The Daisy Ducks

by Rick Boyer

  "The Flying K Ranch," he said, drawing off his sunglasses. His eyes flashed with eagle-like intensity. "All fifty-three hundred acres of it. Been in the family for five generations. Hang on, we'll be on the ground shortly."

  9

  FRED KAUNITZ set the four-passenger Mooney onto his black-top runway as smoothly as a falling snowflake. Since we had been bucking some strong thermals as we made our approach, it was clear that he was a master aviator. We taxied to the hangar complex and tied down the plane. A stripped-down jeep was waiting, apparently where Fred had left it earlier in the day. I noticed a raised pedestal seat in back, complete with a safety harness. The jeep also had a roll bar and twin spotlights. A gunrack was welded to the rear part of the chassis, and in it were an old twelve-gauge pump and a semi-auto carbine. I put my gear in back and hopped in. The jeep had been sitting in the sun, and it was as hot as a laundry iron. We headed along a gravel road toward the main house. Gee, it took a long time. Fred gave no indication that he wanted to impress me with the size and grandeur of Flying K, but impressive it was. The terrain was gently rolling hills covered with rough range grass and dotted with live and scrub oak: short, roundish trees with gnarled limbs that resemble those in California and Spain.

  Rolling to a stop beside a corral with a steel fence, we got out of the jeep and walked over to the fence, climbed it, and sat on the top rail. Inside was the biggest bull I have ever seen. It must have been ten feet long and almost six feet at the withers. It had long pendant ears, a huge Happy dewlap under its neck, and a hump on its back.

  "What the hell's that? A Brahma bull?"

  "Sort of, Doc. A Brahma crossbred with an Angus. Called a Brangus. Three-year-old. Greatest producer we've got. A hundred twenty thousand and worth every cent. Name's Rasputin."

  "How's his disposition?"

  "On a good day, just awful."

  "Hey, you ever do any rodeo riding? I thought I heard Roantis mention it."

  Kaunitz made a laughing grunt in reply. "Yeah. Now and then, when things get slow, I do a little bull riding. Wrecked my leg a bit last fall."

  "Is that why you're limping a little?"

  "Yeah. And ranch work aggravates it. Well, let's head on in. You like to shoot?"

  "Yes. Very much."

  "Well, we can go out to the range after breakfast tomorrow. If you like to fish we've got a nicely stocked reservoir too. Some nice fat largemouth . . . In the creek there's some big catfish."

  "Gee Fred, a guy could hang out here forever."

  "He sure could," said Kaunitz as he started the jeep, "but it gets boring too. The heat, the work, the same people. I like to get out and around once in a while."

  The ranch house was a U-shaped single-story building. The open side of the U was not open; it was an adobe wall that enclosed the Spanish-style patio and formal garden. In the garden were live oaks, Russian olive trees, cacti, and all kinds of creeping vines and flowering shrubs. It was both intimate and spectacular. I knew that Mary, with her fondness for Latin courtyards, would love it. The middle wing of the building housed the kitchen, dining areas, living room, and sleeping quarters for three generations of Kaunitzes. One wing was mostly workrooms and living quarters for the household staff and a family room. I was to stay in the wing opposite, which consisted of two guest suites, the living quarters for the senior ranch help, and the gunroom. In addition to the main ranch house, there was a separate bunkhouse for the general ranch help, a workshop, a horse barn and tackroom, and all the other outbuildings one usually finds on big ranches, including, in this case, a separate office to manage the day-to-day business of a five-thousand-acre ranch and breeding farm.

  Almost before we coasted to a stop outside the building, two men came running up to the jeep, awaiting Fred's instructions. They were accompanied by a huge black and tan German shepherd, whose name, I found out later, was Lothar. Fred spoke to the men in brisk Spanish and they disappeared. He asked me to follow one of the men to my rooms. I did, and walking through the enormous gunroom, I got a quick glimpse of the trophy-lined walls, the big pool table, and many old photographs of the ranch and the elder Kaunitzes who built it.

  "How tall you, senor?" my guide asked.

  "Six feet, even."

  "How you weigh, senor?"

  "One seventy-four."

  "How big you belt, senor?"

  "Uh, thirty-two inches."

  "Tang you, senor."

  The man disappeared on the gallop, and I had a minute to examine my luxurious accommodations before he reappeared, flinging blue jeans and a western shirt down on the bed.

  "You be ready pronto, hokay? Senor Kaunitz say for you: don forget we has to move seven hundred head cattle. You wan help?"

  "Certainly. Pleased to."

  "Hokay. How big your foot, senor?"

  I told him, and a few seconds later he came with a pair of rough-out boots with walking heels. Standard issue to guests, I gathered. I dressed in less than two minutes and rushed out to the jeep. Fred was waiting with the engine running, and what followed was one of the most brutal and enjoyable afternoons of my life. We drove for twenty minutes through high grass and dust to where the big herd was. They were mostly Herefords, but quite a number of Brangus and other crossbreeds dotted the herd as well. In the next three hours I spent an hour on horseback, an hour at the wheel of the jeep, and the final hour at the corral chutes sorting yearlings and young calves. Sometimes the animals were panic stricken or stubborn, and required some hauling, kicking in the butt, and sometimes even carrying. It was after six o'clock when we finally finished. I could scarcely move. Not having ridden a horse in two years, I was on fire everywhere between my waist and my knees—front, back, and in between. It's amazing what happens to certain muscle sets when you don't use them. Likewise, my upper body glowed with that special hurt of exertion that feels so good. My feet hurt from the western boots, and I was drenched with sweat from working in the heat. My throat, nose, and eyes were full of red range dust. But I felt great. And then I knew what it was that kept people like Fred Kaunitz down on the farm. It was the elemental joy of being physical, of overseeing your own piece of turf, and of not having any twentieth-century fallbacks to bail you out when the going got rough. It was just the land, the cows, and us. Period. And I was loving it.

  It was at the day's end, just as work was finishing, that it happened. It scares me even now to think back on it. We were getting ready to load a small batch of steers onto a truck from a holding pen at the edge of the corral complex. From the pen, a cattle chute sloped up and out, terminating at a gate the height of the truckbed. I approached the chute to slide the gate open for Fred's helper, Jimmy, as he backed the truck up to it. There were seven or eight animals on the chute, scared as hell, each one weighing maybe nine hundred pounds. I was to pull the sliding gate aside as the truck came up, allowing the animals to hop inside it. But somebody hadn't fastened the gate properly, and it had crept open a few inches, sliding along its roller track. Just then Fred came storming up the sloping boards of the chute from the pen, yelling and whistling to get the animals moving. Move they did, and the lead one, a Hereford with fear-bugged eyes, slipped his big head through the crack and pried that gate right open. The truck had not quite arrived, and four of the steers came spilling out the top of the chute—and onto me. I felt a hoof strike my chest and a horn brush my head as I went down. Just before I passed out, I saw the two sets of double truck tires spinning my way and managed to roll between them and underneath the axle.

  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 spe
cies, 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.