Incident in San Francisco

When they reached the south end of the building, Monty led Laura out the wide doorway and down the sloping ramp which was used to lead show cattle or horses up into the arena. They skirted around the two cattle barns rather than going through them as they had earlier, on the way from the exhibitor parking area to the main building, and headed down to the maze of pipe corrals where some of the range bulls from yesterday’s sale still remained. These holding pens were laid out in a huge rectangular grid, with wide pathways running in both directions to allow easy movement of the livestock. Beyond that set of corrals were more, these holding the rodeo stock – the saddle broncos and the big horned bulls for the bull riding, all standing placidly, some eating hay, all looking quite calm in marked contrast to their actions when they exploded out of the bucking chutes during the rodeo performance.

Monty realized that this was probably a new experience for a city girl, so he cautioned Laura as she walked beside him in one of the lanes between the pens, “Unless you want to really authenticate those new cowboy boots, you need to scan the ground ahead of you”. Workers kept the grounds as clean as they could, but with the constant movement of cattle, there was often manure on the path. People who lived in the country automatically checked the ground ahead as they walked, wanting to avoid manure, mudholes, or rattlesnakes.

When they arrived at one pen with three massive black bulls, Monty thought he recognized ones he had bought, and when he checked a paper attached to the pen gate he saw that he was right – the numbers on the bulls’ yellow plastic ear tags matched the ones on the list beside his name. But there were only three, and there should have been five.

“I certainly don’t know much about animals, but those sure are beautiful creatures. They’re so big when you see them up close – aren’t they dangerous, like the ones we saw in the bull riding last night?” asked Laura.

“The bucking stock, bulls and horses, are chosen because they have that disposition, and some of the rodeo stock contractors actually raise their own herds, using breeding stock from animals that have proved successful in the rodeo ring” Monty explained. “But normally, bulls of the beef breeds have pretty placid natures. For some reason, dairy bulls are much more dangerous and there have been cases where they’ve killed farmers. So these fellows should be quiet and easy to handle. Still, I don’t think I’d want to try riding one”, he laughed.

Then he turned serious. “Somebody screwed up”, he said with a slight scowl. “They should have put all 5 of my bulls in the same pen so they’re easier to load. I’m going to have to check all the pens with Brangus bulls to find the other two”.

Laura volunteered “I can check in one direction while you look in another, if you tell me what to look for. Are your other ones black, too?”

“Yes”, Monty replied, “but there are also some black Angus here, too. The Brangus have a hump on the top of their shoulders that the Angus don’t have – that came from cross-breeding with the Brahma cattle. There should be a list on the gate, and it will have my name on it if it’s one of mine. Why don’t you take the pens toward the buildings and I’ll go the other way. And thanks for the help, Laura – that will speed things up”.

Laura started striding briskly along the lane between the sets of pipe corrals, looking from left to right for black bulls with a slight hump above their shoulders – and scanning the ground ahead of her too, remembering Monty’s warning. Lights placed high on tall poles at intervals provided light, bright right under the fixtures but dim in the areas between poles. However, it was sufficient for Laura to distinguish not only colors but also to differentiate, with a touch of pride in her new-found knowledge, between the Angus with smooth backs and the Brangus. She stopped at any pens with Brangus and scanned the names, but didn’t see Monty’s on the first few she checked. But after she had completed a check of one row and moved on to the next pathway between pens, she did find a pen with one solitary Brangus, and the name on the slip stapled to the wooden gatepost was Monty’s.

“Monty”, she called, “I found one over here!”

“There should be two more, so if you just wait there, I’ll try to find the last one – I haven’t seen one yet”.

A minute later, Laura heard Monty call back, “Okay, I’ve got the last one over here. I should be able to remember which pen it’s in, so I’ll set the gates to direct yours over with the original three. I’ll be right with you to help”.

While she was waiting, Laura looked around and saw that metal gates, matching the pipe corrals, were folded back against the corral walls. She could see which needed to be closed in her area in order to keep her bull from going the wrong way down one of the paths, so she unhooked the latches, closed the three gates nearest her, and latched them securely. When Monty arrived, she was delighted to see his astonishment at seeing the gates already set up.

“Laura, you’re amazing! Not only do you look the part in those clothes, but you’ve done what any cowgirl would have done, without being told. Are you sure you’re really a big-city girl?” Monty exclaimed, obviously pleased with her initiative.

Laura laughed, pleased herself. “Yes, I’m definitely a city girl. But I’m also a systems analyst, and I’m used to looking at every problem and seeing all the ways of solving it, and I could see what needed to be done here to keep this bull from wandering all over the place”.

“Well, with that kind of approach, I don’t think it would take long for you to become a great cowhand – but there’s sure a big difference in the pay scales”, Monty said. He quickly ducked his head to check the latch on the pen holding the bull, but he really did it to hide the sudden pain he was sure was visible on his face, pain caused by the thought that this would probably be the last time he’d ever see this wonderful woman who seemingly would have fitted so well into his life on the ranch.

“Since you’re doing so well with the gates, can you go back to the pen with the three bulls to handle that gate? I checked, and that gate opens the right way to let this bull join the others. If you just stand by the gate, ready to unlatch it, I’ll get my stock whip and start this bull down that way. When he gets fairly close, just unlatch the pen gate and swing it back, staying behind it, and latch it to block his path, and he should go right in. Even if one or more of the others do come out, they’re pretty quiet bulls and I can chase them all back in, and then you can close the gate”, Monty instructed.

Laura felt a little more trepidation at the idea of facing the bull in the open than she had at just adjusting gates, but she didn’t let Monty see that and said confidently, “I can handle that. I stand by the pen gate, when this bull gets near, I swing it open and latch it, then swing it shut again when he’s in. Right?”

“Right!” replied Monty. “Thanks for doing this, Laura. You’re really a big help”.

While Monty trotted to his trailer to get his stock whip, Laura went back to the pen with the original three bulls and checked that gate latch to be sure she could open it quickly when the time came. Despite Monty’s reassurance about the bulls’ disposition, she had to admit to herself that she was a little nervous about the thought of that huge black bull who would be coming straight towards her shortly. She checked the pipe corral walls and judged how quickly she could scramble up to safety on the top rail if something went wrong. She couldn’t help thinking of the way the bucking bulls in the rodeo last night had charged around the arena scattering clowns and riders, and how she had seen a couple of bull riders tossed in the air by the bull’s horns.

But all went smoothly. Monty opened the gate where the single bull waited, and by cracking the tasseled end of the 6-foot stock whip in the air behind the bull, herded him out of that pen. The bull trotted slowly down the passage way, Laura swung her gate open at the last moment and he turned into the pen with the other three, docile as a lamb. Laura slammed the gate closed and latched it, and they walked together to the fifth bull Monty had found, repeating the process.

The end of one of the runways had been modified with a shallow trench at the point where trailer wheels would hit. When Monty hooked up his trailer and backed it up to mate up with the opening between the pens, the wheels dropped in to that depression so that the floor of the trailer was only a few inches off the ground. Monty unlatched the double doors on the trailer and swung them to either side so that they completely blocked the sides of the passage way. When he and his new assistant went back to the pen holding the five bulls, it was only a moments work to open the gate – Laura stayed behind the gate, as she still didn’t trust the bulls enough to go among them the way Monty did, but once they started down the passageway toward the beckoning trailer, she followed a few steps behind Monty as he snapped the whip and urged the bulls forward with “Ho, bulls, get along there”. Since they had all been hauled to the Grand National in similar trailers, and may have had other experiences previously, they showed no inclination to turn back but shuffled forward into the dark maw of the trailer, and Monty slammed the doors behind the last one.

“If you want to hop into the truck, I’ll park it where we can get away easily when the night’s performance is over”, Monty suggested, but again turned his face away quickly as he thought regretfully that in a few hours they would be parting company. Laura, on her part, also turned away as she went around to the passenger’s side, because she, too, was afraid her disappointment at their imminent separation would show on her face.

Events were underway which could ensure that this wouldn’t be their last night together.

CHAPTER 19

His dinner of greasy fries and hamburger was churning in Ranny’s stomach as he lurched homeward from the bar. The unaccustomed addition of cheap bourbon shots to his normal drink of beer alone was not helping either his digestion or his balance. With every shambling step, his mood darkened.

Ranny’s life to date had not been one of great happiness – on the contrary, it had been a most dismal existence. It began with his father’s departure when he was barely a toddler, leaving him with no male role model. Instead, his mother had controlled his life not only at home but by her presence at his schools, doing her job as caretaker. Teenage years at high school had been unpleasant, because he was a slow learner and a socially inept loaner. His break from that had seemed to come when he joined the Army, barely squeaking through the simple admission tests. But here, too, life did not improve for Ranny.

The boot camp drill sergeant was Ranny’s first introduction to a strong male role model. But this unlikely father figure drove the new recruit’s self-esteem even further into the ground, just as he physically drove these hapless youths into the ground through long forced marches, hours of slogging through knee-deep mud bogs, and all the other tortures which were supposed to turn boys into men.

“Pick up that pack, Worlham, you sorry piece of shit. Didn’t your Momma ever let you carry a sack of groceries? That pack’s only 80 pounds. Get it on your worthless back and get moving, or you’ll be doing these 20 miles with 100 pounds!” was typical of the sergeant’s communications yelled in Ranny’s face.

His relations with his military mates were not much different from those with his classmates in high school. Weary from the physical exertions forced on them through the day, the recruits spent most evenings lying on their bunks, and lying about their supposed conquests back in civilian life and about the times they’d get laid on their next leave. When Ranny did drag along with some of them on leave in town, the main activity seemed to be getting drunk and getting in fights with the town boys. After boot camp, he was shuffled around to various stateside posts, never getting to see any foreign countries or any action. When his two years was up, he gladly left the military life for ever, and returning home, found the job at the Cow Palace.

The job which had ended today with his ignominious firing.

But his army stint had opened up for Ranny an unsuspected talent and love, unfortunately in an area of little use in civilian life. Ranny loved guns, and they loved him. Despite his having grown up in a rough part of San Francisco, and with lots of little would-be gangsters in his schools, Ranny had never handled guns or had anything to do with them, through lack of opportunity. In the military, guns were thrust on him. His sheltered life under his mother’s wing had given him little occasion to deal with mechanical things, and he was surprised to find that he had a natural knack for understanding and mastering the mechanics of firearms. He always led the group in speed and accuracy in stripping and reassembling handguns or M-16’s, doing it blindfolded to the amazement of his peers and the grudging praise of his instructors.

Nor was his new ability limited to his understanding of the mechanics of guns. On the firing range, whether with handguns or rifles, Ranny again led the pack. So good was his performance in that aspect that, despite his poor record otherwise, the brass tried hard to get him to re-enlist, seeing a future for him if another armed conflict broke out somewhere in the world. As such an excellent marksman, perhaps as a sniper, Ranny would have been a real asset to the army. But his hatred for authority, ever-present in the military with him at the bottom of the ladder, overrode his love for guns and Ranny refused to be persuaded to stay in.

However, after a couple of years working at the Cow Palace, Ranny had saved some money, and he started remembering that one enjoyable part of his service experience. He dropped a few hints about wanting to pick up a gun, “for home protection” he said, to one of his less-savory former school classmates, and a month later got a furtive phone call arranging a meeting in the neighborhood park. When the two conspirators had secured a table well away from the groups of kids and mothers at play in the park, the friend hunched over nearer Ranny and asked, “You were in the Army. Would an M-16 interest you?”

“An M-16? A military gun? Where in hell would I get a gun like that?” Ranny asked incredulously.

“Just so happens that some local homeboys knocked off an armory over in the Valley a while back, and they’re having problems unloading those guns. Everybody wants a Glock or other handgun. They’re asking a lot for an M-16, but they’re getting desperate and I think I can get you one pretty reasonably” the would-be dealer confided.

So Ranny named the top price he was willing to pay for one of his old loves, and a week later a second phone call arranged an even more secretive meeting where the exchange was made, cash for a carbine and ammunition. The delivery was made in a long cardboard box which, if one believed the brightly-colored pictures and test on the outside, contained a cheap guitar. Ranny suspected that it had belonged to one of the homeboys’ kids, but it aroused no suspicions when he carried it home and he used that as a storage place in his small apartment, concealing it under his bed.

Having no desire to show up at a commercial firing range with this stolen military weapon, Ranny waited months before he could take four days off work. He stowed the guitar box in his car’s trunk, left a little before dawn, and headed southeast, driving carefully at the speed limit all day until he reached the Mojave Desert. He’d brought a sleeping bag and slept in the car, awakening stiffly at dawn. He drove further out into the desert, taking one of the many unpaved trails, watching the landscape for a suitable spot, and watching too for any other adventurers or any Park Ranger vehicles. When he crested the brow of a small hill, he knew he’d found the perfect spot.

From this higher vantage point, he could see the roads and trails for a long piece in all directions, and there wasn’t another vehicle or person anywhere in sight. He quickly drove down into the little valley on the other side of the hill and turned the car around facing the way he’d come, being very careful to not get stuck in the loose sand and gravel. Then he hauled out the M-16 and the clip of 30 rounds he’d pre-loaded, cradled that familiar stock against his shoulder like a long-lost lover, and quickly fired off a 3-round burst at a tall, dark-green cactus plant about 100 yards away. The cactus was uncannily man-like, the body about six feet tall with two arms stretching out and up. The first burst had been aimed at the middle of the body, and tore out a small chunk of flesh, leaving a gaping, ragged-edged hole Ranny could see through.

Ranny felt an almost sexual thrill at the experience of firing this weapon again after so many years away from it, and a tremendous sense of pride at his ability to still shoot so accurately. He steadied his breath and concentrated on his next shots, then fired off another burst which tore off the top twelve inches of the plant’s left arm. Without pausing, he swung his gun to the right and fired off a burst similarly near the top of the right arm. This one almost severed that part, but several strands of the tough cactus held so that the broken segment flopped down and hung there on that arm. Taking another calming breath, Ranny this time fired first at the right side again, cutting that arm completely from the body of the cactus, then swung to the other side and cut off the left arm. Exhilarated by his marksmanship and the tremendous feeling of power he got from causing such destruction at such a distance, Ranny emptied the remaining few shells from the rifle’s clip into the body of the mangled cactus, stored the empty gun in its innocent-appearing guitar box, and drove nervously back the way he’d come. The whole thing had taken less than three minutes, and while he could happily have stayed there shooting all day, he didn’t want anyone coming around to investigate the sounds of all that shooting.

That had been Ranny’s only experience with actually shooting his new gun. Sometimes at night in the dark of his room he’d take it out and strip it down, then put it together, just to see if he could still do it. Sometimes he’d fantasize about having someone try to break in, or to try to steal his car, when he could snatch up the gun and blow the criminal away. But mostly he just had a good feeling about once more having with him the one thing he’d loved in his sorry life. He promised himself that he’d take another vacation to the desert some day, but he hadn’t done it yet.

He had, though, had his thirst for guns refreshed by the acquisition of the M-16, and after he had saved up more money, contacted his source and purchased an unregistered snub-nosed .38, realizing that a small handgun was actually much more practical than a rifle almost 40” long. He hadn’t yet shot that gun, but knew that his training and experience with handguns in the military would make him just as accurate with it as he had been with the M-16.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, his head throbbing from the alcohol, Ranny’s disgust for how his life had been to this point suddenly overwhelmed him. His miserable childhood, teenage years, military service, and menial working life at the Cow Palace had culminated today in the fracas at the manure pile. To Ranny, the arrogant attitude of the Cow Palace president at the site and the disdain of the maintenance supervisor when he fired Ranny was the final straw in his life. He shook his head to clear it of the fog, and decided suddenly that he was going to change his life forever.

Reaching under the bed, he pulled out the guitar case. The M-16 gleamed as it always did, given its owner’s frequent cleaning. He removed the clip and loaded it with its full capacity of 30 rounds, and also loaded a spare clip which had been thrown in with the deal. Laying those pieces on the bed, he rummaged in the detritus in the bottom of his clothes closet and found what he was looking for, a length of light rope he’d found at work and confiscated, thinking he might be able to use it for something, some day. Today was the day, and he’d found a use for it.

He held the rifle loosely at his right side, with it hanging vertically against his body, and estimated the length of rope needed. He tied one end securely around the narrowest part of the stock, just behind the trigger guard, and tied the rest of the rope with a slip knot at the same place, leaving a loop about 18 inches long. He slipped the loop over his shoulder so that the gun hung against his side, the butt almost in his armpit, supported by the rope. He suddenly grabbed the rifle in his left hand, with his right seizing the stock so that his finger was on the trigger guard, and swung it up against his shoulder in firing position. The loop was a little tight, so he adjusted the rope until the fit was perfect, then tied it securely and cut off the unneeded end of the rope.

He went into the tiny, messy kitchen to make a cup of coffee, thinking that might erase a little of the alcohol fog from his mind – what he planned needed a clearer mind than he had at the moment. When he leaned to the right side to get the jar of instant coffee from a shelf under the counter, the rope loop over that shoulder started to slip so that he had to grab the gun to keep it from hitting the floor. He added a heaping spoonful of coffee to a large mug of water, put it in the microwave for a minute and a half, and went back to the bedroom to fix his makeshift gun sling.

Tying one end of the remaining rope to the top of the loop over his right shoulder, he passed the rope behind his head and looped it over his left shoulder, under his armpit, and tied that loop. Now, when he flexed his arms up, down, around, and leaned left and right, the gun stayed securely in place.

Ranny went back to the kitchen to get his coffee, and brought it back to the bedroom to sip while he made the rest of his preparations. From the back of his closet, he pulled out a long black coat. Several years before, the hero in a Western movie set in Australia had popularized this garment, called a duster. Some of the younger cowboys had bought the style, and wore them to events at the Cow Palace even if the San Francisco climate rarely warranted that. One unfortunate fellow had succumbed to the heat of the day and had left his draped over a hay bale down behind the cow barn. When Ranny’s shift ended that day, calf roping was underway up in the arena in the main building, so there was no one around to see as Ranny quickly rolled the duster into a tight bundle and secreted it in his car. He’d never worn it, fearing it would be recognized if he was at the Cow Palace, and knowing it would look out of place in his neighborhood. Besides, it was about 2 sizes larger than he needed. But today he finally had a use for it. When he pulled it on, he was pleased to see that its length, down to mid-calf, completely concealed the M-16 even if he didn’t button it. He practiced slipping his left hand inside, grasping the front stock of the gun, then quickly swinging it up to his shoulder in firing position. It worked perfectly, without catching on anything.

The duster was plentifully supplied with pockets, and he dropped the spare clip into the larger left pocket, then dropped his loaded .38 revolver into a smaller pocket on the right side. Draining the last of the coffee, he reached into a clothes drawer and fished out an old employee ID badge he’d hidden there and clipped it to the edge of a pocket on the coat. He’d lied about having lost his badge once, just so he could have two of them and keep one in his car, one at home. Showing up to work without one meant a big hassle, and Ranny hated dealing with authority.