Incident in San Francisco

“You idiot, you could have killed that dog!”, she said furiously, using her training from drama classes to project her voice strongly without having to shout like a common person. Fists on hips, her chest heaving under the starched white riding blouse, she assailed him: “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing? What in God’s name were you thinking of?”.

“I was thinking what a great pair of tits you’ve got for a woman your age. Did you grow those yourself, or buy them?” was what Ranny wanted to say. But he knew his place, and he knew better than to stare at either her face or that chest, so he let his eyes drop to her feet in the shiny brown boots, and held his tongue.

“Sorry, ma’am”, he muttered, stooping down and turning away from her. “Let me just clean up this mess.”

“See that you do, and be more careful the next time you’re around here”, Cynthia hissed, as she went inside to comfort her dog. She didn’t really like dogs, but in her circle it was expected that you have one, and she did not like to see any of her possessions being mistreated or disrespected.

Ranny swept up the chunks of dry dog food with his hands and put it back in the dish, picking out any stray leaves of hay. His neck and ears were heavily tanned from outdoor work, but he could feel the flush of shame and rage, and felt the eyes of passers-by and neighboring owners who had witnessed the accident.

How dare she speak to me like one of her hired hands, thought Ranny, enraged by the tone she had used. She didn't even notice me this morning when she almost caused me to have a car accident on the street, and now I let a bale of hay drop here and she yells at me like it was some big deal.

The anger he had felt this morning was now compounded by the public dressing-down he’d received, and Ranny was consumed with the need for revenge. As he wheeled the empty hand truck back, happy to leave the scene of his humiliation, thoughts of retaliation raced through his mind. Rape wasn’t one of his normal fantasies, but he’d sure like to bust into that dressing room just when she had pulled down her riding pants. He’d put her on her knees and take her from behind doggie-style, and let her suffer some humiliation. But that was just another fantasy, quickly replaced by actual possibilities. He could locate her truck and trailer tonight and flatten all the tires, or put sugar in the gas tank, but he knew instinctively that a woman with her money would have someone else take care of the problem. No, for satisfaction he needed to do something which would affect her personally. He’d watch and wait, and he’d think of something.

The chance came unexpectedly that very afternoon. He had avoided the aisle in front of stall 17 as much as possible, not wishing another confrontation with that bitch, but some horse had dropped a pile of road apples halfway down and he’d be in trouble if he didn’t clean it up. When he parked his wheelbarrow and started to shovel the droppings into it, he glanced into the open tack room of Windmere Farms and saw that no one was there. There was a popular jumping class being shown in the arena, and most people had gone into the stands to watch. Cynthia had apparently gone too, and must be wearing something other than her show riding boots, because they stood beside the tack chest in their gleaming, burnished perfection. Had Ranny known that Cynthia flew to England to have her boots custom-made, he would have hated them even more than he did, considering them a symbol of the effete leisure class, unlike the boots worn by the working cowboys.

Something clicked in Ranny’s mind, and he suddenly had an inspiration for his revenge. It wasn’t as harsh as he’d like it to be, but it would affect her directly and maybe give her a taste of humiliation.

A couple of empty Vernor’s Ginger Ale cans sat under the table, and Ranny could legitimately consider it part of his job to remove them. He looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching, then put his shovel in the wheelbarrow, retrieving a large horse turd as he did so. It was still warm from the horse, and though moist, was compacted enough to hold its shape as he held it lightly palm-down in his fist, fingers curled to conceal it. It might have been unpleasant to hold in his bare hand, but Ranny was so excited by the knowledge of how successful his revenge would be that he didn’t care. The anticipation was tempered with the knowledge that he could get caught, but no one was watching as he nonchalantly entered the enclosure. In one fluid motion, made with unaccustomed smoothness due to his heightened awareness of the need for speed and stealth, he bent down to retrieve the cans with one hand while the other brushed over the top of the boots, dropping the horse turd into one of them.

His mission accomplished, Ranny stuffed the cans in a trash bag suspended from the handles of the wheelbarrow and headed out of the barn. He would have loved to have stayed around that area all afternoon to savor the results of his trick, but he knew that he had to find things to do instead which would keep him well away all day. A shame, really, because he could imagine nothing more enjoyable than to stand and watch as that haughty blond bitch slid her expensively-clad little foot down into the long shaft of that polished boot. He hoped that she was one of the people who put on their boots standing up, and that she’d really cram her foot down in. He wondered if she’d be able to keep her voice to the level of quietly controlled fury that she’d exercised with him, or if she’d forget herself and scream out obscenities when she pulled her boot off and found her foot smeared with pungent horseshit. It would have been worth it to have been in a neighboring aisle just to hear her, but Ranny knew that he’d be a suspect and had to stay well away, around other workers who could provide an alibi. But he could imagine her reaction, and that thought gave him great pleasure.

People would learn that they couldn’t cross Ranny Worlham and get away with it.

Chapter 8

Monty finished the reading the article on global warning and its devastating impact on glaciers around the world, and reluctantly set the magazine aside. His thirst for knowledge had led him to subscribe to a half-dozen magazines covering a wide range of interests. The topic of this one was science, and he liked to expand on the basic information he had been given in school. Of course, he took a couple of journals which dealt solely with cattle-raising or farming practices, but those were read to keep current in his field of work. The ones he really enjoyed were the weekly news magazine, the science magazine, one geared toward car and truck enthusiasts, and a couple more whose topics changed annually. His mail frequently contained the thick envelopes with promises that he would win millions of dollars if he had, and returned, the winning numbers. But unlike most recipients, Monty actually read through the special offers of magazines at giveaway prices for an introductory subscription, and he sampled a wide variety of those. He had found that one year of reading on topics as specialized as the Civil War, guns and ammunition, owner-built homes, and life in New York, had provided him with a broad-ranging base of current knowledge in a lot of areas. When one subscription ran out, he picked some other specialty magazine and spent a year with it.

But it had been dark for an hour now, and moonlight was hitting the tops of the western hills. It was time to go back to work.

For Monty, as for most ranchers, hunting animals was not sport, but part of their job. Imbued with a deep love for the land and for the animals which live on it, they considered animal husbandry a necessary part of their duties as caretakers of their piece of Earth. At one time, before Man interfered, nature had looked after things, using the predators to control the populations of the plant-eaters. But the giant grizzly bear no longer roamed California, and the smaller black bear was almost non-existent except in some remote mountain areas. Mountain lions were making a strong comeback from near extinction, and there had been occasional sightings in this part of Monterey County, but they were still a rarity. The numbers of the larger birds of prey, the eagles and hawks, had been decimated mid-century when the extensive use of DDT had led to its accumulation in their bodies at the top of the food chain, resulting in egg shells too weak to survive.

Of course, like all people, ranchers were driven by self-interest, and so were selective in how they assisted Nature. Monty did not raise sheep, goats, or chickens, and so did not find coyotes a problem. His mother cows did an excellent job of defending their young calves, and he had often marveled at how one cow would remain behind to baby-sit while the others made the long trek to the river to drink. He had never lost an animal to coyotes, and so left the little fawn-colored wolves in peace if he saw one slinking around the brush or out in a field, looking for ground squirrels. Another rancher who raised sheep, however, would surely shoot coyotes on sight, since lamb and mutton was a taste which, once acquired, apparently relegated rabbit and squirrel to the bottom of a coyote’s menu. Unless that ranch was home to a red-tailed hawk or two, or a lot of gopher snakes, the owner would then have to use shotgun or rifle to try to keep the ground squirrels from turning the land into a giant sieve, with their multitude of holes and burrows, each surrounded by a circle of bare ground denuded of vegetation. But sheep could be raised and sold, and squirrels couldn’t.

While gophers and squirrels could also be controlled by rattlesnakes, most ranchers succumbed to the primordial enmity between man and snake and killed them on sight. Although these were not as aggressive as rattlers in Texas and the southwest, they did grow to considerable size, and the sudden shot of adrenaline produced by the sound of one’s warning rattle usually triggered a reaction which resulted in the rattler’s death. They did pose a deadly threat: the instructions on dealing with a snakebite were clear.

”Remain calm, and get to a medical facility within 30 minutes” might be doable if one were bitten in a county park or suburban backyard. Out here, it could take most of the 30 minutes just to get to the nearest building or vehicle, and the victim could then still be half an hour or more from town. The knowledge that the deadly venom was working its way through the system, and that the flesh in the immediate area of the bite would soon begin to be eaten away by the poison, was guaranteed to make it difficult to remain calm if one was over an hour from medical help. Besides the danger to humans, many country people had lost pets to rattlers, or had large animals sicken or die from bites received when they had unwittingly stepped on, or too near to, a sleeping rattlesnake. Gopher snakes also frequently grew to be over 4 feet in length and had a brownish-green color similar to the rattlers, though without the diamond pattern, but a quick glance at either end identified the snake as poisonous or not. The gopher snake had a thick neck and small head compared to the rattler’s pencil neck and broad, triangular viper’s head. At the other end, the gopher snake’s smooth, tapered tail was in sharp contrast to the stack of dried rattles which gave its poisonous relative its name, and so frequently spelled its doom.

Wild pigs fell into the same category as coyotes. For ranchers without cultivated crops, the pigs caused little harm, although there were instances of them ripping up water pipes or overturning troughs to get water. Some ranches had miles of underground pipe to supply water to distant areas, either pumped up from a river or fed by gravity using a higher pond or spring as source. Having those damaged or destroyed was a serious matter. The pigs were also known, in rare instances, to have killed a cow which was down on the ground, unable to get up through illness or weakened by a hard calving. While domestic pigs lived on ground-up cereal grains, these wild and feral beasts were omnivorous. When hunters wanted to be assured of getting a pig or two for a barbecue or for a hunting client, they frequently used the carcass of a dead animal as bait. But most ranchers tolerated the pigs, finding in them a supplemental source of meat and of income from hunting leases or guided hunts.

For Monty and others who raised hay, the pigs were a more serious threat to their livelihood. Alfalfa growers especially hated the pigs, which used their tough snouts and sharp tusks to rip holes a foot deep in the irrigated fields, tearing up the thick roots which kept the plant producing such excellent fodder cutting after cutting, but a root which pigs found just as appealing as coyotes found lamb. Even for growers who raised barley or oats, the pigs were a nuisance or worse. Once the heads on the stalks filled out, the pigs loved to break into a field and roam through it, randomly snatching mouthfuls of stalks in their huge jaws, sometimes rolling over in the grain to scratch their flea- and tick-infested hides. Once the hay had been baled and stacked, they could wreak havoc by tearing out bales on the bottom and feasting on them. One or two pigs wandering the country by themselves would only be a nuisance: a herd of 80 or so could cause a real economic loss if uncontrolled. And so Monty was going to work tonight, to control these animals so that his cattle could thrive and not go hungry this winter.

On his way out, Monty pulled a work jacket off its peg, slid his long arms into the comfort of a denim garment shaped to its owner’s physique through years of wear, and shrugged his broad shoulders into place. Nights could be cool out in an open field or on a hilltop under the clear sky, once the day’s heat rose and dissipated, unconfined by the layer of smog found in the urban areas. Besides, it was easier to grab bullets to reload if they were in the pocket of a loose jacket instead of in tight jeans. He reached into the back of the top shelf of a cupboard and slid some boxes of shells to the edge where he could read the specifications of the ammo. He pulled out a box of rifle shells in the .270 Winchester caliber which his rifle used, and selected the type he wanted for pigs, with a semi-jacketed nose. He put a half-dozen of those in the left pocket of his jacket. There were already at least a half dozen more in the gun’s clip, and he knew he wouldn’t need more than that, shooting by moonlight.

He also selected a box of the heaviest handgun shells in his stock, a 150-grain bullet. The rifle shells looked like miniature ICBM rockets with the long, thick base packed with 135-grain powder and the shoulders tapering down to the slimmer nose, the payload a duller copper than the shining, expendable base. In contrast, these revolver shells were uniformly thick, a blunt instrument consisting of a heavy piece of solid lead sitting on a charge of 150-grain powder. Monty reached into the other side of the shelf and slid out the handgun in its holster, hand-made from the shaft of an old boot. It was a .357 Magnum Ruger with a 7-inch barrel: ease of concealment or a quick draw were not qualities needed for this work, but rather hitting power and accuracy. He strapped on the revolver, slipped the strap of a pair of 9x field glasses around his neck, and headed out the door. The rifle was in the truck in its usual place, in the rear window gun rack where it could be removed quickly if he was driving somewhere on the ranch and spotted one of the type of predator which wasn’t welcome here.

When he climbed into the pickup cab and turned the key, the big 350 Chevy V-8 fired up immediately, the exhaust note a low throaty rumble in the quiet night air. Monty had started driving tractors on the ranch when he was 10, and trucks a couple of years later, and he had always loved internal combustion engines. This truck was older now, but he kept it in good shape outside, and in excellent shape inside. He’d stripped off the emission controls, bolted on a set of tubular headers with low-restriction mufflers, added a big 4-barrel carb, and tuned it to take advantage of the power unleashed by his modifications. This, too, required that he flout the law, for the state had decreed a few years earlier that all vehicles in all areas, not just in highly-polluted urban areas, must pass mandatory smog inspections every 2 years. Like most country people, Monty had felt this to be a ridiculous imposition. Out here, people lived a couple of miles apart, and their vehicles usually only traveled the road once a week or even less often. Sometimes a whole day went by without a single car, except for the rural mail delivery vehicle, passing on the paved county road.

So Monty illegally converted his truck engine to have it perform like engines in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. When registration time rolled around, he took it in to a garage in King City, owned by a high school chum. The friend’s father had a stock Chevrolet pickup of the same year as Monty’s, and it somehow always was in having a smog check on the day Monty had an appointment to have his check done. The paperwork Monty was given always indicated that his truck had passed the test with a clean bill of health. There were many people besides Monty who appreciated high-performance vehicles, and who felt that a sparsely-populated rural area did not need the same controls as did the Los Angeles basin.

He left out the clutch, and the truck rumbled along the packed trail leading to the wide spot in the river where the gravel base, shallow sloped banks, and shallow flow of water had provided a ford for many years. In the winter, unusually heavy rains could caused flooding and make the river impassable for several days at a time, but there was a dam upstream which regulated the flow the rest of the year, releasing enough water from the reservoir all summer to maintain the river at a level which provided water for ranchers’ cattle and also replenished the supply of water from shallow wells near the river. In some locations, year-round springs had been tapped to supply household water, but most ranches used wells for domestic water.

The full moon had just risen over the mountains to the east, looking improbably huge on the horizon, with a feathery row of distant Digger pines silhouetted across its face. The air was so clear out here that Monty could easily see the surface features of the moon with his naked eye. The moonlight was more than adequate for visibility at this slow speed and over such familiar terrain, so Monty was driving without lights. Although there were slim odds of having the game warden or sheriff pass by on the half mile of county road which crossed the ranch, it was always best to take as many precautions as possible to avoid detection. Ranchers wanted protection against nighttime poachers who not only vandalized property but frequently killed domestic animals as well as the wild pigs: so they themselves had to exercise caution when doing the hunting on their own property.

When he neared the stack, Monty reached over and pulled the floor lever which put the truck into 4-wheel-drive. As he swung off the hard-packed trail, he tapped the gas pedal and the exhaust note changed to an eager growl as the tires bit into the softer hillside, the powerful engine easily pulling the truck up the steep incline. Monty was familiar with every inch of his beloved ranch, and he had already visualized exactly where he wanted to sit tonight. He swung the truck into position under the overhanging branches of a lone oak tree, flicked the headlights on and off quickly to check that they were directed toward the haystack, and cut the engine. He was about 75 yards distant, close enough for very accurate shooting with a 9-power scope, but downwind and far enough away to avoid arousing suspicions by the wild animals. He was in place for his night’s work.

With the dome light switched off, Monty carefully opened the truck door, grateful that he kept it maintained so that there wasn’t any squeak from the hinges. He placed a sleeping bag on the still-warm hood of the truck, then pulled out the Remington 700 rifle and laid it on top. He pulled back the bolt to ensure that there was a shell in the chamber and checked that the clip had its full complement of 7 more bullets, doing everything slowly and cautiously to avoid any noise. He picked up the heavy gun, leaned against the truck’s fender, and found a comfortable position with his elbows resting firmly on the padded hood, then sighted through the scope. With the crosshairs centered on the broken bales at the side of the stack, he turned the knurled rings on the scope to adjust the distance and focus, until the bales, gleaming dully in the bright moonlight, were as clear as if they were ten feet in front of the truck. He clicked off the safety, laid the rifle back down, and climbed into the cab to wait. It could be hours until the pigs arrived.

To kill time, Monty picked up the field glasses and spent some time just surveying the landscape. He had always liked the other-worldly feel when he was out here alone under a full moon. With the glasses to enhance the available light, he could see almost as clearly as in the daytime. Down by the river, he spotted a couple of the little brush bunnies, half the size of the rangy jackrabbits seen more frequently in the daytime. These were apparently young rabbits, because while he watched they suddenly stopped nibbling grass and leapt in the air, chasing each other around in some game of animal tag. Monty grinned as he watched them frolic, then continued his sweep. High on a hillside, he spotted several mother deer with their fawns, cautiously grazing their way out into the open, leaving behind the safety of the brush they’d been sleeping in during the day. Some muffled exhalation in the air above him caught his attention, and he swung the glasses up to watch a huge Pacific Horned owl silently beating its wings as it passed by on its search for food. Those little rabbits better be paying attention, thought Monty, or one of them will be tonight’s dinner. Then he laid the glasses on the seat beside him, turned up his collar against the growing chill, and settled down for a long wait.

Tonight he was lucky. Only about a half hour had passed until the stillness was broken by the distant sound of barking, and he guessed that the neighbor’s dogs, a mile upstream, had heard or smelled pigs moving down out of the hills. If he was right, they’d be here in a short time, so he eased the truck door open and picked up the glasses again.

Sure enough, within fifteen minutes he heard snuffling sounds, and a medium-sized pig appeared around the far corner of the stack-yard fence. Close behind was a second boar, and Monty knew now that he was going to have to exercise all his skill, because it was very hard to get more than one pig when night shooting. He watched through the powerful glasses as the pigs headed directly to the spot where they’d broken in before, and Monty watched, curious to see how they did it. Without hesitation, the first pig flopped on his side in a shallow depression, then scrabbled his way under the bottom wire, the wires creaking in protest under the strain. The pig let out an angry squeal as a sharp barb bit into him, but his tough hide easily bent it. Cheap China imports, thought Monty ruefully. Imported wire was about half the price of the sturdier domestic brands, but it served to deter cattle and horses. These pigs were deterred by very little, once they found a food source.

Monty waited until the second pig had struggled its way under the wire, too. At least he knew that it was difficult for them to get in, which would make it difficult for them to get out, and would give him a better chance of nailing both. Once they were well engaged in rooting around in the hay, he slipped quietly out of the cab and took up position with his rifle. The scope was adjusted to its full 9x setting, so the view through it was the same as it had been with the glasses. The pigs were both broadside, facing each other, and Monty picked the one nearest their entry point so that the other would have farther to go to escape. From experience, Monty knew that the second the first shot was heard, the pigs would crash through that opening and race away at incredible speed. He took a deep breath, held the crosshairs of the scope on a spot about 6 inches back from the front shoulder of the pig and about 6 inched up from its belly, pressed the butt firmly into his shoulder to absorb the kick, and squeezed the trigger.