Incident in San Francisco

In the absolute silence of the night, the noise of the shot was like a tremendous explosion. In the semi-darkness, the tongue of yellow flame which shot out of the muzzle obscured Monty’s view through the scope, but he was concentrating on the lightning-fast actions he needed to perform. He slapped the handle of the rifle bolt with his right hand, bringing it up and back to eject the spent round, pulling the next one out of the clip, and then rammed it back forward to chamber the next shell, and slapped it down to lock it.

It had taken only seconds to reload, but when Monty’s eye found the scope and he sighted on the same area again, the scene had changed drastically. The pig he shot had been knocked over by the powerful bullet, and the other had immediately raced for the entry spot and charged through, barely bothering to try to lower itself. Monty distinctly heard the snap as the bottom wire broke, no match for a 300-pound chunk of solid meat, muscle, and bone. The pig which had been hit struggled to follow through the new opening, but Monty ignored it, knowing that he had made a perfect shot and that the pig wouldn’t go far before it dropped, although he’d seen pigs race 50 yards before dropping dead from a similar shot. Instead, he swung the rifle to follow the other pig which was streaking along the stack fence. Fortunately it had chosen the long side, giving Monty the few extra seconds he needed to center the scope on his target, coordinate the rifle’s speed with the pig’s, and squeeze off his shot. Through the scope, he saw the impact when the bullet hit, and heard the grunt as the pig was knocked off stride, but Monty was already reloading. He got the scope back on the pig just as it rounded the corner at the end of the stack, and he fired one last shot at the wide hindquarters. He was fairly sure that the first shot would have sufficed, but these pigs were hard to kill and he didn’t want to spend a lot of time trying to find a wounded pig in some underbrush in the middle of the night. He quickly threw the sleeping bag and rifle into the cab, jumped in, fired up the engine, and raced off toward the place where the pig had disappeared. It was on its side about 20 yards beyond the stack, but when Monty jumped out of the truck it whirled toward him, sharp tusks gleaming in the moonlight. Monty had the revolver in his hand, and he sighted down the barrel, thumbed back the hammer, and let the .357 Magnum do its job in dispatching the pig with a shot between the eyes. He walked back to where the first pig lay, but it had expired by the time he got there.

Monty’s freezer, and that of his tenants, were already full of meat. A shame, because these were fairly young pigs, probably out exploring apart from the herd, and would have made good eating. But Monty didn’t need the meat now, and he was leaving for the city tomorrow morning so he didn’t have time to dress the pigs. He listened for a minute to see if the noise of the shots, which carried for miles out here, would bring out any lawmen who might have been in the vicinity. He heard nothing, so he backed the truck up to the nearest pig, looped a rope around its hind legs and the trailer hitch on the pickup, then drove over to the other and collected it. Still running without lights, he drove slowly down to the river bank and dropped the carcasses off in some willow thickets hidden from the road. He knew that coyotes, buzzards, and probably other pigs would make good use of the meat, and in a couple of weeks only whitened bones and some scraps of tough hide would remain.

His night’s work over, Monty headed back to the ranch house. He needed another hot shower, and then he needed to pack some clothes for his morning trip to San Francisco.

CHAPTER 9

Laura had been her usual efficient self in her hasty packing for the trip to San Francisco. The clothes in her closets were colorized within the 3 groups: work clothes, play clothes, and dress-up. She quickly selected matching sets of skirts and blouses for her three days of work. Although the course instructions had stressed that the atmosphere would be casual, Laura always felt more professional if she dressed for courses much as she did for the office, but she did decide against any suits because of the extra space they took up.

One bad experience with checked luggage which went astray and left her attending an important out-of-town meeting in the clothes she’d flown in had been enough. Laura had researched thoroughly the luggage market before making her final choice. She had first checked the offerings of the traditional manufacturers, but as she had expected, her search found success in the specialty catalogs instead. Brookstone, Land’s End, The Sharper Image were where one found more innovative solutions to common problems, even if the expense was often greater. Here she had found a cleverly-designed garment bag which kept clothes relatively wrinkle-free, had small separate compartments for toiletries and underwear, yet could be fan-folded and strapped so that it met the requirements for carry-on and could be stowed in the overhead compartment on any plane.

While she had no problem in choosing her day wear, she did exhibit some unaccustomed indecisiveness when it came selecting clothes for her off-hours. The course agenda mentioned a cocktail hour from 5:30 to 6:30 on Wednesday night, hosted by the software manufacturer who was giving the course. Laura was going to the Grand National performance at 7:30 that night, but decided that she should show up early for the party and then leave early. From prior experience, she knew that such hosted happy hours usually led to many people forgetting their good intentions about studying the course material at night. Most were from out of town, on expense accounts, and especially in a city like San Francisco, would be inclined to follow the early happy hour with a tour of some of the more interesting places in the city. But the party was being held in the hotel where the courses were being given, and where most of the participants, including Laura, were staying. She knew that she could easily slip out around 6, change for the Grand National, and get to experience her first rodeo instead of accompanying a group of increasingly more-intoxicated classmates. She did, however, choose a simple black dress to wear to the party, one which showed off her figure but did not reveal so much that it would bring unwanted attention from men who became oafish after a few drinks.

The choice of clothing suitable for the Cow Palace event was more difficult. What did one wear to a rodeo? Of course she’d seen lots of Western movies, but certainly her extensive wardrobe did not include anything remotely like a Stetson hat, a fringed cowboy shirt, or cowboy boots. She had a pair of very nice leather hiking boots, not too bulky, and decided on those both for the plane and the rodeo. The blue jeans, she did have, and quickly added a pair to her bag. These were nicely faded, but not worn-looking. In fact, they hadn’t been worn since they were washed last, and she knew that they’d look great on her. She also knew that she didn’t want to sit in an airplane seat for five hours in jeans that tight, so she set aside a more loose-fitting pair of designer jeans for the trip. She also had a slightly-faded blue denim jacket which would go with the jeans, and which she might need for a San Francisco night. It could also be chilly on the plane, and wearing it would free up space in her luggage, so she set it aside to wear later.

That left just the choice of a top for the rodeo, and another for the plane. For the rodeo, she finally settled on a shirt with vertical blue-and-white stripes, which she thought looked somewhat Western. It helped that it was fitted, tapered at the waist and with darts at the bustline to accentuate her figure. I may not look exactly like a cowgirl, she thought, but in this shirt, I know I’ll look good. For the plane, she took less time in choosing another shirt, this one more loose-fitting, in a yellow which she knew went well with her black hair.

A quick glance at her watch showed that she just had time for a shower, so she called to have a taxi there in 20 minutes. She stripped off her clothes, hung the outer garments in their assigned places, then dropped the undergarments in the clothes hamper in her closet and closed the hamper lid. Then she took a very quick shower, thankful that she’d washed her hair that morning. The hot water cascading over her body took away some of the day’s tiredness and helped refresh her for the coming trip, and the brisk scrubbing with the towel as she dried off brought her fully awake and ready for the experience ahead. She had packed some of her sexier underwear, just because she felt good when she was wearing it under her more severe work clothes, but for the plane ride had opted for panties with a little more material, and she slipped into those. The rest of the clothes she had set out were added, her hair was brushed into place and given a light mist of hair spray, her lipstick was applied quickly and expertly, and she was waiting in the apartment building lobby when the cab pulled up.

Laura had no inkling that this would turn out to be much more than a routine business trip.

CHAPTER 10

Laura had an uneventful flight to San Francisco. The night was clear, so she made full use of the opportunity to enjoy the bird’s-eye view of the Montreal area as the plane gained altitude after takeoff. She had been too busy packing to have dinner before leaving , and her appetite made the Air Canada meal quite enjoyable, although their offerings were definitely a cut above those of most air carriers. As she finished her meal and the small bottle of a passable Quebec white wine, the lights of Toronto passed beneath her window, the miles of lights in sharp contrast to the huge body of total darkness beside which was Lake Ontario.

This late-night midweek flight was only about a third full, so Laura was able to curl up across three seats. With the help of a couple of pillows and a blanket provided by the flight attendant, and the sudden tiredness brought on by the hectic work preparing for this trip, she was soon fast asleep.

She woke up at the sound of the changed pitch of the big jet’s engines. The pilot announced that they were beginning their descent in to the San Francisco area, and Laura took the window seat again to drink in the experience of her first live view of this area she’d only heard about and seen in movies. Unfamiliar with the mountainous topography of the California inland, she was puzzled by the patches of almost total darkness interspersed with the clusters of lights which she easily recognized as towns or suburban developments. As the plane lost altitude quickly, she saw clearly the vast expanse of San Francisco Bay, with strings of lights dissecting it where the many bridges provided a connection between the older peninsula and the newer cities to the north and east.

As the plane roared low over the Bay on its final approach to the runway jutting out into the water, Laura saw that they were well below the horizon to the west. The glow of the city lights provided enough light for her to see the range of hills which separated the bay from the ocean, and she realized that the darkened areas she had seen to the east were probably also mountainous and so unsuitable for extensive development. She updated her mental file about San Francisco with that new knowledge, and added a note to remember to check the skyline tomorrow in daylight to see just what the mountains looked like.

As the taxi took her up the Bayshore Freeway toward the city, she noticed an exit marked “Cow Palace”, but couldn’t see any buildings which looked as though they could host a rodeo so assumed that it must be well off the freeway. When the car made the final curve around the San Bruno hills, the San Francisco skyline was revealed. Like the view of the mountains, this would have to wait for daylight: the concern for the environment and use of resources dictated that skyscrapers be darkened this late at night. The exception was the large hotels, and Laura was suitably impressed by the Art Deco splendor of the Marriott as the taxi approached her destination. But her appreciation of its interior would have to wait for morning, too, because tonight her main concern was to quickly check in and crawl into a comfortable bed.

Directions to the Cow Palace for the night’s rodeo would have to wait until the daytime, too.

CHAPTER 11

Monty also had an uneventful trip to San Francisco. He had wakened early, as always, dressed and packed for the trip, and hitched up the trailer. As he was connecting the trailer’s plug for the electric brakes to the truck, he noticed the rifle used in last night’s pig hunt still in the gun rack in the rear window of the truck. He didn’t want to take that gun, either in sight or hidden, into San Francisco. He didn’t want to take the time to carry it back up to the house, so he quickly removed it and stowed it in the barn where his saddle and other horse equipment were stored.

It was a simple, spur-of-the-moment decision, but one which would have far-reaching consequences.

The big V8 engine rumbled along, easily keeping pace with the other traffic rushing north on 101. The Chevy’s side view mirrors were adjusted so that each showed a glimpse of the sides of the 18-foot stock trailer behind, a constant reminder to the driver that he needed to allow extra room when changing lanes. With the fifth-wheel hitch located just above the pickup’s rear axle, the trailer followed straight and true with none of the sway common to a bumper hitch, and the excessive power of the modified engine meant that the driver could easily forget that he had a trailer at all. Even the return trip with the 4 or 5 one-ton bulls he planned to buy would provide little challenge to this rig.

In his wildest dreams, Monty could not have imagined just how different that return trip from the Cow Palace would be.

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Ranny’s Wednesday at work was no better than any other day during the Grand National. In the morning, he worked the horse barns again, sweeping up, loading and hauling 16 wheelbarrow loads of horse manure. He avoided the area around the Windemere Farms stalls, but noticed that Cynthia was having a heated discussion with the cleanup crew foreman. He was reassigned by the foreman in the afternoon, with no reason given, and loaded and hauled 17 wheelbarrow loads of cow manure in the lower barns area.

Sure, he knew that he had to work somewhere doing something, but each shovel of shit he lifted deepened his hatred of the Cow Palace.

CHAPTER 12

Monty double-checked the seat location on his ticket for the Wednesday evening rodeo performance, then walked up the ramp leading to Section DD. The usher checked his ticket and waved him on up the steps to Row H, and Monty slid into his assigned seat, second on the left from the aisle. The seats on either side were empty, and he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax from the stress of the afternoon’s range bull auction.

His morning had been spent strolling through the bull pen area, appraising the quality of the black Brangus bulls brought here by breeders throughout the West. He had checked out the other breeds, too, but he was really only interested in these crosses between the Angus and Brahma cattle. There were lots of other prospective buyers eyeing the same bulls, too, and Monty’s level of apprehension rose as sale time drew near. Buying at auction might not be all that stressful for a multimillionaire seeking to acquire a desired work of art: for someone who had to keep a tight control on his business expenses, bidding ever-higher figures to obtain a required asset could easily induce severe headaches.

Fortunately for Monty, he had been quite successful in getting the type of bull he wanted, at the price he had expected to pay. He had made a few early bids on a couple of top-quality bulls but dropped out when the prices got beyond what he considered reasonable. He recognized one of the buyers as a rancher from neighboring San Benito County, and knew that the man had sold a successful Internet startup company in Silicon Valley a few years before and retired to a large cattle ranch. Monty had no intention of bidding against him, and hoped that there were not too many others with deep pockets who wanted Brangus bulls too. The bulls had been judged by a panel, and the highest-scoring bulls were snapped up first by the richest ranchers. But there were still excellent bulls which hadn’t scored as high, since breeders only brought their best to the San Francisco Grand National, and Monty had outbid others to pick up 5 bulls which he knew would improve his herd. As he mentally reviewed his purchases and totaled up the cost, he realized that he had ended up paying a couple of hundred less than he had expected to, and this brought a smile to his lips.

His reverie was broken as someone prepared to sit down in the aisle seat beside him. He quickly pulled his arm in from the armrest which he had using as his own, and glanced over to see who was going to be his neighbor for the show. The wide brim of his white Stetson shielded his eyes, but since he was seated, it also cut out his view of the top half of the person. The view from the waist down, though, certainly caught his interest. His neighbor was definitely female, and the fit of her tight jeans as she lowered herself into the seat showed that she had exceptionally fine legs and hips. Monty had to tear his eyes away and pretend to be focusing on the program he had opened on his lap, but his peripheral vision was sufficiently developed for him to notice a waist and bust to match the rest of her figure. He could also see that she was about his age, and he had an impression of a beautiful face under jet black hair. He let his eyes drift across the right-hand page of his program, and noted that she wore no ring on her left hand ring finger. Certainly couldn’t have asked for a nicer seatmate, he thought, but she’s probably some rodeo cowboy’s girl sitting up here to watch her man – although she wasn’t dressed quite like a cowgirl.

A middle-aged man and woman in Western clothes were climbing the steps, checking row numbers, and stopped at H.

“Excuse us, please, miss, we have the next two seats in there”, smiled the man, tipping his hat.

The girl stepped out into the aisle to let them enter.

“Howdy”, said Monty, nodding, although he didn’t know the couple, standing up to let them past.

They all sat down. The new arrivals started chatting with each other, while Monty and his seatmate sat self-consciously studying their programs, each wondering silently if they should introduce themselves. Monty uncrossed his feet, and in the cramped space, the pointed toe of his cowboy boot scraped across the back of the seat in front of him. It was evident that Monty wasn’t with the new couple, and the girl was almost obliged to take the conversational opening offered.

“Would you like to take the aisle seat, where you have more legroom?” she asked.

“Why, sure, if you don’t mind”, Monty answered, trying to stay unflustered as he turned and looked into big hazel eyes.

She stepped out into the aisle again, and Monty looked down, concentrated on keeping his feet from tangling as he, too, moved out into the aisle and up a step. He allowed himself another quick look from behind as she moved back in to his former seat, then he sat down in the aisle seat.

“Thanks, that’s a lot better. I really appreciate it. My name’s Monty”, he said, stretching his right hand across to shake hands.

“You’re welcome, and I’m Laura”, she replied, taking his hand as they shook hands rather quickly, two complete strangers sharing a sudden physical intimacy dictated by convention.

“Pleased to meet you”, said Monty, automatically tipping the brim of his hat.

Involuntarily, Laura laughed, a chuckle which blended surprise and pleasure, followed by a tinge of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry - I’ve never before in my life had a man tip his hat to me, and now it’s just happened twice in two minutes”, she said.

“Don’t men do that where you come from?”

“I come from Montreal, and men there don’t even wear hats. I’ve never seen this many hats in my life”, said Laura, as her gaze took in the sea of hats in the crowd, most men and many women wearing the traditional cowboy hat in white, black, or brown felt, with a few in the lighter summer straw.

“So you’re an Easterner?” questioned Monty.

“Well, I never thought of myself that way until now, but it sure looks like I’m in the West now. I never expected to find something like this in San Francisco”.

“I guess a lot of people, even Californians, don’t realize that there’s still a lot of cattle ranching in this state. There are over 30,000 brands registered in California”, Monty explained.

“I saw a bumper sticker on a pickup truck outside that said, “I’m not a cowboy – I just found the hat” – was that yours, or are you a real cowboy?” asked Laura, teasingly.

Monty laughed. “Well, I suppose I’m more of a cattleman than a cowboy, but yes, I guess I am – that wasn’t my truck”.

Always curious to learn more about something unfamiliar and interesting, Laura asked, “So what’s the difference between a cattleman and a cowboy?”

“A cowboy works with cattle, but they’re normally someone else’s cattle. A cattleman owns cattle, but usually he still does a lot of cowboy work himself”.

“How many cows do you have?” Laura questioned innocently.

That was like asking how much money you had in the bank, but a city person wouldn’t know that – and besides, this city person was very, very attractive. Monty winced inwardly, but maintained a friendly tone and expression when he replied, “There’s about 800 head right now. The numbers go way up when the cows calve in the fall, and then drop in the summer when I sell off the weaned calves and any older cows or bulls.” Monty’s tone was even and matter-of-fact, neither boastful nor modest.

“You must have a big place to have that many cows,” exclaimed Laura.

Asking a rancher how much land he owned was just as much a gaffe as asking how many head of cattle he had, but Monty forgave his seatmate’s ignorance of Western etiquette. He could have just agreed that, yes, he did have a big place, but decided that he might as well educate her on the subject of California cattle ranching since she seemed very interested in learning. “It’s about 17,000 acres, but it’s mostly hills and we only average 13 inches of rain a year, so you need about 20 acres per head. It’s not like the East and Midwest where they get lots of rain and can have a lot of cattle in a smaller place, and grow feed for them.”

Laura was impressed, since she knew a couple in the Eastern Townships in Quebec who raised beef cattle, but they only had 200 acres.

“It must be a lot different living there than where I live, in a high-rise apartment in the middle of a big city”, Laura mused.

“Well, I was in a small city further south, San Luis Obispo, during my college years, and I come up to San Francisco every year for the Grand National to buy some bulls, but the rest of my life has been spent on the ranch, and I love it”, replied Monty. “But what brings you to San Francisco?”

“I’m a computer software engineer, and the company sent me here on a 3-day training course. I’d never been to San Francisco, and certainly never to a rodeo, so here I am”.

Monty and Laura stopped talking as the lights dimmed, and the opening ceremony began with cowgirls on horseback racing into the arena at breakneck speed, each holding aloft one of the 7 flags which have flown over California. Then the evening’s entertainment began, and Laura found it an easy excuse to ask her handsome seatmate about aspects of the rodeo events. Monty, on his part, was more than happy to have an opportunity to talk to his lovely seatmate, so the night promised to be more enjoyable than either had anticipated.