leaned over to his driver. “Take a hard left!”
The pickup swerved to the left, Cody leaned with it, lined up on the target, and thumbed the trigger. A burst of machine-gun fire punctured the tailgate and left hindquarter of the pickup.
“Pull over!” Cody yelled again into the headset in the helmet.
The pickup swerved to the right! Cody followed and fired another blast. The right hindquarter of the pickup sprung a leak. In the fast and furious action, Cody saw F. Rank trying to stand up through the sunroof. He was holding a rifle. The driver was swinging back and forth, trying to get out of the line of fire. F. Rank couldn’t get steady enough to aim. He hit himself three times in the eye with the rifle scope, and in one jarring arroyo the rifle barrel bounced off his forehead and jumped ship without firing a shot.
The driver was unable to see his pursuer and wound up swinging perpendicular to the motorcycle. Cody was three car-lengths away when he fingered the trigger and pulverized both front and rear tires on the left side. The truck listed like a sinking ship and drug itself to a stop.
Cody raced behind the truck and slid to a swooshing, ski slope, sand-and-gravel stop! Lick fell off sideways, flat on his back.
F. Rank staggered out of the truck toward the motorcycle, which now lay on its side. “What’s goin’ on? Have you lost your mind! Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at Lick on the ground. “And what’s the big idea!”
Lick reached out and jerked F. Rank’s leg out from under him. He fell with an arm-flailing thump. Lick was on him like stink on a buzzard’s bib.
“Remember me, Big Shot?” asked Lick, who was now sitting on F. Rank’s chest, hands around his neck.
Realization came over F. Rank’s face. “Where is she?” he asked.
“On her way, F. Rank, to make your day.”
65
DECEMBER 13: THE CHASE CONTINUES
Two miles to the northeast, in section 29, a group of three rhinoceri stood munching on green alfalfa hay that had been scattered in a small clearing. The clearing also had a watering trough, a block of salt, and a couple of scraggly trees. Two of the rhinos were dark gray and the third was a lighter color and had a blunt horn. Two hundred yards away, parked on a small rise, were two custom-made Humvees. One had a machine-gun turret on the top. The other had a flying bridge. People were peering at the rhinos from the vehicles with binoculars.
“Miz Narong, we can move closer if you’re not comfortable with this shot,” the guide said to the sweet, grandmotherly woman by his side. “The lighter-colored male to the right of the group is the Sumatran rhinoceros, very rare. Only a few pockets exist in the wild. They are confined to southeast Asia. This one came from a business associate of Mr. de Crayon in Bangladesh.
“The two black rhinos are more common but still on the endangered-species list. These were acquired from exporters in Tanzania. The male to your left weighs fourteen hundred kilos and is estimated to be nineteen years old. In his prime. The female is thirty or so. These two have sired a calf but he is back at the facility. The horn is prized in the Orient for . . .” The guide paused, realizing Ms. Narong was probably aware of the value and use of powdered rhinoceros horn.
“Yes,” she said politely, “but I plan to use it sparingly.”
The guide wasn’t sure if she was pushing his foot or not. Her smile was enigmatic, the Mona Lisa Thai.
“I think that this should be an easy shot,” Ms. Narong said. “You have graciously provided me with a telescope to ensure me the greatest accuracy. I may rest the rifle over this windscreen, yes?”
“Certainly,” assured the guide, eager to please. “Would you care to sight in on the animal so that you will have a feel for the rifle and the scope?”
“That would be very nice,” she replied.
The guide handed her a Beretta double gun chambered for 470 Nitro Express ammunition. “It isn’t loaded, Miz Narong. You may even dry-fire if you wish to gain a sense of the trigger pull.”
As Ms. Narong, her guide, and her driver were making preparations, in the nearby Humvee Sheik Ryat Rokomon Fasasi, a member of the royal family from the sultanate of Yemen, was learning the fine points of a 50 mm machine gun. Riot Rock, as he was known to his classmates,
was twenty-two years old, multilingual, and rich, and he had just graduated from Oxford with a degree in engineering. This hunt had been a graduation gift from his mother.
Ms. Narong’s guide keyed the two-way radio and spoke into it. “With your permission, Sheik, we will allow Miz Narong the first shot. When her animal falls, the others will begin running. Your driver will be ready to follow. For generously giving her the first opportunity to shoot, you will be permitted, by the hospitable Ponce de Crayon, to shoot the other two,” explained the guide. “You may start shooting as soon as you two clear her rhinoceros. We will follow the one that will be the hardest to kill first, then return for the other. Does that sound okay?”
The two-way clicked and came to life. “Bully!” shouted Riot Rock, with a strong British accent. He was standing in the pit behind the machine gun. A long cartridge belt snaked up from an ammo box. He crouched behind the gun and swung it side to side and up and down, testing its field of fire.
Meanwhile, Ms. Narong had loaded her gun with the two big cartridges and was steadying for the shot. The big black rhino male that was the object of her desire was filling her scope. He was chewing a mouthful of hay contentedly, his prehensile upper lip moving deftly like an enunciating finger. She was reminded of the antennae on the lobsters she used to bring up from the rocky shores of her native Thailand.
As she watched, the rhino turned his heavy head back to look over his shoulder. Ms. Narong panned left along the sight line of the rhino. Suddenly a blur swept across her circle of vision. It looked like a man on a horse!
Buster Montan, three times saddle-bronc top-ten finisher, originally from Broadus, Montana, was giving his horse the over and under! He was thundering across the sagebrush on a downhill glide toward the three rhinoceri that waited by the water tank. The wind was whistling through his hair, he had lost his hat, and he leaned over the horse’s neck like Eddie Arcaro! He felt his upper plate slide, his emphysema rattle, and the years slip away as if by magic. In his mind he was two days short of nineteen at the Cheyenne Frontier Days, forkin’ a bronc in the final go, a girl in the grandstands, and his pocket bulging with a ticket to Fort Benning, Georgia, on a train that left in twenty-four hours. Ms. Narong panned back to her right to see her beautiful black rhino galloping off. She squeezed off a shot and missed the end of the magnificent rhino horn by inches. She swung her rifle back to the left, picked up Buster, and was trying to track him with the scope when the truck beneath her dipped and sank.
Suddenly five men were jumping off of horses and climbing onto her vehicle. The guide fought valiantly, but old men don’t fight fair. Pickhandle Jerdon, onetime rodeo clown and bull rider, hefted an expensive Remington shotgun from the floor of the vehicle and clanged it up against the guide’s head. The guide leaned sideways for a second, then toppled over. The driver had been allowed to escape. He was now running across the sagebrush like a jackrabbit.
Pickhandle stood face to face with Ms. Narong. She held the big rifle, pointing it up in the air, but it was her fierce look that made Pickhandle stop in his tracks.
“Don’t shoot, ma’am, I ain’t armed.”
“Not very smaht, I would say.” She held the rifle steady, although it was pointed slightly above his head. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Pickhandle Jerdon, but mostly . . . I’m with him.” He gestured with his head to a man peeking his head up through the open back of the cab.
“Howdy, ma’am. Al’s the name,” spoke the old man.
Ms. Narong stepped quickly to the right to get a view of the head.
The old man took off his hat. “We are here,” he said, “to save Nevada and make the world a better place to raise Brayford cattle. And, if that ain’t enough, we do damsels in distress, which I might say, ma’am, meaning no offense, might be you. We also do lifeguarding, lighthouse watching, smoke jumping, steer roping, light MC, animal psychiatry, roadkill pickup, horn wrap, stirrup lettin’ out, and . . . what am I leavin’ out, Pickhandle?”
“Cabrito,” said Pickhandle, honored to be included.
“Right!” said the old man. “Ka-BREE-toe!
“So . . . what’ll it be, a fight to the finish OR dinner tonight with Pickhandle Jerdon, world-famous rodeo clown, barrel man, and goat authority,” the old man proffered.
“Mistah Owl, you have not mentioned the large amount of money I have invested in this hunting trip,” Ms. Narong said, still holding the gun pointing slightly above Pickhandle’s hat.
“That is something you may discuss with the owner of this grand facility, but for now I can guarantee you the hunt is off,” spoke the old man.
“Off?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“Over, discontinued, adios, vaya con Dios, blue smoke, fork in the steak, medium, well, and done! Fi-NEE-toe.”
“Are you sure?”
“As I live and breathe. Apparently there is some illegality involved which could place participants, not unlike yourself, your majesty, in the direct path of a Fish and Game avalanche.”
Ms. Narong looked at him quizzically.
“Hung from the yardarm, burned at the stake, stir-fried, wokked, and egg-rolled. We’re talking time in the pokey,” the old man concluded colorfully.
She considered the turn of events. “How would I get back to the, uh, hotel?” she asked.
“Can you ride double?” the old man asked. “It can be romantic. . . .”
“I think I would be willing. Does Mr. Jerdon still have any bullets in his gun?” she asked with a sideways glance.
“From what I hear, ma’am, he’s loaded and ready for bear.”
A round of machine-gun fire shattered the moment, blowing peace and quiet into a thousand pieces. The old man looked out his cab window at the modified Humvee with a machine gun mount less than a hundred yards away. The scene looked like a picture he remembered from the National Geographic wherein fourteen hyenas were attacking an elephant carcass.
Riot Rock, dressed like the Arabian knight he was, still had one long finger on the machine gun, which was pointed skyward and jerking his body like he was making a martini. At least three cowboys had a grip on his flowing white robe and were dragging him backwards off the rattling gun.
The old man couldn’t see Riot’s guide, but he could see a pile of cowboys that he assumed the poor fellow was under. The left front door was open and the driver was stumbling away from the rattling rocking vehicle.
Ms. Narong watched the activity placidly. When the big machine gun was finally silenced, she turned back to Pickhandle. “Mistah Pighandah, when is the next transportation to the hotel leaving?” she asked.
“Right away, ma’am. Right away!” he said.
The exuberant crowd applauded politely as Pickhandle helped Ms. Narong swing up behind him onto his horse. They started off in a slow walk toward the headquarters.
“May I call you Pig?” she asked as she reached around him and grasped his Clown of the Year belt buckle, worn smooth these last thirty years.
Why not, he thought. Why not?
66
DECEMBER 13: T.A. STOPS QPID D’ART
Teddie Arizona had stopped her horse on a high ridge and was scanning the terrain ahead of her. Her horse was sweaty but still strong. She had to hold him back, he was dantsy. Must have some Arabian blood in him, she thought. He was a dark brown gelding with a long mane. Good horse for the job.
The weather was forty-five degrees, sky clear, a slight breeze out of the west. The matador’s chaqueta under the long white lab coat was enough to keep T.A. warm, that and the cause that was now burning inside her. She was focused, in battle mode.
A good day for hunting, she thought. She saw at least three distant clouds of dust, but what drew her attention were two vehicles, dots really, at least a mile away. They were stationary. She thought she could detect activity around them. She turned to the two women and two men who were with her ahorseback.
“Whattya think, Sunny?” she asked.
“I can
’t see ’em, honey. They’re too dang far away,” Sunny Day said.
“There’s a, shoot, it looks like a bus or an army truck, and a Suburban, maybe, and at least”—Posthole Jones, one of the men, stopped to count—“ten people.”
“Gosh, I can’t see anything but dark specks,” said T.A. admiringly.
Posthole said, “I wore them durn glasses all my life, then my eyes went bad and I could see.”
T.A. thought over the explanation but decided it was too complicated to absorb. “Here’s the plan,” she said. “We can’t just charge ’em. Our horses would be worn out and they could see us coming for thirty minutes before we arrived. So, I’m gonna ride in alone.”
“Sweetie, you can’t do that. They could be some pretty mean men,” said Sunny.
“Listen,” said T.A. “Y’all know I’m just playing this by ear, but if I ride over there, they’ll see me coming but they probably won’t do anything. In the meantime, y’all spread out, sideways . . . a hundred yards apart, like a big fan behind me.”
“Then what do we do when we get there?” asked the second man.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But we’ll think of something.”
“Don’t sound like a great plan to me,” said Posthole.
“You’ve done stupider things,” harrumphed Sunny. “Like roping that big bull in the arena in Payson just as he was exiting the arena. Smacked your poor horse up against the gate and tore it off the hinges. How far did he drag the three of you—including the gate, I mean?”
They looked around and found that T.A. had already started across the open ground in the direction of the two dots. She stayed in a fast walk. Should take about ten minutes to reach the vehicles, she thought, time enough for them to notice her arrival. Sure enough, it wasn’t long and she saw the crowd bunch up. Two bodies climbed on the vehicles and seemed to be using binoculars to look her way.
