Hog Heaven (7 page)

“You sure are quiet, Red,” Billy Don said.

Red was going to kill Billy Don. Murder him in cold blood, first chance he got.

They were sitting in the 12-foot tower blind on the Kringelheimer Ranch, all three of them crammed into the tight space. Even worse, Armando was in the middle. Red kept bumping arms with him, and that was giving him the willies.

“That’s because we’re
hunting
, Billy Don,” Red whispered. “Everybody knows you’re supposed to be quiet when you’re hunting. Ask Elmer Fudd.”

“Oh, come on. We always talk a little bit when we hunt. The feeder’s a hundred yards away. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hear us if we keep it low.”

When Billy Don had announced that Armando was coming along, Red had been struck speechless. Why would Billy Don want that? And even more odd—what kind of homosexual wanted to go hunting? It just didn’t make sense. Homosexuals did things like, well, arrange flowers and listen to show tunes. While Red was trying to process the situation, Armando scooted into the truck, all prissy-like, and Billy Don piled in after him.

At that point, Red couldn’t very well have told Armando to get out. That would’ve been just plain rude, and Red understood that gay people were extremely sensitive. Less like men and more like women. It would’ve created an ugly scene, and Red wasn’t up to it.

The other irritating thing was that Red had no doubt that Billy Don knew exactly what he was doing. Trying to be clever. Like when you’re at a party and you intentionally introduce your friend to the ugliest girl in the room, saying they have a lot in common, then you excuse yourself to get a cocktail, leaving your friend stuck with the uggo. Not cool, but it was sometimes pretty funny.

Regardless, Red had made one thing clear on the drive to the ranch—if they managed to shoot the right pig, Armando didn’t get any of the bounty. Not one cent. He was simply along for the ride. Nobody had argued about that.

“I still don’t understand whose property this is,” Armando said. “Did you say it was your uncle?”

Red noticed that Armando had his legs crossed at the knees, and his hands were folded neatly on top of his thighs. The guy even
sat
like a gay man. Plus, the clothes he was wearing were all wrong for hunting. Slacks, loafers with silly little tassels, and yet another shirt that looked more like a woman’s blouse.

“Yeah, he’s my uncle,” Red said. “He don’t mind if we hunt here. Lives in Houston.”

Nobody said anything for several minutes. Dusk was coming. The pigs would be starting to move. Red had already heard several shots in the past few minutes.

“When do the animals come out?” Armando asked.

“Can’t never tell,” Billy Don said. “Might see something in the next minute. Might not see nothing at all.”

Armando nodded. “And then what happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“If an animal comes out, what happens next?”

“Well, that depends. We’re hunting for pigs, so if we see a pig, we’ll probably shoot it.”

“Just like that? You just shoot it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You don’t give it a running start or anything?”

Red couldn’t help but let out a little snort.

“What?” Armando said. “Wouldn’t it be more fair that way? If you just shoot it, that sounds more like an assassination than a fair hunt.”

Red shook his head.
What an idiot.

“We’re not really innerested in making it fair,” Billy Don said, “especially when you’re talking about a pig worth fifty grand. Besides, even on a regular hunt, it’s hard enough making a good shot at a hundred yards.”

“I would imagine that’s true,” Armando said, “considering how much beer you two are drinking. Is that even legal? Drinking when you’re hunting?”

Here we go,
Red thought.
The man is nagging like a woman.

“Uh...” Billy Don said.

“Who cares?” Red snapped. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Silence for ten seconds.

“It just seems dangerous,” Armando said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I already got a mother,” Red said. At this point, he didn’t care if Armando was sensitive or not.

The blind was quiet for several minutes.

“I apologize,” Armando said. “I didn’t mean to sound critical. I do that sometimes, but I’m working on it. One of my many faults.
Many
faults. Just ask my ex.”

Red had no idea how to respond to that, and apparently Billy Don didn’t either. Several more minutes passed.

“What kind of rifle is that?” Armando asked.

Red was looking straight ahead, so he wasn’t sure whether Armando was talking to him or Billy Don.

“Red?” Armando said.

Crap.

“Thirty-thirty.”

Red knew exactly what Armando would ask next. It was unavoidable.

“What does ‘thirty-thirty’ stand for?”

Red let out a sigh.

Before he could say something mean, Billy Don said, “It specifies the caliber and such. Sure wish we knew what kind of pig to look for—at least what color it is. Something.”

Red took a long drink of beer, then belched with conviction, just to irritate Armando. A few minutes later, the feeder went off, slinging corn in every direction. Red and Billy Don were used to the sudden sound, but Armando jumped and let out a little shriek. Red chuckled softly.

“Startled me,” Armando said.

Red said, “How about we sit quietly for a few minutes on the off chance we might actually see a pig?”

Nobody replied.

After a few minutes, Armando whispered, “Something just occurred to me. What if there isn’t a tattooed pig?”

“Huh?” Billy Don said.

“Well, the man who put the bounty on the pig... obviously, he hates pigs, and he wants as many of them killed as possible, hence the bounty. But he’d get the same result whether or not there was actually a tattooed pig scampering around.”

Just that quick, Red suddenly felt sick to his stomach, like someone had shown him undeniable proof that Toby Keith was a socialist. Armando was right. There didn’t need to be a bounty pig at all. And it was brilliant, really. It was exactly what Red would do himself. Who would ever know? Pigs would get slaughtered just the same, but Grady wouldn’t have to part with fifty thousand bucks.

“I still don’t get it,” Billy Don said.

Red said, “Grady could lie about there being a tattooed pig. But as long as we all believe it, we’re gonna hunt for it, and we’re gonna shoot as many pigs as we can. And when nobody ever finds the pig, Grady can say, ‘Well, it’s damn sure out there. I turned it loose myself. Better keep on hunting, boys.’”

“Oh,” Billy Don said. “Well, shit.”

“Exactly,” Red said.

“Wouldn’t that be against the law or something?” Billy Don asked.

“Should be.”

“I think it would constitute fraud,” Armando said, “but I’m not an attorney. And how would anyone ever prove it?”

“I feel pretty dumb,” Billy Don said.

“Business as usual,” Red said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Bottom line—we don’t know for sure there
ain’t
no pig.”

“That’s true,” Armando said. “I’m probably wrong. I mean, it would take a fairly corrupt person to go through with something that scummy.”

Red didn’t feel comforted by that at all.

The creek on the widow’s property ran north to south, deep in a draw, with a steep slope up both sides. Running parallel to the creek, roughly one hundred yards to the west, was a county road that saw very little traffic. Marlin pulled his truck to the grassy shoulder of the road and killed the engine.

There were no vehicles anywhere in sight, and he could see another half-mile past where he’d parked. If anyone was going to trespass onto the widow’s ranch, this was almost certainly where’d they’d enter—but the absence of vehicles didn’t necessarily mean anything. Poachers weren’t known for their brains, but they weren’t necessarily stupid, either. They had their methods. For instance, in a situation like this, one man might drop another man off on the side of the road, then return later to pick him up. They’d stay in touch via cell phone.

The sun hadn’t dipped below the horizon yet, but Marlin knew he’d likely be gone for twenty or thirty minutes, so he grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of the truck. He stopped at the fence for a minute and simply listened. Quiet. Not even a wind to rattle the leaves. Then he heard a shot—but it was well behind him, several miles away. He waited another minute and heard nothing more, so he eased over the barbed-wire fence, careful not to snag his khaki jeans.

Marlin had been on this ranch several times over the years. This was thickly wooded terrain, covered with cedars, oaks, mountain laurels, and even a few pecan trees down near the creek. He began to work his way slowly downhill, stopping every few yards to listen. Still nothing.

But Marlin was on high alert nonetheless.

Being a game warden meant dealing with subjects who were armed as a matter of routine. When you walked into a hunting camp, those people were carrying weapons, or they had weapons nearby at their disposal. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives, bows with razor-sharp arrows. And a game warden was almost always well outnumbered. A routine situation could turn deadly in the blink of an eye. Marlin knew that all too well, because his father, a warden before him, had been killed in the line of duty by a poacher when Marlin was still a boy.

Further, if the widow was right and there were trespassers on her ranch, they had already broken the law. Even the thought of getting caught for a minor infraction like trespassing could make a first-time offender panic and do something monumentally stupid. And the type of person who intentionally and knowingly trespassed was much more likely to have a history of illegal conduct—perhaps far more serious violations. So it was important to be wary.

On the other hand, you didn’t want to behave as if every hunter you encountered was about to grab a gun and get violent, because those types of incidents were extremely rare. The overwhelming majority of hunters were cooperative, law-abiding types. Marlin tried to strike a balance of friendliness and caution when approaching any individual in the field.

After moving slowly downhill over rugged ground and through dense brush for ten minutes, Marlin reached the creek. The light was fading fast down here in the low areas. He hadn’t heard or seen anyone. Maybe the widow was wrong again, or the trespassers had already taken off.

Marlin waded through the creek—it was no more than a foot deep, and the water was lukewarm at this time of year—and started up the slope on the other side, stopping every twenty yards to listen. When he reached the top, where it leveled out, the brush gave way to an empty pasture at least two hundred yards wide. Not a soul to be seen.

Marlin stood quietly for a solid two minutes. Heard a few shots in the far distance, but nothing anywhere near this ranch. Time to report to the widow. Reassure her that he hadn’t seen anyone, without letting on that he was fairly certain there had never been anyone to see.

He was twenty yards down the hill when he glanced across the draw and saw a person—a trespasser—on the opposing slope, at least one hundred and fifty yards away. He was tucked in the shadows, with the setting sun behind him, so that the light was shining right in Marlin’s eyes. Marlin tried to block the sunlight with one hand, but it didn’t help much. A few minutes later and the sun wouldn’t have been an issue.

Was the man wearing camo? Or just dark clothing? Male, most likely, because the person seemed tall. Very tall. The trespasser had plainly spotted Marlin and was simply standing in place, watching. Waiting. Then he gave a big, slow, exaggerated wave. But it wasn’t a friendly wave. There was an attitude behind it. The guy was taunting Marlin, saying,
You’re way over there, and I’m over here. So there’s nothing you can do.

“State game warden!” Marlin called out. “Stay where you are!”

Sound would carry across the draw, but the trespasser had no reason to comply. It would take Marlin at least ten minutes to traverse the rugged draw and reach the man. So he would almost certainly be long gone before Marlin reached that spot.

But the man didn’t leave. Instead, he turned sideways, left shoulder forward, and made a familiar move with both arms. Marlin realized that the trespasser had just removed a rifle that had been slung over his shoulder. Marlin was astonished by what he saw next. The trespasser—who could have easily disappeared into the brush—calmly and methodically leveled the rifle and aimed it across the draw, straight at Marlin.

Marlin instinctively dropped, hitting the ground just as he heard the loud crack of a rifle shot.

“Is that one?” Armando said softly.

“One what?” Billy Don asked.

“That thing over there in those trees. Is that a pig?”

Red couldn’t see any damn pig, and he didn’t want to be shown up, so he waited without saying anything.

“That real tall tree, to the right of your feeding machine...”

“That Spanish oak?” Billy Don said.

Now Red finally saw the pig. A small black one, solo. “About ten yards past the persimmon,” Red said. “Don’t you see it, Billy Don? I’ve been watching it for a few minutes.”

He could feel Armando looking at him, even in the dim light. “Oh, really?”

“Oh, really what?” Red said.

“You saw the pig before I pointed it out?”

“Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t want it to run off. Surprised it hasn’t spooked already from both of you yapping.”

“Well, why didn’t you shoot it when you first saw it?” Armando asked, still unconvinced.

“Wanted to see if some others would show up, so we could shoot a bunch. But I’d say we’ve waited long enough.”

He reached for his rifle.

Marlin was hidden by tall grasses—but he was far from safe. The man across the ravine could simply lower his aim about three or four feet and fire at will, right through the grass.

Before Marlin could decide what to do, there was a second shot. He thought he heard the bullet crashing through the brush. He rose to his feet and ran for the nearest cover—a dense cluster of cedar trees. He squatted behind them and tried to gather his composure. The trees shielded him completely from the shooter’s view, but they provided about as little physical protection as the tall grasses.

His cell phone. He pulled it from his pocket—and saw that he had no signal on this side of the ravine. Not a single bar. No way to call for back-up. He put it away and drew his .357 instead. It wouldn’t do much good—no accuracy at all at this range—but it was better than nothing. He fired a shot into the ground, hoping the shooter would think Marlin was returning fire. His palm was slick with sweat around the grip, and Marlin realized that he was breathing too rapidly.

Calm down. Deep, slow breaths. Don’t let—

A third shot.

The shooter would be busy jacking another round into the chamber, so Marlin immediately rose to his feet and scrambled sideways to a nearby oak tree. The trunk was just large enough to give him total cover. But he was pinned down.

Now what?

“Too damn dark inside this pig’s ear,” Red said. “Gimme some light.”

The pig had run about fifty yards and died in a cluster of cedar trees. Billy Don clicked on a large Maglite and aimed it.

“Well, crap,” Red said. “Now the other ear. Well, crap.” He let go of the pig’s ears and the head thudded to the dirt.

“No tattoo?” Billy Don said.

“No, no goddamn tattoo,” Red said. “If there’d been a tattoo, don’t you think I’d be hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancin’ around like an idiot? What a dumb question.”

Armando, who was at least ten yards away, with his arms crossed, obviously disturbed by the pig carcass, said, “Give the poor man a break. You don’t have to be so mean.”

Red looked at Armando and smiled. “Really?”

“Really what?”

“I’m the mean one? After the way y’all teased me yesterday?”

“Yesterday? How did we tease you?”

“You kiddin’ me? Acting like Billy Don and me were a couple? Saying how you might have to restrain yourself from copping a feel?”

“It wasn’t... we weren’t...”

“You were teasing me.”

“Okay. Maybe a little. But if it bothered you, why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t say it bothered me. But you knew it could’ve, didn’t you? That’s why you did it, isn’t it,
Armando
.”

“You know, at this point, I don’t even know what you’re insinuating.”

“Bullshit. It was obvious.”

“Red, pray tell,
what
was obvious?”

“You were being as fruity as you possibly could be, just to irritate the small-town redneck. You’re one of those guys who throws it in the face of people like me. Trying to make me uncomfortable.”

“That is patently absurd.”

“Exactly. Which is why you brought up your boyfriend and some ‘pig’ you caught him with. You knew a guy like me wouldn’t want to hear all that stuff.”

Armando opened his mouth, stuttered a little, but nothing more came out.

Red pointed at him. “See. Gotcha. I ain’t as dumb as I appear.”

“I wish y’all would quit bitching at each other,” Billy Don said.

“Armando started it,” Red said.

“I have an idea. Maybe we should ask Emmitt,” Billy Don said, referring to Grady Beech’s foreman.

“Ask him what?” Red said.

“About the pig. What color it is, how big—all that stuff.”

“Complete waste of time. He wouldn’t tell us shit. Why would he?”

Armando said, “Wait. Emmitt Greene? Is that who you’re talking about?”

“Yep,” Billy Don said. “Grady’s foreman.”

“Huh. Small world. I play Bunco in a group with his wife Sharon. We are total pals. Of course, we
call
it Bunco, but instead of actually playing, we mostly just drink wine and gossip. And eat things we shouldn’t. Our one night of the month to totally ignore our diets.”

Red started to make the same “rat’s hind end” comment he’d made to Billy Don the day before, but then he thought of something. Something that had exciting possibilities. He looked at Armando, there in the dim light, and grinned.

“What?” Armando said. “What’d I say? Am I being too gay again? Heaven help us all if a gay man actually says what’s on his mind.”

Red ignored the sarcasm in Armando’s voice and said, “I’ll bet your pal Sharon knows if there’s really a tattooed pig. And if there is one, she knows exactly what it looks like, too.”

A minute ticked by and no more shots came from across the draw. Marlin wondered—should he wait twenty or thirty minutes until it was good and dark? If he did, the chances of catching the shooter were almost zero. It would be too risky to look for the shooter, who could be lying in wait. Instead, Marlin would have to retreat, back up the slope behind him and through the pasture, and then at least half a mile to the widow’s house. That would be the smartest way to go.

But he couldn’t do it. He knew he should, but he couldn’t. He wanted to nail the bastard. Didn’t want to give him the chance to slip away.

Marlin leaned ever so slightly to his right and peeked around the tree trunk. Relief. The shooter was on the move, ascending the slope, with his back toward Marlin. Cool as can be. Not rushing. Like he was out for a late-afternoon hike to watch birds. Whoever the trespasser was, he had nerves of steel. Or he was just plain simple-minded.

It was tempting to lob a .357 round over at the man, but Marlin holstered his revolver instead, and began down the slope. Picking his way carefully, but moving as swiftly as he could. Within thirty seconds, he was low enough in the draw that he was hidden by tall trees, so he didn’t have to worry about any more shots. But it also prevented from keeping track of the shooter above him.

A few minutes later, Marlin reached the creek and waded across—quickly, but quietly. It was already considerably darker down here than it had been six or seven minutes earlier.

Now he began the uphill hike, weaving through the trees and brush. Pacing himself, so he wouldn’t lose his breath. Keeping his eyes peeled. Listening for the slightest sound. Halfway up, he stopped and waited. Nothing. Just as he was about to move again, he heard it. An engine. Far off at first, but growing louder. Sounded like a diesel—a truck, most likely, moving fast from the south. A vehicle on the county road, coming to pick up the trespasser.

The shooter was probably already on the shoulder of the road, waiting. Marlin hustled as fast as he dared, knowing that the shooter could be hiding in a hundred different places, his rifle to his shoulder, finger on the trigger.

Marlin was fifty yards from the road when he heard the diesel engine decelerate. Then a shout. Several voices. Marlin rested his right hand on his revolver and pushed himself harder, thighs burning as he climbed the hill.

Now he heard the slam of a door. Then the screech of tires as the vehicle gunned it.

Marlin was practically sprinting now, heart pounding, hoping to catch even a glimpse. The fence was thirty yards away. Twenty yards.

The roar of the vehicle was quickly receding.

He closed the gap and finally reached the fence. He could see up the road to the north in the dim light. Taillights, maybe three hundred yards away. He couldn’t see any more than that. Couldn’t tell the make or the model or even the color of the vehicle.

He sprinted for his truck to give chase, and as he approached from the front, he saw that the vehicle was sagging conspicuously.

Passenger-side tire was flat.

Son of a bitch.

The first deputy, Ernie Turpin, came roaring down the county road less than eight minutes later, siren screaming and cherries painting the surrounding countryside vivid red and blue.

By then it was fully dark. Marlin stepped well off the pavement, almost to the fence, until Turpin’s headlights picked up the truck on the side of the road and the deputy began to hit the brakes. When he came to a stop, still in the lane of traffic, Marlin walked out to greet him.

“You okay?” Turpin asked.

“Yeah. You see any vehicles at all on your way down here?”

“Not a one. They must’ve made it to the highway before I turned off.”

Marlin’s hands were still trembling, and he could feel the moisture in each armpit. He was even a little light-headed.

“Well, damn,” he said.