Incident in San Francisco
Chapter 1
The early morning sun felt very good on Monty’s face as his horse took the last few steps
to the top of the hill. The late October morning held a strong hint of the coming winter, and he
had noticed the small puffs of breath visible as his horse worked its way up the shadowed side
of the mountain. When they had left the corral in the valley down by the ranch house it had
been too early for the sun, although out here in the Peachtree Valley the sun rose almost every
morning unobstructed by the fog and clouds which were so prevalent thirty miles to the west at
the Pacific.
Because he wanted to soak up a little of the sun’s warmth, and also because he liked to let
his horse catch his wind after starting his day hauling a fifty-pound Western saddle and a onehundred-ninety-pound cowboy up a mountainside, Monty gave the almost imperceptible tug
on the reins which let the horse know that he could stop. To give them both more benefit of
the sun’s rays, Monty moved the reins against the horse’s neck at the same time as he nudged
the horse’s side with his heel. In response, the big buckskin gelding shifted so that he had his
side toward the sun’s rays.
To a casual observer, it might have seemed that the horse had decided on his own to stop
once he had reached the top of the hill, and then to turn sideways on the trail. On television or
in movies, horses were controlled by great violent motions. Riders clapped both legs wildly
against the saddle skirts, leaned far forward in the saddle, slapped the reins, and yelled when
they wanted to start off. Turns were made by yanking hard on the inside rein so that the
horse’s head was pulled around in that direction: stops always involved hauling back suddenly
on both reins so that the horse skidded to a stop, its haunches hunkered down low to the
ground. Monty always shook his head, partly in amusement and partly in disgust, when he saw
riding represented that way. It bore as much resemblance to the way horses are ridden by real
cowboys as the movies’ depiction of car chase crashes, in which vehicles could seemingly leap
into the air and perform several barrel rolls, caused only by striking an empty garbage can.
Monty and Buck, his favorite horse, had been together now for over eight years. Buck had
been well trained originally, and those lessons had been imprinted on his mind. Monty recalled
reading once that a horse was about as smart as a three-year-old child, and that habits learned
by a horse tended to stick, whether good or bad. Buck had no bad habits. Monty’s consistent
treatment of him, and his consideration evidenced by this morning’s rest stop, made it very
easy for Buck to respond as he had been taught. By now, neither horse nor rider was
consciously aware of the cues given to communicate the rider’s desires. Monty rode with slack
reins held in his left hand, which usually rested on the saddle horn. When he needed to direct
Buck to the right or the left, a movement of his hand a mere inch to that side caused the reins
to touch the horse’s neck on the opposite side, and horse and rider took a new path. A squeeze
of both legs was all that was required to start up, and a slight tug back on both reins was
enough to effect a stop. Over the years, the familiarity of the routines of ranch work had made
Buck well aware of what he was supposed to be doing, so man and beast seemed to be of one
mind as they moved about the ranch.
As always when he sat on a hilltop, Monty let his gaze slowly sweep the entire panorama.
It was partly force of habit as a rancher, checking the landscape to see if anything out of the
ordinary was going on. Were there any trespassers’ vehicles visible, any signs of smoke from a
fire, any coyotes stalking calves, any wild boar in the cultivated fields? The specific dangers
changed with the seasons - fire in the summer, flood in the winter, cows having trouble calving
in the fall, and poachers in all seasons. He didn’t need field glasses: this was his world, and his
life had been spent here with those great distances always in view. Although his eyesight tested
just in the normal range, years of experience gave him abilities which would seem superhuman
to a city dweller. A small brownish dot on a hill a mile away could be readily identified as a large
jackrabbit, a young deer, or a coyote. To someone unaccustomed to this world, if the tiny,
distant dot could be located at all there would be no way to guess whether it was a stone, a
bush, or an animal: certainly, no novice would hazard a guess as to what kind of animal it was.
Beyond the pragmatic purpose of his observation of the scene was another, wholly
impractical reason. Monty just plain loved this ranch, and he never tired of taking in its views.
He knew that a lot of city folk considered the country to be just something they had to drive
through to get to another city, and thought that it all looked the same. A buddy who had
worked as a guide on a dude ranch had told him a story which illustrated that perfectly,
although neither of them could quite believe that it could have happened.
A middle-aged matron from Chicago, a friend of the family who owned the dude ranch,
had come out for a week. She preferred the afternoon bridge games in the air-conditioned
ranch house, the cocktail hour around the pool, the wonderful dinners, and after-dinner drinks
on the patio as the evening cooled down from the hundred-degree temperatures of the
summer days. But she wanted to experience the West, and so had gamely gone along on a trail
ride for an hour or two every morning. The guide knew she was a friend of his employer and
went out of his way to make her rides enjoyable, taking her down along the river under the
leafy cottonwoods once, high along a ridge where you could see for forty miles in any direction
another time, along the tractor trail which skirted the hayfields another day.
Finally the last day of her visit came, and the guide, wanting to make it special for her,
asked “Since this is your last day here, why don’t you pick the place we’ll ride today?”
“What do you mean?”, she asked, clearly puzzled by the question.
“Well, since we went to a different part of the ranch each day, I thought for your last ride
you might want to go back to whichever place you liked best”, he replied.
“Oh,” came her reply, “I thought we just went the same way every day.”
Monty knew that he could live to be a hundred and never tire of seeing everything that
there was to be seen on the ranch. Although Easterners sometimes asked how Californians
could stand living with only one season, Monty knew that they were thinking of the coastal
California depicted in Baywatch. Whether this area was the southern end of Northern
California or part of the Central Coast was subject of debate, but Monty knew that it definitely
had seasons. The temperature in the summer usually reached 110 Fahrenheit daily for several
consecutive weeks, and when a particularly cold storm system swept down from Alaska in the
winter it was not unusual to find a sheet of ice on the horses’ water trough on the valley floor.
At least once a winter, snow glistened on the tops of the ranch’s highest peaks, and three times
in his 29 years Monty had seen the entire ranch smothered with a white blanket. True, it was all
gone a day or so later, since the mid-winter daytime temperatures often hit the high 70’s or low
80’s on a calm, sunny day - but there certainly was a wide range of weather conditions
throughout the year.
The changing seasons also brought varied scenery from the same viewing point. In the
summer at midday the relentless sun seemed to park directly overhead for hours, and its
merciless rays shone directly down into the deepest crevices of the draws and canyons. In the
winter, when the sun rose so late over the mountains to the east, traced a shallow arc low
across the sky, and slid behind the western hills in mid afternoon, those same canyons stayed in
dark, cold shadow all day. If there had been any rain, little streams would be trickling or
cascading down from the mountains through those ravines, and the vegetation would be lush
and green. After the rains, the hills would be covered with grass so green that it almost hurt to
look at it: but three or four weeks after the last rains in March, the grass would start to turn
that intense golden yellow which helped make California “the Golden State”: and finally, for a
month before the first rains in November, the dead grass on the grazed-over hills would turn
the landscape to its present faded dun color.
This morning, Monty marveled again at the impacts on the ranch years caused by 150
years of cattle grazing. The early morning sun, as its rays first washed over the steeply-sloping
hillsides, clearly delineated the horizontal terraces created by the hooves of the thousands of
cattle which had crisscrossed those hills. These were a foot wide, a couple of feet apart, making
the hills look as though they had been wrapped with giant bolts of wide-wale corduroy fabric.
While these were visible only when the slanting rays of the sun highlighted them, the actual
cowpaths could always be seen. These were narrow, darker lines which snaked down from the
hills to the valley floor, ending at the river. Monty had read letters in the newspaper,
denouncing ranchers for the way they ruined the land by allowing cattle to graze it: but he
knew that those horizontal terraces on the vertical hillsides slowed the runoff during heavy
rains, and prevented erosion. As to the cowpaths, he had never seen any signs of erosion along
them: since the cows used those paths for ascent as well as for descent, they had chosen routes
with a shallow slope. Monty had never seen animals damage the landscape the way man did
when he cut bulldozer paths across hillsides, or carved out pads for homesites.
As he turned his gaze from the familiar scene and back to the detail of the fence line
which he was supposed to be checking, Monty’s thoughts grew somber. It was eight years ago,
when he was a 20-year-old just finishing his senior year at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo, that the
accident had happened which had made him the owner of this 16,000 acres which he loved so
much. His parents had been returning from a trip to King City, and the bed of the pickup held
two 55-gallon drums, one filled with diesel fuel, the other with gasoline. Like many ranchers, his
father chose to haul his fuel this way rather than have it delivered to the remote ranch, since
fuel suppliers required high minimum purchases in order to make the trip out. As a cattle
operation with farming only a sideline to produce hay for supplemental feed in the fall, the Bar
A required fuel only a couple of times a year. Besides, with hand-operated pumps in the drums,
the refueling could be done in the fields. Driving the pickup truck out to the swather or baler
was often simpler than moving those big pieces of equipment in to stationary tanks at the barn,
just for fuel.
The one consolation Monty had was the knowledge that his parents had certainly not
suffered, and probably had not had more than a second to realize that their deaths were
imminent. As nearly as it could be reconstructed, the horrendous accident, like most accidents,
had simply been the result of several actions and events which, by themselves, were quite
ordinary. The mangled carcass of a freshly-killed doe, flung up onto the embankment where the
roadway was cut narrowly through the little hilltop, told a too-common story of a deer which
had suddenly leapt out of the manzanita brush into the path of a vehicle. Paint on the carcass
indicated that it had been struck by, or had struck, both the dark green Ford ranch pickup and
the white GMC truck tractor which was hauling the loaded double set of trailers in the opposite
direction: but no clues could tell what the exact sequence of events had been. It had all
happened too quickly for there to even have been skid marks.
There were no clues to tell which driver had crossed the solid yellow line, or why.
Presumably one or the other, or both, had either swerved to avoid the deer or had struck it and
lost control due to the impact. Similarly, forensic experts were unable to determine if the truck
driver‘s ability had been chemically impaired, due to the total incineration of the bodies in the
fuel-fed fire. His fellow drivers, who also made that boring run a half dozen times a day hauling
Clear Creek asbestos to the plant in San Ardo, knew that that driver chose to break the
boredom by nursing a fifth of Scotch. It was a tedious job driving that route, and the area was
so isolated that the big trucks normally had the narrow, winding two-lane road to themselves,
and so some of the younger drivers did use drugs or alcohol to get through the day. But of
course that information was not given to the CHP investigating the accident, although it was
common talk in bars from down in Paso Robles up to Salinas for several months after the
accident.
And so Monty had inherited the ranch from his father, as his father had inherited it
before. Although Monty’s grandfather had not listened to his doctor, who told him that his
cigarette habit would kill him, he had listened to his accountant who told him he had to plan for
the future of the ranch. He had worked with a very good local attorney who specialized in
inheritance tax laws, particularly as they related to ranch land. Unlike many other children who
inherited from large landowners, Monty was not put in the position of having to sell the ranch
to pay taxes. The attorney had warned Monty that taxes could at best be postponed, and that
he needed to think about producing some offspring if he wished to have any hope of not having
a large part of the ranch sold for taxes some day. Monty had smiled, and said that he’d take
that under advisement and that he was working on it. Thinking of that now, he winced, realizing
that he would be 30 on his next birthday and that there was currently absolutely nothing going
on in his life which would lead to his ever having children to inherit the ranch.
Bothered by that thought more than he wanted to admit, Monte swung Buck around onto
the trail with rougher motions than he normally used, and the horse, sensing that his master
was upset about something, responded by moving more briskly than usual as he started down
the trail. As he had on the way up the mountain, Monte let his gaze drift along the straight line
of the 4-strand barbed wire fence, looking for the tell-tale signs of trouble: a sagging wire, a
fallen tree near the fence, a gap between two fence posts where there should be taut wire. One
of the worst fences he had ever seen had been built around a little 40-acre parcel some city
people had bought nearby. They had wanted to fence out the neighbor’s cattle, and had gone
to all the trouble and expense of buying and installing fence posts and a 4-wire barbed wire
fence, like the ranch fences they saw around them. Unfortunately, they had not noticed nor
learned that the wire had to be stretched guitar-string tight to have any value: they had pulled
it by hand, and the neighbors’ cows soon found no problem in putting their heads, then their
necks, and finally their entire bodies between the sagging wires. For cows, the grass really is
always greener on the other side, and if a cattleman was interested in keeping cows on the
right side of his fence, he had to constantly check to ensure that there were no breaks or
sagging spots which would allow some aggressive cow to reach under, over, or through to the
extent that the minor break would soon be enlarged so that an entire herd of cows could go
where they didn’t belong.
So far, the fence had been as good as when he had last checked it, and Monty nudged
Buck to step up the pace. There were still miles to check, some of it in pretty rough country,
and Monty wanted to get finished by early afternoon. He needed to know that there were no
fence problems before he left early tomorrow morning, and he still had other preparations to
make for his trip. Today was the last Tuesday in October. That meant that Wednesday and
Thursday would be Cattleman’s Days at the Grand National Livestock Show and Rodeo in San
Francisco. Thursday would be the annual range bull sale, and Monty needed 4 or 5 new bulls, so
he wanted to get there on Wednesday to check out the selection. It was time for his annual trip
up to the Cow Palace.
Chapter 2
San Francisco has the crappiest climate in the whole world, thought Ranny. Sure, there
were times when the sun shone and the fog stayed away all day, and if you didn’t have a
hangover and you didn’t have to go to a stinking job, it could even seem like a nice place to live.
But Ranny had lived here all his life, except for that year in the Army, and it couldn’t fool him.
Those sunny, warm days were just to suck you in so that you’d think that maybe the global
warming crap they were always whining about on the TV was really going to kick in and make
this a place fit for a human being - and then it was back to the same old rotten, stinking, cold,
nasty-ass fog. It wasn’t fog that just sat there and didn’t do much but make it hard to see
clearly. No, San Franciso fog came blowing in off the cold northern Pacific, or in under that
Golden Gate bridge the tourists were always oohing and ahhing over, and it was bone-chilling
cold.
Ranny was definitely not in the college-bound group at Potrero Hill High, and English
Literature was not a course he’d gotten a great deal out of, but he had never forgotten that one
memorable passage about fog. Not that he had memorized it, but he sure as hell remembered
what that fool poet had said.
The teacher was an idealistic young man who’d moved to San Francisco from Billings,
Montana. Apparently he felt that the climate, both weather-wise and socially, might be easier
to take for one of his somewhat delicate makeup. As Ranny recalled, the young man had
decided after Christmas break that teaching a bunch of uncouth, ungrateful young fools was
not for him, and he had simply not returned to school. One night later that year Ranny had seen
him again, but the circumstances were such that they hadn’t spoken. A couple of neighborhood
punks had decided to cruise Castro Street and invited Ranny along, only because they believed
in strength in numbers, not because Ranny was a popular fellow. Telling his mother that he had
to go to the branch library to get some information about a History project, Ranny eagerly
joined the expedition. Harassing gays was a popular sport with high-school boys eager to prove
that they themselves were all male. Whether they were trying to prove it to their peers or to
themselves was not something that they reflected on. These were boys not much given to
reflection.
Before searching for easy prey on the outskirts they had slowly driven through the main
part of the district. The blocks just south of Market were like a street party every night. Music
poured out of the bars, with their windows open onto the street to let the air out, the air
superheated by the energy pouring out of the laughing, never-still young men inside. Big black
Harleys, shining with chrome and leather, stood in clumps of three or four, their noses angled in
to the curb like strange bionic horses from a time-warped Western movie. Their riders were not
the long-haired, big-bellied men one saw astride those bikes elsewhere, nor were they the
slightly-built young men strolling the sidewalks who attracted the scorn and hatred of the highschool bullies. No, these men caused distinct, but unvoiced, unease in the young toughs. They
were hard-bodied, well-muscled men, and they stared out at the world from under their
leather motorcycle caps with cold, appraising eyes. The boys’ eyes were attracted to the bikes,
but when they took in the figures lounging on the seats, feet propped up on the handlebars,
they found that they could not face down the menace they felt radiating out from that pool of
leather, metal, and flesh. And flesh there was - many riders wore only a leather vest on top,
open to display nipple rings, possibly joined by a chain. Others were shirtless, clad only in black
leather cap, pants, and boots. Ranny had even seen one who wore not leather pants, but only
chaps with the seat cut out so that his bare butt cheeks were pressed against the seat of his big
Harley.
On the sidewalks, between the bars and the curbside loungers, couples, trios, and a few
single men strolled along through the pools of amber street light, reveling in the freedom they
felt. Many had migrated from small towns or less tolerant cities and could hardly believe that
they could not only be open about their homosexuality but could flaunt it. But even more, they
exalted in the knowledge that in this area of many blocks, they were for the first time not a
minority but were instead the overwhelming majority. The minority were the straight people
who ventured in, whether they were conservatives slumming, liberals being tolerant, bigots
hating, or just people who enjoyed good restaurants.
Ranny had spotted his one-time teacher by accident. It was the cowboy hat which caught
his eye - apart from the motorcycle riders’ leather caps, bare heads were the rule. In fact, most
men in this area affected the close-cropped hair and small mustaches that were referred to as
the “Castro clone” look. But Ranny’s one-time teacher had found that, in order to be noticed
amongst so many young men who looked the same, he had a much more active social life if he
reverted to the dress of his youth. Although he had not actually been a cowboy, he had learned
enough about that life in Billings to use that knowledge now to his advantage. A great many of
the émigrés in San Francisco were from Eastern cities and towns, and were strongly attracted to
the sight of a handsome young man who looked as though he had stepped out of a Marlboro ad
- and better yet, he was in this part of town, which meant that he could be available. Leaning
back against a wall in his faded, tight jeans, one heel of a pointy-toed alligator cowboy boot
hooked up behind on a ledge, he had plenty of reason to smile as he chatted with the two
young men who had stopped to talk. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the eventual
outcome of that pleasant meeting would be his death from AIDS within ten years.
It gave Ranny a jolt to see his former teacher in such a setting - but not because he, like
his classmates, hadn’t considered the possibility that that their new English teacher might
prefer boys to girls. It was just the dislocation that comes when seeing a familiar face in an
unfamiliar setting - like meeting one’s dentist in the grocery store. Besides, Mr. Ryan had
attempted, unsuccessfully, to instill some feelings of respect for authority by always wearing a
jacket and tie. This laughing young cowboy in the heart of the Castro looked quite a different
man than the nervous, well-dressed teacher who had tried, and failed, to communicate his love
of literature to Ranny and his peers. But Ranny had recognized him instantly.
Again this morning, the fiercely-driven fog outside his window reminded Ranny of Mr.
Ryan. He flashed first on that brief glimpse of the Castro Street cowboy, and then on the other
image of the earnest young man, just out of college, standing at the front of the room in his
dark brown tweed jacket. As always, his tan slacks were perfectly creased, his light green shirt
and tie matched the slacks and jacket, and his brown loafers had just the right degree of polish.
In sharp contrast to most of their male teachers who affected the same clothing style as their
students - T-shirts or sweatshirts, depending on the season, blue jeans, and the latest Nike or
Adidas running shoes - Mr. Ryan could have stepped out of an ad in GQ. Or at least, out of an ad
in Playboy, as that magazine was much more familiar to his students. His manner of dress,
however, was not enough to command respect from those tough teens. He wore clothes with
so much class and style, but without any of the affected mannerisms of many of those of his
sexual orientation, that the boys did not openly make fun of him. In fact, most of them secretly
admired the way he dressed: but in that school, at that age, it was unthinkable for anyone to
voice a favorable opinion. And so they had merely behaved as uncouth louts, and Mr. Ryan had
decided that he’d really rather be an editor at a textbook publishing firm in downtown San
Francisco after the Christmas break.
The lines which he had read to the class one afternoon had stuck in Ranny’s mind though,
and it was doubtful that he would ever get them out, at least not as long as he lived in San
Francisco. Unbidden, they popped into his head again today, and as always, Ranny dismissed
them derisively. “”The fog creeps in on little cat feet”, my ass!”, he sneered. Obviously that Carl
Sandburg was some kind of wimp who lived in some kind of pussy city that never had real fog. If
he’d ever stepped out of a San Franciso doorway onto a street where the wind from the ocean
was driving those gray streamers with a cold force which could cut through anything less than a
down-filled jacket, he would have had to come up with some more realistic metaphor: “Races
in like a cheetah” would be a more accurate description of its speed, but to really get the feel of
the cold, Ranny thought maybe it should be compared to an Arctic wolf.
However the fog was described, Ranny just plain didn’t like it. It would probably clear
sometime before lunch, but he knew that the first few hours were going to be very unpleasant
outside. A sharp twinge from the old injury in his left leg reminded him that he’d soon have that
to make his life even more miserable than it was now, what with October almost over and
winter well on its way. Muttering and cursing to himself, he started pulling on his work clothes,
getting ready to head out for another day working for those sons-of-bitches at the Cow Palace.
Chapter 3
Impatiently, Laura pushed the little gray mouse to the back of its pad with her right hand,
and shoved hard against the edge of her desk with her left so that her chair rolled back almost
to the wall. Not that the wall was all that far away, because it was a small office. She stood up
quickly and shook her head sharply to clear it of all thoughts of work problems, then turned
toward the window. The vertical blinds, which had been closed against the early morning sun,
had finished their job for the day. Laura loved the sun and the views of the outside world, but
direct sunlight quickly overwhelmed the building’s air conditioning and made her office
unbearable. With one precise, economical gesture, she tugged the control cord just the right
amount to turn the blinds exactly 90 degrees to the window glass, then reached high on the
other cord and pulled it down with one efficient motion to draw the flapping slats into a neat,
tight stack at the side.
As always, the magic worked. Opening the blinds was like the whisking away of a
magician’s concealing cloth. With them closed, her small office could have been in Halifax or
Winnipeg, in the basement or on the top floor, even somewhere in the interior of the building.
With them open, the wonderful sight which greeted Laura’s eyes was the view of Montreal as
seen from the 10th floor. Her building was far enough removed from the other downtown highrises to provide unobstructed views in most directions. When she visited her boss in her office
across the building she could enjoy the green, unspoiled beauty of Mount Royal rising up to the
north, behind the stately old buildings of McGill University. But she loved her own southerly
exposure.
Vertigo was unknown to Laura, and she sometimes achieved the necessary break from her
work by pressing her face against the glass and watching the activity below on busy St.
Catherines Street. Although there were pedestrians at all hours, the advent of flex time had
spread out workers’ starting, ending, and lunch hours so that the solid masses of a few decades
before were now replaced by a more continuous stream of hurrying people. On a sunny
October day like this, most people in this northern city opted to go about their business out-ofdoors, knowing well that in a few weeks they would begin making use of the underground
routes and travel inside for most of the long winter.
When Montreal was chosen as the site for the 1967 World’s Fair, the visionary mayor Jean
Drapeau had made completion of the subway system a top priority. Modeled on the Paris
Metro, it was mechanically wonderful, trains whooshing into stations on silent rubber wheels,
swiftly opening wide doors to disgorge passengers and take on new ones, then quietly
accelerating away into the dark tunnel at the end of the brightly-lit platform. The almostcompulsive behavior of Canadians regarding the neatness of public property meant that the
cars and stations were always clean and free of graffiti. What set it apart from most subway
systems even more, though, was the design of these stations. All underground, each had been
designed by a different architect and decorated, in easy-to-clean glazed tile, in a totally
different style. Making the system even more useful in this climate was the fact that the
massive excavation needed for the subway had been expanded so that stations were connected
by underground walkways to the basement floors of neighboring buildings. Many of these,
which were office buildings above the street levels, were similarly connected to their neighbor,
perhaps a large hotel or department store, by an underground walkway. And these were not
dark, threatening tunnels, but rather brightly-lit thoroughfares lined with shops, bars, and
restaurants. In inclement weather, a person could walk great distances without ever emerging
above ground.
Today, though, the pedestrians were hurrying to their lunch-hour destinations out in the
bright, cool sunlight. For a minute Laura watched them - the older businessmen in their welltailored dark suits, younger men dressed down in sports coats and slacks in a variety of colors,
and the women, dressed in that style so unique to this city. It was not the cold, sexless high
fashion of Fifth Avenue, nor was it a cheap, flashy sexiness. Rather, it combined well-cut
clothing and eye-catching accessories worn with an attitude of joie de vivre which made
people-watching a delight for men and women alike. Delighted also were retailers, for
maintaining this style required constant wardrobe refreshing. Perhaps rooted in some
generations-back genes from Paris, but enhanced by an awareness and acceptance of
everything new and interesting in the clothing world, the style adopted by the women of
Montreal contributed greatly to the city’s charm.
Some of the Paris genes must have carried through to influence the driving style, too,
although the movement of the vehicles Laura saw below was much more controlled than the
craziness of downtown Paris or Rome. But the speeds were similar. With the excellent public
transportation systems, people who were nervous about driving in downtown traffic simply
didn’t drive. Those who did drive, drove with the intent to get to their destination as quickly as
possible. Absent were the blaring horns and yelling drivers of New York, and any screeching of
tires was more often due to too-sudden acceleration than to braking. Driving here was a
terrifying experience for people who had moved or traveled from some quieter place, but a
delight to those who drove well and appreciated being able to get where they needed to be
with a minimum of time wasted and frustration endured.
The colorful flow on the streets and sidewalks below was not the view Laura needed this
time. She had to rest her eyes and clear her mind by looking up, over the busy scene far below
her window. From this lofty viewpoint she could see the business area of the city as it sloped
down thorough centuries-old Old Montreal to the river. The mighty St. Lawrence was halfway
along its thousand-mile journey from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic at this point, and Laura
was much too far away to draw on the soothing effect of moving water. The sight of this great
body of water, unchanging through the years, did help her relax as she let her gaze roam from
the Champlain Bridge to the south, downstream past Ile Ste.-Helene, and on to the east for as
far as the river remained in view. Then she lifted her eyes from the slaty blue-gray ribbon of
river and looked due south, over the flat lands of the Eastern Townships below the St.
Lawrence. Just a short freeway drive to the south lay the border, where drivers suddenly had to
get used to speed limit and distance signs with measurements in miles rather than kilometers.
Looking at the distant horizon reminded Laura that it was the USA down there, and that
thought jolted her out of her reverie and brought her back to her desk.
Ignoring the work she had been doing, she cupped her hand over the familiar back of her
little mouse, her index and middle fingers lightly touching the two buttons in a practiced caress.
With the adroitness which bespoke long practice, she slid the mouse quickly across the pad so
that the small white arrow on the screen shot directly to its destination. This was the small icon
providing the key to the infinite resources of the Internet. A quick tap of her index finger gave
Laura the screen she needed, and keys clattered as she entered her password, hit the Enter key,
then used the mouse once again to hit a different icon and open a work screen. The Internet
had been slowing down a little lately and there was sometimes a delay: Laura had too much
work waiting to waste any time. For a few minutes she worked feverishly at the modifications
she was making to a reports program, then re-opened the Internet window to find that she was
connected and could search for whatever information her heart desired. She selected the
Travel category and typed in “San Francisco”. If she was going to be there tomorrow, she
wanted to know something about the place. Laura had never been to the West Coast.
It’s an ill wind that blows no good, indeed, thought Laura. Both her window office and the
trip to San Francisco had resulted from a very traumatic downsizing which the company had
just gone through. Several old-timers who had found it difficult to keep up with the almost-daily
changes in technology had been among those laid off. A few months earlier, Laura had been
promoted to senior analyst-programmer, and had used that as leverage to get herself moved
from a mid-room cubicle to a newly-vacant window office. As one who had always been able to
shut out distractions, she had not found life in a cube as bad as Scott Adams depicted it in his
Dilbert cartoon strips. Nevertheless, she appreciated the perk. As with all downsizings, this one
had resulted in the remaining staff having to pick up additional work, and Laura felt that getting
her own office was a small but well-deserved bonus. She had been moving further into systems
analysis and design work when the layoffs hit, and now she was back helping out with
programming because of the staff shortages. On the plus side, upper management had realized
that keeping the remaining staff up to speed on technology issues was now very important, and
so Laura had been chosen to go to San Francisco for a 3-day seminar on the details of the
newest upgrade to their PC operating system.
Although she had received a hefty informational packet with her registration, Laura had
been so busy with her regular workload that she had only glanced at the seminar topics
scheduled and had not even opened the glossy “What to See and Do in San Francisco”
brochure. Besides, she had become accustomed to browsing the Net for information and could
do that in idle moments while performing her normal job, as she was doing now. Her initial
search had turned up sfbay.yahoo.com as a likely candidate for information. What she was
looking for was something different, fun, adventurous. Montreal was a very cosmopolitan,
sophisticated big city, and Laura had made full use of her limited time away from work to
explore its life. Her interests were wide-ranging, from watching Grand Prix racing to attending
the symphony. From her reading she knew that San Francisco was much like Montreal, and she
was eager to parlay this business trip into a journey of discovery, to add San Francisco to her
memory book of experiences.
She had long ago learned to skim over the eye-catching , gyrating graphics designed to
attract the viewer to the advertiser’s wares, and to cut through to the heart of the information.
Similarly, her eyes didn’t even need to move left-to-right as she scrolled rapidly through the
screens of information on happenings in The City, as its inhabitants called it. Ballet, symphony,
plays from New York and new plays opening in San Francisco, Indy car races at Sears Point, all
drifted past her vision without stirring interest. She paused briefly to read the description of the
show by female impersonators at Finocchio’s - she had seen a couple of them on an
entertainment show on TV, and Finnochio’s had been mentioned as the premier venue. She
mentally filed that as a possible, and clicked the mouse button again to continue scrolling.
Suddenly she stopped. A small picture of a cowboy on a wildly-bucking horse sat beside a
banner blaring “Grand National Livestock Show And Rodeo!”. Like most Easterners, Laura
thought of California as the land of Hollywood in the south and dense forests in the north. That
it considered itself part of the West, and would actually have a livestock show and rodeo in San
Francisco, seemed so bizarre to Laura that she knew instantly that she had found one of her
adventures.
All thoughts of the work waiting on the hidden window on her screen were gone now.
Laura clicked quickly on the bucking-horse icon and avidly devoured the superlatives on the
following pages. Ten days and nights! Thousands of head of show horses, cattle, sheep and
swine from the top breeders of the West! Evening shows which included both classic hunter
and jumper arena events as well as rodeo events with top cowboys competing for PRCA money
and points! A special evening on Thursday night, Cattlemen’s Night, with a huge barbecue in
the arena preceding the show! Laura couldn’t believe it. Calgary, Dallas, or Houston, maybe, but
San Francisco? Home of drag queens and pastel-colored Victorians? Not even pausing to
consider what outfit in her closet might be suitable for such an event, Laura quickly clicked and
typed the few bits of information needed to charge a show ticket for Wednesday, tomorrow
night, to her Visa card. When she decided to do something, Laura acted with a swiftness and
single-mindedness which rivaled her computer.
As she added her e-mail address to the order form, Laura smiled and shook her head as
she read the name of the facility where the event was to be held. California did have a
reputation for a certain degree of craziness, but the incongruous juxtaposition of the two words
made her laugh out loud as she gave a final click on the icon of a flying envelope to speed the
order over the miles to San Francisco. Who but Californians would name a building the Cow
Palace?
Chapter 4
By the time he crested the hill and started east down Geneva, Ranny found that he was
already at the limit of this morning’s fog bank. The wind-whipped, cold grayish-white storm
back in his district had slowed here and had piled up against the heat of the rising sun. To the
commuters rushing to work a mile away on the Bayshore Freeway, the fog appeared to be a
solid blanket over the hills, with its edge curled under, as sharply-defined as a down
featherbed. To an observer just under that edge, though, it was evident that a struggle for
dominance was under way. An advance guard formed of tattered streamers of pure white
stretched ahead of the solid gray mass, probing toward the strengthening sun in the east.
Today the warming sun would be the victor, meeting that ghostly advance and forcing it into
the retreat which would end with the fog pushed back to Ocean Beach, perhaps back a half mile
off shore, or even totally eradicated. The dissolving wisps of white against the brilliant blue of
the sky should have been a sight to lift the spirits of almost anyone on this autumn morning,
but Ranny was too engrossed in contemplating the miseries of his life to enjoy, or even notice,
the beauty above him.
It was Grand National week at the Cow Palace, and that was one of Ranny’s least favorite
times of the year. He didn’t so much mind the sporting events or the music concerts. There was
always a huge amount of trash to clean up after those nights, but at least it was just empty food
and drink containers. Sure, sometimes you’d find a mess in a corner where some stupid fan had
been too drunk or too lazy to go to a washroom before throwing up. Maybe have to hose off an
outside wall where some man had unzipped and urinated rather than wait in a line inside. But
that was nothing compared to what he had to deal with for the ten days of the Grand National.
Even the Dog Show or Cat Show was preferable to this. God knows, he had little use for
either of those animal species, especially the stupid little yappy lap dogs or the grossly fat longhaired cats which lay as useless as stuffed toys while their owners gushed over them. But at
least the dog and cat people kept their animals in small cages, so most of the crap ended up
there and the owners looked after it. Besides, these owners were used to collecting their pets’
droppings, so they almost automatically scooped it up if their precious little Snookums dropped
one while out for a walk. Ranny always smirked when he saw that, remembering a Seinfeld
routine he’d seen where Jerry asked,”Suppose aliens were watching through a powerful
telescope, and saw one species on Earth walking in front, while a second species followed
behind, gathering up its excrement. Which do you think they would assume was the Master
Race?”. Ranny didn’t always get Seinfeld, but he’d sure gotten that one.
As for the Grand National, he did kind of like the cowboys - and the cowgirls - and he
found the livestock men and women to be OK, but he had no use for the stuck-up show-horse
people. It was the animals that he really didn’t like. Dogs and cats he understood, although
there were exotic breeds of both at their shows which were unlike anything he’d ever
encountered on San Francisco streets. These animals, though, were totally alien to a city boy.
Sure, he’d seen lots of cows and horses on TV, even some sheep and pigs. Up close and
personal was a different matter. Those horses were a lot bigger than a man, and the damn
young cowboys didn’t seem to know, or care, that not everyone felt safe with an 1,800-pound
horse trotting past only a few inches away. The cattle at least were kept to a walk when being
led from stall to show ring, but Ranny had seen their weights posted on stall records and knew
that lots of those bulls were over a ton. They weren’t as tall as the horses, but Ranny figured a
person could get pretty well crushed if one of those big buggers decided to pin you to a wall, or
stepped on your foot. Pigs and sheep were a lot smaller, but he’d seen a couple of incidents
when a big old ram or a 400-pound sow had turned ugly, and it had taken quite a few strong
and experienced men to subdue them.
No, it wasn’t just the unfamiliarity, tinged with a little fear, which caused Ranny to dislike
the animals. It was because much of his job entailed keeping the premises clean. All those
horses, cows, sheep and pigs were always being ridden, led, or driven between the stalls and
the show rings, and they dropped copious amounts of pungent manure as they went. Most of
the people were good about cleaning it up if they could, but usually they were on a tight
schedule and couldn’t stop, so Ranny or one of the other maintenance workers got stuck doing
it. Animals had started arriving last Friday and this was only Wednesday morning, so Ranny still
had tons of shit to shovel before they all went home Sunday night.
A more contemplative man might have been struck by the diversity of the forms taken by
the waste from these four species of mammal. Horses delivered the by-products of their
digestive process in a clump of individual compact bundles, each larger than a golf ball, smaller
than a tennis ball. Sheep used a somewhat similar method, dropping pea-sized, hard black
pellets. The pigs, showing yet another similarity to humans, ejected a lengthy cylinder. But the
cows were the bane of Ranny’s existence. For some reason, they did not get rid of their bodily
wastes in a solid or semi-solid form. No, they performed as though their food was always laced
with a strong diuretic, and dropped their waste with the consistency of very thick pea soup. If
they stood still, it formed a thick pool a foot across and a couple of inches deep - but when they
let it go while they were walking, it caused a trail of dirty puddles which could stretch for thirty
feet. Ranny hated cows.
The scatological terms for this excrement were many and varied: strangely enough, many
were food analogies - “road apples” from the horses, “raisins” from the sheep, “cow pies” from
the cattle. Ranny hadn’t heard any unusual terms for the pig turds, and he really didn’t care
what people called the stuff. To him, it all stunk, and it was all shit.
Engrossed as he was in thinking about the coming day’s work, Ranny gave little thought to
his driving as he coasted down the curb lane, preparing to make the right turn in through the
lower gate leading to the employee and exhibitor parking area beyond the barns. Suddenly, he
slammed on his brakes and cursed as a truck coming the other way made a wide left turn and
cut in through the gate in front of him. Ranny was so close he could hear the frantic stomping
as a horse inside the trailer tried to keep its footing through the sudden turn. With both hands
clenching the wheel, Ranny didn’t even have time to give the other driver the finger. But he saw
her, with her perfectly-coifed blond hair, staring straight ahead as though she was the only
person on the road that morning - but Ranny knew very well that she had seen him. She had
just figured that he’d be intimidated by the rig she was driving, and she was right.
This was one type of exhibitor which Ranny hated with a passion. Even if she had been a
nice person, he would have loathed her for the ostentatious display of wealth evidenced by the
outfit she drove. The truck was the biggest model of pickup, with a custom-built cab and
dressed up with custom moldings on fenders, roof line, and pickup bed sides. It had tens of
thousands of dollars worth of custom equipment outside and in. The long horse trailer behind
matched it perfectly, with the same size and style of fancy chrome wheels as the truck, a roofmounted air conditioner to keep the horses cool. Truck and trailer were painted to match in a
deep forest green, and Ranny knew guys in the Mission District who would have killed to get
the paint jobs on their lowriders finished to the degree of perfection on this horse truck and
trailer. And of course, the doors of the truck were emblazoned in gold script, but tastefully,
with the words, “Windmere Stables, Woodside, California”. Too bad his brakes hadn’t failed - it
would have been worth it to see the look on that haughty bitch’s face when she saw the side of
her beautiful truck caved in.
Ranny’s heart was pounding and he took a couple of deep breaths to calm down, then
swung his car in through the gate behind her. If she’d been out on the street and done that,
he’d have fixed her but good. In here, he’d better cool it or he’d be out on his ass, and he need
to keep this job now that he’d moved out of his mother’s house. He contented himself with a
couple more expletives flung after the receding trailer, as he swung off to the employee lot and
she continued on to the stable unloading area.
Had he but known it, Ranny’s mood was no darker than that of the truck driver. Cynthia
had expected to be cruising in her big BMW up scenic 280 to get to the Cow Palace today, and
to be doing it several hours later. She wasn’t scheduled to show until 10, but at 6 AM her driver,
Juan, had phoned and said that he was too sick to come to work and definitely too sick to haul
horses up to San Francisco. Something he ate, he said. Furiously, Cynthia hung up on him
before she could lash out at him - “Something you drank, more likely, or somebody you ate, and
are still eating!”. She was gaining a reputation as a hard person to work for, and she didn’t want
to alienate another worker just now. But she was convinced that Juan was another lazy
Mexican trying to get out of a day’s work. She wouldn’t have believed that he would have given
anything for a trip to the city, because his cousin knew a couple of girls they could see after the
horses were put to bed for the night. He had been really looking forward to the action in San
Francisco after the quiet of rustic Woodside.
With her groom already up in the city to tend to her other horse, Cynthia had had no
option on such short notice but to drive the truck herself. She’d done that often enough in her
younger years, but recently she’d distanced herself from almost everything but the actual
riding. Her husband’s software company had finally gone public last year, and there was so
much money now that she didn’t see why she should ever have to drive a truck, brush a horse,
or even put a saddle on one. She did still enjoy riding, though. Even if she didn’t win, she loved
that feeling of mastery as she convinced an animal more than a dozen times her weight that it
had to do what she told it to do.
Her love of riding had come early. Born the only child of middle-income, doting parents,
Cynthia had been exposed to all the right sports. Her parents believed that the entree which
would get their daughter into a society far above theirs was a mastery of some sport of the rich,
and so she had tried tennis, golf, and finally riding. Her parents just wanted their daughter to
have a wonderful, easy life: Cynthia herself, although she never let anyone know, absolutely
burned with the desire to enter, and live in, that world of wealth and leisure of which she
caught glimpses in Palo Alto and Los Altos Hills. Riding opened the gate to that world.
It was not just the fact that she had a natural seat, and that horseback riding seemed the
activity for which her body had been shaped. Some girls were too gentle with their horses,
treating them as pets, and the horses soon took advantage, becoming lazy. Others were too
harsh, treating the horses only as mechanical means to achieve the rider’s end: winning a
trophy. The horses became afraid of them, and their nervousness translated into erratic
performance. Cynthia, on the other hand, instinctively knew how to combine encouragement
for good performance with the discipline of the whip for less-than-optimal performance. She
did not love horses, nor did they love her. Rather, the relationship she always created was that
of dominatrix and submissive, and she did it so skillfully that none of her instructors was ever
quite able to figure out her secret.
Cynthia’s desire to get to the inner circle had been strong enough to drive her to keep her
grades up near the top. With her success in riding competitions aided by her scholastics, she
was given a scholarship to an exclusive private school down in Ojai, where the students kept
their own horses and had riding as an important part of the curriculum. Although an outsider
initially, Cynthia used the same innate knowledge of how to deal with horses in her dealings
with the other girls. She had a face and figure attractive enough to place her in the top echelon
in appearance, yet knew how to carry herself to keep her looks from threatening the top clique.
A coterie of girls soon took her into their circle, admiring her quick wit, and laughing at the
cutting remarks she made about teachers or other students who were not in their group. At
school break times she frequently confided that her parents were traveling and she’d be at
home alone, and so got invited to spend weekends with many wealthy families. The scheme
had worked, and Cynthia had eventually ended up on a country estate in Woodside with a
husband who spent a great deal of time at work, made a great deal of money, and seemed to
require nothing more of his wife than that she look ravishing at parties, make love passionately
after the parties, and keep herself amused the rest of the time. One of her amusements was
showing horses.
Cynthia swung the rig in close to the show stable entrance and parked it there. She
backed down from the high cab, a movement watched appreciatively by the men standing
nearby. She had realized from puberty that her body had to be kept in shape to get where she
wanted to be, and her designer jeans were stretched tightly enough as she dismounted from
the truck to show that she was maintaining that perfect balance - not unappealingly thin, not
voluptuously fleshy, but that point in between which men found so attractive. She was
oblivious to the stares as she stalked into the barn. She had driven here, but if she could find
her groom he could come out and unload the horse. She’d already done far more work than she
had wanted to today, and her mood was not going to improve if he was off somewhere and she
had to unload the damned horse herself. She was surrounded by incompetents, and they’d do
well to stay out of her way, like that driver who had thought to cut in front of her entering the
parking lot. She’d already forgotten about him.
Ranny had not yet forgotten about her.
Chapter 5
Monty was within sight of the point where the boundary fence snaked down out of the
brush and ended in a solidly-built corner, meeting the side fence which followed the edge of
the road. He knew that he could check that fence quickly from his truck on the road, so he
shifted his weight and the reins slightly and Buck instantly swung around and headed back
toward the ranch headquarters in the valley. Although it had been a long day, Buck pretended
to interpret a slight squeeze of Monty’s legs to be the signal to break into a slow, easy canter.
Monty grinned, knowing that a scoop of oats and several flakes of rich alfalfa hay back at the
barn were the stimulus behind this change of gait. The big buckskin had a trot which was
sometimes a little jarring, but his canter was so smooth that Monty settled into the saddle and
prepared to enjoy a relaxing ride home.
Some of the ranchers had begun to use trail bikes and pickup trucks for much of their
ranch work, except in the very steepest terrain. But Monty still preferred a good horse, and one
advantage that he saw was the ability at a time like this to allow the horse to take care of the
driving, giving himself complete freedom to look around. It was fortunate that he was not
operating a vehicle, or he might have missed the problem at one of his haystacks.
Using the land only for grazing gave this area a carrying capacity of about one cow per 20
acres. Rainfall averaged a little over 12” annually, and it was vitally important to cattle ranchers.
They all tracked rainfall amounts, using the wedge-shaped gauges which let them record
hundredths of an inch from even brief showers. Monty had run into one old-timer after a little
storm system had passed through, and asked “How much rain did you get over at your place?”.
“Well,” replied the neighbor, “We got three one-hundredths , but I don’t think we’d even
have gotten that much if there hadn’t been a couple of drowned bugs in the bottom of the
gauge”. Monty never tired of the dry humor with which country people met adversity.
In order to run more cattle, and to provide a buffer for drought years, Monty always grew
some barley hay. As had his ancestors before, he worked up part of the flat valley land which
had been fenced off, planted barley in the fall, and hoped for enough rain at the right time
through the winter to ensure a decent crop. In May, when the stalks were waist-high, the heads
plump with seed, and the leaves just starting to turn color, Monty wheeled the big swather into
the fields, and watched from the high cab as the waving field of greenish-yellow stalks in front
became a 14-foot-wide carpet of manicured stubble behind, the hay now lying in a neat swath,
curing on the sun.
One aspect of cattle ranching which had always appealed to Monty was the fact that
much of the work did not have to be done on a specific daily schedule. When calves were ready
to brand, that could be done anytime within a time frame of a couple of weeks. The one
exception was haying. With the days getting longer and much, much hotter in the late spring, a
few days too many would allow the hay to become overripe and the seeds would become hard
and indigestible, the stalks too dry to be appetizing, the leaves brittle. Once the barley was cut,
that same intense dry heat meant that there was a window measured in hours, not days, when
the swathed hay was cured enough to be raked up into windrows, and then baled. In the East
and Midwest the concern was always to be able to get the hay sufficiently dried in spite of the
high humidity and frequent rains: here, the concern was to have a little moisture remain so that
the hay didn’t shatter under the pounding as the baler compressed it into those tight elongated
cubes. Many of the people making hay in this climate started baling around 2 AM, and stopped
around 6, just before the heavy dew settled in. Monty had a philosophical objection to doing
work which required using the lights on his machinery, and always tried to do his baling in the
early morning hours just after the sun rose.
Since the hay would be fed out during the following autumn and winter, keeping it under
cover was not a necessity. At several points on the ranch, in the low hills where the big
automatic bale wagon could be easily driven, Monty had fenced off long rectangles of hilltop
and used these as storage areas where he built his haystacks. Kept safe by the 5-wire fence, the
hay remained there all summer, and when the grazing started to run out in September, Monty
had only to pull bales out of the stack all along its length and throw the hay over the fence to
feed his hungry cattle. The ground sloped away from the stacks, so rain didn’t collect around
the base. This system also kept the cattle away from the ranch buildings so that the ground
didn’t get trampled and fouled during the winter months. These haystacks were an important
part of Monty’s overall management plan, and contributed greatly to his reputation as the
rancher who always had the best-fed cattle in the county.
Now, from the back of his homeward-bound horse, Monty spotted a serious problem.
When he twitched the reins to the right, Buck swung off the trail and headed immediately up
the slight rise toward the stack. Monty didn’t need to dismount, or even to stop, to analyze the
problem. His eye had been caught by the sight of a bale rooted out of the bottom of the stack,
where it lay torn apart, chunks of hay strewn about the ground. Nor did he need to examine the
ground for the marks of stubby cloven hooves or elongated droppings to know that his stack
had been desecrated by a wild pig, or two. He was only too familiar with the signs.
These pigs which roamed the hills of Monterey County were not the small peccaries of the
Southwest. These were direct descendants of large Russian wild boar, originally imported by
William Randolph Hearst to add to the exotic stock on his sprawling San Simeon ranch to the
south. There had been some dilution of the original bloodlines by interbreeding with escaped
domestic swine. However, the pig, judged by many to be the most intelligent of non-human
mammals, was also the species which most quickly reverted to its original wild form. In only
three generations, escaped domestic pigs, those relatively docile Yorkshires and Durocs, bred
for centuries to produce smooth cuts of ham, bacon, and chops, were transformed into feral
beasts which barely resembled their great-grandparents. Razor-sharp tusks, up to 6 inches long,
curled out from the front of the jaw. Shoulders were higher, narrower, and covered under the
hide with an armor of gristle, an inch or more thick, which ran from just behind the head to well
behind the shoulder. It protected well from the few remaining predators, primarily mountain
lions, which might tackle a grown boar. It would also stop a bullet from anything less than a
very high-powered rifle.
The more powerful front shoulders tapered back to slimmer hips - these were not the
smooth, slab-sided domestics with bulging hams. The whole package was wrapped in
exceedingly tough hide, covered coarsely with wiry, curly hair. Baby piglets started life with a
rusty brown coat, camouflaged with horizontal stripes. Like the spots on the coats of little
fawns, these soon were replaced with the permanent adult color. Some showed their Russian
ancestry clearly, colored the gray of Russian Wolfhounds. Others, though, showed the influence
of the domestics, and red, black, spotted or belted markings could all be found in the same
herd. Fortunately, the stack had not been visited by a herd, or the damage would have been
much greater - and much more difficult for Monty to remedy.
As he swung Buck around to head back down the slope Monty remembered noticing
exceptionally bright moonlight last night when he had gone to bed, which would help solve his
problem. Wild pigs were mainly nocturnal creatures, but the law did not allow hunting at night.
Like most ranchers out in the country, Monty had a deep respect for law and order, but it was
tempered with the belief that some laws were made in Sacramento or Washington which did
not apply to every case everywhere in the state or the country. The proper procedure was to
apply to Fish and Game for a depredation permit. This specified how many pigs were to be
killed, and that the carcasses would be field-dressed and given to the Department. The permits
took more than a few days to obtain, and expired a couple of weeks later.
“The 3 S’s for dealing with predators are shoot, shovel, and shut up” was the advice
Monty had heard one speaker give off-the-record at an alfalfa-growers conference. That was
the method used by most ranchers. The problem was handled quietly (except for the loud
boom of a high-powered rifle late at night) and talked about only among themselves. The
ranches were so large and the distances so great that there was virtually no chance that a
sheriff’s deputy or a game warden would be anywhere near in the middle of the night to
observe the unlawful act. And so tonight, aided by a full moon so that he wouldn’t need to use
lights, Monty would take care of this pig predation problem before it grew to threaten his
livelihood.
At the barn, Monty swung down from the saddle, his long legs accomplishing this
maneuver with a grace which spoke of thousands of past repetitions. He undid the cinch, then
reached up to grasp the saddle horn with his left hand, the cantle in his right, the little finger on
each hand hooked under the edge of the colorful Navajo-style blanket beneath. His biceps,
shoulder, and chest muscles, which had been built up by lifting 130-pound 3-wire hay bales,
barely tensed as he lifted and swung the heavy saddle off in one fluid motion. He carried it in to
the saddle rack, having let the reins fall to the ground in front of Buck. Even though there was
fragrant alfalfa hay nearby, the big buckskin remained motionless where his rider had
dismounted. He had been trained to be ground-tied, but the moment Monty scooped up the
reins Buck eagerly stepped toward the gate to his pasture, knowing that once the hackamore
had been slipped over his ears he would get his reward for the day’s work.
With his horse and tack taken care of, Monty headed for the main house for a hot shower
and dinner. But his path took him past the little old original ranch house, and what he saw as he
rounded the corner seemed guaranteed to make him change that to a cold shower - a very
long, icy-cold shower. It was Mercedes, the young wife of his hired hand Roberto, and she was
taking down clothes which had been hung on the line to dry in the afternoon sun.
For the first year after his parents’ death, Monty had thrown himself into ranch work,
working alone outdoors from earliest light until it grew too dark to see, then on projects in or
around the buildings under lights. But he had seen that there were a lot of jobs which really
could be done better with two people, so he had hired a succession of men who stayed for a
year or two, then drifted on. A few years ago a neighbor had mentioned a hard-working young
Mexican who was looking for a place to live, and Monty had checked him out. Roberto was
eager and ambitious, and when they met each had liked what he saw in the other. Since ranch
work wasn’t all-consuming, they adopted a flexible schedule so that Roberto was free to
register with his cousin, a farm labor contractor in King City. Whenever the cousin got a
particularly lucrative job lined up with the potential of high earnings through piecework or
overtime, he made a phone call. Unless there was some especially pressing ranch work, Monty
always sent his cowboy off to pick up some extra cash. If it was work which was not too heavy,
Mercedes went too. Neither of them spent money smoking or drinking, and although they
loved their relatives’ kids, they were postponing children until they had enough money to buy a
house of their own. Monty was glad to help them realize their dream, and he enjoyed Roberto’s
company when they worked together. He rarely saw Mercedes, since he was usually away from
the buildings, and when he did, she was just a figure in the distance wearing jeans and a shirt.
But today when he rounded the corner of the house she was not more than twenty feet away,
and today she was not wearing jeans and a shirt.
She was stretching up to remove the clothespins holding a bedsheet, and the brilliant
white sheet reflected the intensity of the sunlight like a photographer’s backdrop lit up by
studio lights. Millions of California girls, in pre-melanoma days, had spent countless hours
baking on beaches, their nubile bodies slathered with lotions guaranteed to produce a
Coppertone tan, and this girl had achieved that perfect tint through nothing more than genetic
inheritance and a minimum of exposure to the sun. So incredible was the picture she made,
with her bronze skin and long black hair against the blinding pure whiteness of the sheet, that
Monty felt as though his eyes were a camera lens which had snapped open and were recording
this scene for eternity. Certainly, Monty knew that it was a picture which would never fade
from his memory.
She had been inside, and to escape the heat had dressed in cutoffs and a halter top,
slipping on a pair of low white tennis shoes as protection against the yellow star thistles when
she went out to get the clothes. She was up on the toes of those shoes now, the muscles in her
shapely calves and thighs taut under that burnished skin, the muscles of bare shoulders and
arms tensed too as she stretched both arms skyward to reach the clothesline above. Her head
was thrown back, and the mass of wavy black hair gleamed in the sun, cascading down her back
so that it almost hid the narrow straps of her white halter top. Below that, her back was an
expanse of that perfect tan, the sides curved in to define her small waist before curving out
again to disappear into the waistband of her cutoffs.
The cutoffs, too, were almost white: they had been created from very faded jeans, and
had been washed countless more times in their reincarnated form. They now hugged her hips
like a second skin. And very nice hips they were, Monty noticed, with the muscles smoothly
bunched against the strain of her stretching. Whether she had miscalculated and cut the jeans a
little too short originally, or whether the repeated washings had frayed material from the
bottom, the cutoffs were definitely so short now that the faint beginning of a curved cheek
could be seen where the denim fringe ended. That little detail, however titillating, was not what
caused Monty to catch his breath and simultaneously stumble so that his boot heels thudded
on the hard ground, causing Mercedes to turn around and break the tableau.
Monty had a theory that every man had some particular part of a woman’s anatomy
which he found especially seductive (assuming that he was a man who found women
appealing). Not at the gross level where men identified themselves as leg men or breast men,
but down at a finer level where one man would be totally captivated by a jaw line, another by
the curve behind a knee, yet another by just the right shape of eyebrow. For him, it was the
middle back, and the one in front of him today had all the qualities which triggered the reaction
which had made him suddenly weak-kneed. There was something about the contrast between
the strength of those two smooth ridges of muscle and the fragile little valley where the spine
lay between them, and the proximity of that most perfect curve in all of nature, the concave
curves at the sides of a woman’s waist. Something deep in Monty’s genetic makeup told his
mind that when he saw such a back, he should spend hours gently sliding his long fingers up
and down that precious valley, his palms cupped to caress those muscle ridges, until he finally
enveloped that curving waist in his large hands, and he and the owner of the perfect back
abandoned themselves to mad, passionate, animal love-making.
But this back belonged to a married woman, the wife of a friend. Monty had always held
very strong moral convictions, and the civilized portion of his brain easily overrode the older
animal instincts. Sexual lust hardly had a chance to rear its ugly head before it was replaced by
nothing more than pure admiration of an exceedingly beautiful sight. Still, the shock of
suddenly coming across such an unforgettable vision had upset him enough to cause him to
stumble, and he felt another unwanted physical reaction begin to manifest itself. In elementary
school the teacher had taught about autonomous muscles over which a person had no control,
the example given being the heart muscle. Since pre-puberty, Monty had been one of those
boys afflicted with a different autonomous muscle, which frequently began flexing itself at
inopportune times, as it was doing now. “Oh, God, no!”, thought Monty desperately. “ I hope I
can get past and up to the house without her seeing me like this!”.
But to camouflage his problem in the meantime, Monty resorted to the maneuver he had
developed as a youth. A teen advice column in the Sunday supplement had advised wearing
loose-fitting pants: that had been a total disaster, giving as it did the impression that some
Lilliputians had pitched a tent in there, down below his belt buckle. Instead, he wore tightfitting jeans low on the waist, and perfected a gesture which involved tucking his thumb into his
belt, then sucking in his stomach to make room as he gave a couple of quick, surreptitious digs
with his dangling fingers so that the offending member rose to a vertical position just behind
the zipper. While Monty wasn’t in the same league as porn movie stars, he was endowed in the
upper percentile range, and he had no trouble tucking in behind his belt buckle until nature
eventually took its course in reverse. And so, even as he was recovering from his misstep, he
almost automatically hooked a thumb into his belt and remedied the problem .
“Oh, Meester Marteen?” came Mercedes’ voice shyly, as she turned to face him, her
questioning inflection destroying any hope that he was going to be able to escape with just a
smile and a nodded greeting.
He turned to face her, just as she turned toward him and leaned over to drop the sheet in
a large wicker hamper. Monty winced as she bent from the waist, and the halter top did little to
hide the shape of her firm breasts, looking like some wonderful, exotic ripe fruit, barely
constrained by the flimsy material of her halter top. He tried to take his eyes off her, but when
she straightened he was confronted with a bronzed midriff which mirrored her back, the two
shallower ridges of vertical muscle on each side of a faint declivity which ended in a tiny navel,
and below that a couple of inches of perfectly flat stomach which disappeared into the cutoffs.
“Get a grip, Monty!”, he told himself. “Quit behaving like a teenager, and act your age!”.
It was hard to tell which of them was more ill at ease. Although Roberto was on a firstname basis with Monty, Mercedes retained some ancestral deference to large landowners and
could not bring herself to use his first name. She also had little contact with him: she was hired
to clean his house, but she always did that while he was out on the ranch. This was one of the
first times they had been together alone, and she was clearly nervous about addressing him,
too nervous even to be conscious of the scantiness of her clothing. On his part, Monty was still
in shock over the sudden revelation of the incredible figure possessed by this woman living
here. He decided that he would seem awfully unfriendly if he looked away while she was
talking, and he couldn’t trust himself to look at any part of that body, so he looked her in the
eyes and said, encouragingly, “Yes, Mercedes? Did you want something?”.
“I got a letter from my seester in Fresno. She’s going to have a baby thees weenter, and
they’re having a party thees weekend. Do you theenk Roberto and me, we could go?” she
asked.
“Oh, sure, yes, Mercedes, you guys go and have fun. I’m going up to San Francisco for a
couple of days, but I should be back by Thursday, so tell Roberto to go ahead and leave
Thursday, or even Wednesday, if you want. Go and have fun, and I’ll see you back here Monday
or Tuesday”, replied Monty, so relieved to have the conversation over with that he was hardly
conscious of what he was saying. Good thing she didn’t ask for anything really important, he
thought. I probably would have said yes just to get out of here.
“Oh, thank you, Meester Marteen!” she exclaimed, but Monty had already turned and
was heading rapidly toward the house.
“You’re welcome, Mercedes”, he tossed back over his shoulder, afraid to look back.
Afraid that like Lot’s wife, he’d turn into a pillar of salt - or a pillar of something, he thought.
And thank you, Mercedes, he thought also, for a sight I will never forget. I sure hope Roberto
knows just what a lucky man he is.
But there was no lust in his heart. Like a car buff who can walk around a Ferrari and
devour it with his eyes, yet never touch it, and perhaps not even desire to drive it, Monty could
admire the perfection of the girl he’d just seen without wanting to possess her. Of course, if she
were unmarried and otherwise unattached, and if she were a also little older or more
sophisticated so that she considered them equals, he would have been interested, and certainly
strongly attracted physically. But he had always been a reader, and perhaps the old English
novels with their outmoded morals had provided some influence. His parents were not
Puritans, but they had held strong ideas about right and wrong, and those precepts had been
handed down to their son. As a result, Monty had never engaged in the locker-room macho
sexual talk of many of his teenage peers, and had always treated women with respect.
Mercedes was married, and that put her entirely out of reach, even as far as thinking about her
in a sexual way.
Later, Monty let the hot water of the shower relax his muscles, and a lifetime habit of not
wasting water made him turn off the stream while he lathered up. Still tumescent, his body
responded to the soaping, so Monty shrugged and resolutely turned his thoughts to other girls,
other times, as he gave himself up to pleasure. If God didn’t want humans to play with their
genitals He shouldn’t have placed them where they fall so readily to hand, he thought drowsily.
The shower over, Monty rustled up some dinner and sat down with a book. He had a
couple of hours to kill before the wild boar would head down out of the hills for a feed of prime
baled barley hay. Monty intended to see that it would be his last meal.
Chapter 6
It was almost 6 o’clock before Laura was able to fire off the e-mail note to Quality
Assurance to tell them that the report modification was ready for their testing. Her testing, as
always, had been so thorough that she was sure that they would be able to approve it and
move it into production. However, she did notify them that she’d be in San Francisco for the
next three days, but would religiously check her voice mail and e-mail every day to follow up on
any problems.
Laura had no way of knowing that events in San Francisco would keep her from following
through on that promise.
After the e-mail note had been dispatched she quickly brought up each hidden window on
her PC screen and closed them down until the final option to shut down or restart was
presented. She clicked on the option to lock the computer, but not shut down. Like most PC
users, Laura had read all the arguments pro and con about the merits of turning the power off
versus leaving the machine in a quiescent state when not in use. Her nature rebelled against
leaving an electrical appliance turned on overnight, or in this case, for five days. She had finally
been swayed by the argument that shutting down and restarting the computer caused the
circuit boards and solder to expand and contract, and electronic equipment was now so energyefficient that the power wasted was negligible. However, unlike most users who left their
machines on permanently, she did not use a screen saver which continuously displayed some
kind of random design or picture on the screen. To Laura’s mind, setting the monitor to display
a totally black screen when not in use was much more sensible. Besides, Laura had spent too
many hours working on a computer to get any enjoyment out of doing playful things with one.
Her already-neat desk was made immaculate when she whisked the last stack of papers
into a top drawer. From the bottom left drawer she pulled out a pair of comfortable, yet stylish,
low black walking shoes. An identical pair in brown remained in the drawer. In the winter, these
would be replaced by serviceable, yet stylish, walking boots, again matching pairs in black and
brown. She also took out a small string bag which was used to carry her office shoes, if she was
using a purse which wasn’t roomy enough. If she had a large handbag, the string bag went
inside one shoe, and the shoes went into the handbag.
With a practiced gesture, Laura reached around behind to slip the shoe off the slim foot at
the end of the slender leg which had been bent back and up at the knee, a very nice knee which
was several inches below the hem of the straight black skirt. At a little over five and a half feet
tall, Laura had legs which were long enough to allow wearing skirts a few inches above the knee
without the skirts appearing too short for the office. They were also very good legs, and while
she had no desire to attract unwanted male attention, she also had no intention of hiding her
body under long, bulky clothes. She might be facing 30 in the very near future, but she had a
figure which was more than a match for that of any of the little eighteen-year-old clerks who
flitted about the building. Her taste in office clothes tended toward suits, but suits so well
tailored that the jackets accentuated rather than hid the curves of her body, both the outward
curves of chest and hips and the inward curve of the waist. Skirts were either straight, as
today’s, or occasionally flared, a flare which caused the hem to flip as she walked briskly to
some destination.
Laura had only a slight inkling of the effect she had on the males in the office. She would
have been astonished to know that the combination of that great figure wrapped in a snugfitting suit, with skirts worn above the knee, caused most of the men in the office to suffer
silently whenever she was within sight. Conditioned to avoid even a hint of sexual harassment,
they never dared to make any verbal comments, not even to compliment her. And the selfpaced course on the subject, which Human Resources had provided via their computer network
and required them to complete, had even defined “staring at another person’s body” to be
harassment.
One of the men was reminded of a high school English class in which the teacher, an
elderly gray-haired woman, had attempted to explain the concept of an oxymoron. From
somewhere in her reading she had dredged up the phrase, “pleasing pain”, an unfortunate
example when presented to teenagers obsessed with sex and losing one’s virginity. But pleasing
pain was what many of her male co-workers experienced daily. It was a pleasure to be treated
to a mere glimpse of cleavage in the V-neck of a severe white blouse as Laura leaned over a
desk to point out something, or to admire, with surreptitious glances, those elegant long legs.
But it also brought pain, because most of the men were married, a couple were gay, and the
few singles who had the courage to ask her out had not sparked enough interest from Laura for
a further date, so they enjoyed the view but suffered from the unrequited lust it stirred.
As she stepped out the door, Laura glanced back into the office before she switched off
the light. Satisfied that it appeared as unused as a newly-entered hotel room, she pulled the
door closed and hastened out of the building. Her flight left Pierre Trudeau airport at 10
tonight, and she still had to pack. Somehow work always took longer than planned - she had
expected to slip away an hour early today, but the same dedication to getting the job done
which led her to be at work today, instead of using it as a travel day, had kept her at her desk
until late.
The sidewalks, which had been so busy when she had looked down at them earlier, were
now more sparsely populated. Some people, like Laura, were leaving work late, some were
emerging from pubs after a quick drink or two before heading home, and a few were on their
way to an early movie. But this was the lull between the working day and the playing night, and
there was still an hour or so before the evening crowds would appear to fill the brightly-lit
streets and sidewalks with life again. She was able to walk briskly without having to dodge
other pedestrians, and like most Montrealers on foot, wasted little time waiting for traffic lights
to change. The traffic was light at this hour, the few cars racing homeward at 45 miles an hour,
and with long practice, Laura estimated their speed and distance. Like a duck hunter leading a
distant bird before calculating when to pull the trigger, she judged when to step off the
sidewalk to clear the rear bumper of the passing car, and make it safely to the other curb
before the next vehicle came along. The daytime population downtown contained no children
or old people, and accidents involving pedestrians and vehicles so rare that they merited frontpage news for days. The drivers gave no quarter: it was up to the jaywalkers to be alert enough
and quick enough to cross the street in mid-block or against a light. Like the speeding traffic,
these lawbreakers were mostly ignored by the police. Everyone’s concern was rather to move
as many people about the city as quickly as possible, and the people seemed capable of
handling it safely, whether afoot or behind the wheel.
Even when traffic was heavy, Laura was able to make good time. She lived and worked at
opposite corners of a large five-by-ten-block rectangle, and so had many alternate routes if one
path was blocked by a stream of cars or a red light. Her little red Supra stayed in the
apartment’s underground garage except on weekends. She saw little sense in driving to and
from work every day, paying the exorbitant downtown parking fees, and then paying further to
join a health club to use a treadmill. Instead, her daily walk gave her exercise, time to think
about problems at work, the opportunity to experience life in the city, and even more money to
salt away in one of her several investment accounts.
When she arrived home and opened the door of her apartment, it too, like her office,
looked like an unused hotel room. The furnishings were unlike those in any hotel, though. Laura
had eclectic tastes, and had amassed the artwork and furniture slowly, buying unusual pieces
when she found them. They had to go with what was already there but did not have to match
it. Like a well-planned museum exhibit, each piece was unique, interesting in itself, but blended
perfectly with the whole. Although neat and tidy, the rooms did not have a sterile appearance
but rather invited one to sit and enjoy. They had looked much more lived-in during the brief
month that Bryan had lived here. Too much lived-in, and that was why Bryan no longer lived
here.
“You’re such a neat-freak”, he had said once, only half-teasing.
“I just like order in my life”, Laura had replied. But for one usually so sure about her
decisions, she still had nagging doubts about the break-up of that relationship.
Like all love affairs, it had started off wonderfully. A girl in the office had invited Laura to a
Friday night party being given by friends, and she had decided to go along. The friends turned
out to have a great place for a party, which they jokingly referred to as a penthouse. Actually,
the apartment builder, who was also the owner, had used some latitude in interpreting the
plans. What was to have been merely a small utility room beside the elevator shaft terminus on
the flat roof became a one-bedroom apartment. A sizable pre-Christmas gift to the building
inspector allowed this minor revision to the approved plans to go unnoticed. The landlord
gained another rental unit, and a couple of Yuppies found a relatively inexpensive apartment
just above St. Catherine Street with fabulous view of the city from the top of a twelve-story
building.
Laura had noticed Bryan immediately. He was quite good-looking, but did not have the
arrogant air of some handsome men who believe that their male-model looks should
automatically result in adoration and deference from less-favored individuals. She found herself
close enough to him a little later to overhear him talking with a couple of others, and she liked
what she heard. He made witty, intelligent comments, and when supporting his side of an
argument, did not raise his voice or ridicule the other’s opinions, unlike many when the first
few wine bottles have completed the journey from refrigerator to recycle bin.
Wither through accident or artifice, or a little of each (for Bryan had also noticed this
woman, a stranger to him, who was well above average both in height and in looks), they had
found themselves in the same little group. When they had each made a few contributions to
the conversation and had individually decided that the other appeared to offer something more
than just a strong physical attraction, a couple of people had wandered off to refill their glasses,
and they found themselves alone.
They made the usual introductions, names, occupations, where they worked - he was a
corporate law lawyer with one of the major insurance companies headquartered in Montreal.
When he learned what her field of expertise was he had some questions about difficulties
encountered with software on the home computer he’d just bought, and was impressed with
both Laura’s quick grasp of the problem and her ability to explain clearly and concisely what he
needed to do. She, in her turn, was impressed by how well Bryan had stated the problem, and
how easily he grasped the concepts required to master the software. The mutual admiration of
intellectual abilities enhanced the already-strong appeal each had felt based on physical
attributes. The indefinable elements which make up the chemistry of human attraction were all
present, and it was the start of a wonderful relationship. They moved from the overly-warm
interior out onto the roof deck and talked for an hour in the warm summer night, looking out
over the city spread out below, the distant St. Lawrence a lengthy black hole running through
the Milky Way of the city lights. It was a magical night, and when they exchanged phone
numbers and e-mail addresses at night’s end, Laura knew that she’d hear from this man again.
Bryan had called on Tuesday to ask if she’d like to see the new Spielberg movie next
weekend, and they discovered a mutual love of movies - action, romance, foreign, the genre
didn’t matter as long as the writing, acting, and directing were above par. But the relationship
developed slowly, since both were deeply involved in important projects at work, and some
dates got canceled when work demanded more than the normal 40 hours. The level of intimacy
was raised slowly, too, because Laura had experienced several short-term flings in college and
wanted this to be different, and Bryan sensed that he shouldn’t rush this woman and was quite
happy to share her company without involving sex. But finally the time felt right, and when a
friend offered the weekend use of a cabin on a lake up in the Laurentian Mountains, Bryan
asked if she’d like to go, and Laura accepted. Both knew that the relationship had moved to a
new level.
Although they both worked late through the week to ensure a free weekend, Friday
afternoon, as always, brought crises which had to be dealt with, so it was well after dark when
they arrived at the cabin. The love-making that first night was tentative, their eagerness for
physical intimacy after such a long wait tempered by their desire to get it right. But the next
morning, when Bryan joined her outside a few minutes after she’d awakened, the breathtaking
beauty of the little lake nestled in that forested mountain setting worked its spell, and they
were soon back in bed, delighting in the pleasure each gave to the other. After that, the
weekend became an idyllic escape from the real world.
In a radical departure from their normal eating habits, Laura whipped up bacon, eggs,
and pancakes for breakfast in the little kitchen, Bryan barbecued thick steaks for lunch, and
they collaborated on pasta and salad for dinner. The good food replaced the calories burned off
by their physical exertions. Most of the time was spent enjoying each other’s company. They
canoed silently around the edge of the quiet lake, close enough to the shore to peer back into
the trees and watch the squirrels, chipmunks, and screeching blue jays. They hiked along a fire
trail that took them to the top of a hill nearby, where a break in the trees gave an incredible
vista of miles of rolling mountainous hills, densely carpeted in the dark green of the evergreens
that comprised most of the forest. They sat on the porch and talked. But periodically they also
fell into each other’s arms and made love, sometimes making it to the bed, often in a less
traditional place - late Saturday night, a stroll on the dock in the moonlight turned into an
unforgettable episode of sex, a couple of boat cushions hastily pressed into service as a
mattress, the waves quietly lapping against the rocks of the shore and the pilings below them.
The love-making sessions usually left the area strewn with pieces of clothing, but those
were retrieved afterward when they got dressed to follow some more mundane pursuit.
However, Bryan also left other things strewn about - eating utensils remained on the table after
a meal, his towel was left on the bathroom floor after a shower.
“Didn’t your mother make you pick up things after you used them?”, Laura asked jokingly,
as she cleared the table.
“The maid always did that”, Bryan replied.
“Oh, sure”, she mocked. “And the cook prepared all the meals, so how did you learn to
cook?”.
“No, really, we had a maid. I grew up in Westmont”.
Westmont was an area of very large houses, mansions, and estates, and many of the
residents did have maids. What a shame, thought Laura, for parents to use their wealth in a
way which permitted their child to grow up believing that he could leave the world a messy
place, and someone else would follow behind and clean it up. It was just a fleeting thought,
soon put aside in the rapture she felt that weekend. The setting was romantic, with perfect
summer weather without rain or humidity to spoil it, and it was too early in the season for the
dreaded black flies and mosquitoes. They were two healthy young people on a much-needed
vacation from demanding jobs. They were both fit - Bryan played squash regularly at a club near
his office, and Laura’s walking to work every day kept her in shape - and they had quickly
reached the level of familiarity which made their physical intimacy so enjoyable. They had
found a great deal to like in each other, and it was a weekend which neither wanted to end.
But it did end Sunday night when they got on the Autoroute and headed south with
thousands of others, like parolees returning after a weekend pass. Back in the city, though,
their relationship had entered a new phase, and now Bryan stayed over instead of kissing Laura
goodnight and leaving. Before long, Laura suggested that he bring over some changes of
clothing, and soon they were, to all intents and purposes, living together. Bryan still kept the
large apartment he shared with a fellow lawyer, and neither ever explicitly stated that they
were living together because they were still concerned with taking things slowly enough to get
it right.
It was wonderful to have someone you loved, to share life with, thought Laura. If only his
parents hadn’t had a maid - the one trait Bryan had which she found very hard to deal with was
his failure to pick up after himself. He seemed oblivious to the fact that Laura kept the
apartment tidy, and her jokes and gentle prodding had only short-term effects on his behavior.
Finally, she had sat down to have a serious talk and had tried to explain to him that she had a
lifetime habit of keeping her surroundings straightened up and tidy, and it was as jarring to her
to see items left lying around as a wrong note on a piano would be to a professional musician.
He admitted that he had a lifetime habit of not picking things up until he needed them again,
and said he’d try to change his ways if she would try to be a little more tolerant of his habits.
And so they agreed to compromise, she to unbend a little in her quest for perfection, he to try
harder to attain it.
Like many good intentions overcome by bad habits, though, his resolve didn’t last, and
Laura began to feel that he mustn’t have the same deep feelings for her that she had for him, if
he couldn’t do that one thing which was so important to her. In all other ways, their
relationship was perfect, but neatness was so much a part of who she was that Laura began to
fell resentment toward him whenever she was confronted with yet another mess.
The end came one Saturday. Laura had to go in to work for a few hours, and left very early
in the morning. Bryan was going golfing later with some buddies so didn’t get up when she did.
The night before, she had told him that an out-of-town aunt was coming over with her mother
at 11 Saturday morning. Laura would try to get back earlier than that, but she asked him to
please ensure that he tidied up the apartment before he left, in case she didn’t get there before
her guests did.
As always when working with computers, there was one more bug or one more program
enhancement to work on, and Laura’s plan to get home early did not work out. Since there was
lots of parking available downtown on Saturdays she had driven, and she left the office at 5 to
11 and sped home to greet her mother and aunt at the door. When she unlocked the door and
ushered them in, she saw immediately that Bryan had left without cleaning up.
Perhaps people just had different definitions of what was messy. To Laura, having
breakfast dishes sitting in the sink, a coffee mug on the counter, was a mess in the kitchen. A
large bath towel draped over the edge of the tub, with a foot of its length snaking out over the
floor, was a mess. An unmade bed in the bedroom was a mess. And in the living room, the
morning paper spread open on the coffee table and sofa constituted a mess. Although her
guests didn’t seem to notice, Laura was mortified, and quickly served them coffee out on the
balcony so that she could race around and straighten up the place. She hid it well, but the
incident was so upsetting to her that she had trouble enjoying the visit. When they left, Laura
had made up her mind that she could not live with that kind of behavior, and realized that that
facet of Bryan’s personality was not something she would ever be able to adjust to. Her
emotions fluctuated between seething anger at the state he had left the house for her mother
to see, and deep regret at the loss of a wonderful lover. A few tears fell while she was packing
up his clothes and toiletries, but she finished the job and set everything just inside the door
with a note on top, then went off to a double feature. She didn’t trust herself to remain civil if
she confronted him, so she felt it best to be absent when he returned from golf.
The note read, “Bryan - when I opened the door and let my mother and aunt in today, I
was totally embarrassed by the condition of the apartment. Maybe I demand too much
neatness in my life, but it’s something I just can’t compromise on. You are either unable or
unwilling to make the effort to keep the house tidy, and I just can’t live my life like this. Thank
you for some very wonderful times, but please take your belongings home, and please don’t
see me again. Goodbye - Laura”.
When she returned home later that evening, the clothes and all traces of Bryan were
gone. When she got to work on Monday, her voicemail had a brief message from him: “Laura,
I’m sorry about the apartment not being kept up to your standards. I do really care about you,
but I find it hard to make the top priority in my life the picking up of every single item I use and
returning it to its proper place immediately. I’m sorry it didn’t work out - and thank you for
some very wonderful times. Goodbye.”
That was the end of the relationship, and Laura had thrown herself into her work to help
forget it. Whenever regrets set in, she had only to remember the humiliation she had felt that
Saturday morning to feel that she had done the right thing. Overly obsessive or not, she was
stuck with this need to have her surroundings kept orderly, and she methodically went through
the rooms now, putting everything in order as she waited for the cab which would take her to
the airport.
The final items to be picked up were on top of the dresser. She gathered up the plane
tickets and the sheet her printer had spit out at work, confirming that she had a ticket for the
evening performance of the Grand National Horse Show and Rodeo at San Francisco’s Cow
Palace Wednesday 7:30 PM, Section 12, Row GG, Seat 1. As she put the items in the purse, she
thought fleeting that the show might provide a little excitement to offset the work of the
seminar.
She had no idea that it was going to provide more excitement than she had ever
experienced, or would ever hope to.
Chapter 7
Ranny was still fuming from the incident with the horse trailer at the front gate when he
went into the office to clock in and get his work assignment. He almost spat in disgust when he
saw his name listed with the group who had responsibility for the horse show barn today. He
could tell from the style of rig that that blond broad who had cut him off this morning was one
of the horse show people - the cowboys drove trucks which looked like they were actually used
for work, and they usually had a cow dog in the back, one of those strange-looking little
Queensland Heelers with blue eyes and speckled gray or brown coat. Their trailers also looked
well-used, and usually came in the white or rust-brown they’d been painted in at the factory,
not some custom color painted to match the truck.
So he had to spend his day cleaning up crap around those people. He always found it hard
to keep from sneering at them, dressed in their prissy riding clothes. In some of the classes, the
men actually rode in black formal suits and little bowler hats, and the women always looked
pretty butch to Ranny in their tailored riding jackets, pants with leather insets at the knee, and
the tall boots they wore.
He would have much preferred to spend the day down in the lower barns around the
cowboys and cattlemen. They always seemed to be relaxed, laughing and joking around, not
treating the competitions as matters of life and death the way the horse show people did. He
had overheard conversations about $20,000 cutting horses and was in the auction barn when
the bidding on a prize-winning range bull was up to $8,000, so he knew that at least some of
these people had money, though they sure didn’t flaunt it.
Ranny also much preferred the women in that area, too. Of course, he didn’t do anything
but look, and he had to do that on the sly, because the supervisor had spent an hour one day
preaching to them about sexual harassment. It didn’t just apply to the female office workers, or
the women who were on the maintenance crew, but to the participants or spectators as well.
The men were warned that if they were caught standing around staring at some well-built
young lady in tight jeans and T-shirt as she stretched and bent doing her chores, they’d be in
trouble. He also warned that if there was another incident like the one last spring at the Junior
Grand National, involving a peephole in the wall of the women’s shower room, they’d all be in
trouble. Security hadn’t been able to prove that it was one of them who had done it, but they
had their suspicions. Not only did they need to ensure that they didn’t do anything like that, but
they each needed to watch for any incident which looked like it could be construed as sexual
harassment and report it immediately. The management of the Cow Palace did not want to find
itself involved in a lawsuit involving big money and bad publicity.
And Ranny didn’t want to find himself in jail. Not for just staring at girls - if they caught
him and gave him a couple of documented warnings, they could fire him. But that peephole
deal could have landed him in jail, as seriously as they took things like that nowadays. He had
come very close to getting caught that time.
The Junior Grand National in the spring brought in all the young country kids, the 4-H and
FFA members with their prize animals to show and later auction off, and their riding horses for
the rodeo competition. They were mostly between 15 and 19, the boys ranging from skinny,
awkward farm kids to cocky, well-muscled young men who were football heroes as well as
rodeo riders. The girls also were a varied group - from tomboys who had always done a man’s
work, to shy young girls just blossoming into womanhood who focused their attention on the
animals they were raising, to self-assured and fully-developed young women who were prom
queens and cheerleaders back home in high school. But male or female, they all had a fresh,
healthy look, a sharp contrast to the teenagers seen in the streets around the Cow Palace,
where the girls were dressed and painted like young hookers, the boys trying their best to look
like tough young gangsters. The men Ranny worked with privately referred to the country girls
as jailbait, and most contented themselves with admiring glances for a few of the more
spectacular older girls, but Ranny was driven to distraction by that week of being surrounded by
hundreds of young female bodies.
Ranny didn’t remember his father - few people have many memories of events which
happened when they were only 6 months old, and that was Ranny’s age when his father
decided that being around a colicky baby was no way for a young man to spend his time. He
was a truck driver, and just didn’t come home one night. After a couple of days, his wife
reported him as missing. The police found that he had quit his job, but couldn’t find out what
had happened to him. Missing husbands were not high on the list of priorities for the SFPD. A
week later, the mail brought a money order for a couple of hundred dollars in an envelope
postmarked in LA, and Ranny’s mother knew that she wasn’t going to see her husband again.
The money orders came from different cities, so she knew that he was now a long-haul trucker.
The money he sent also was not enough to pay the rent and utilities and buy food for a mother
and child, so she had found work as a cleaning woman for the school district. Embittered
toward men by her bad experience, she had tried to raise her son so that he would be a better
person than his father.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a lot of raw material to work with. He was neither very
intelligent nor very good-looking. When he reached school age, his mother was able to get
moved to permanent day work in the school he attended, and she continued this as he moved
through the school system. Once she had to trade sex for the transfer she wanted, a transaction
which only furthered her low opinion of men, but which she endured with a pretense of
enjoyment because she felt that she had to be there to keep an eye on her son.
Ranny’s school years had not been a lot of fun. He had trouble learning the material, even
though it was watered down to allow the lowest-achieving students to get passing grades. His
surly disposition and unappealing appearance had earned him few friends, and when he did
find some who would let him hang around with them, his mother quickly put a stop to it if she
felt that they were the wrong kind of friends. Like a young wolf cub taught to submit to the
alpha male, Ranny had been raised to fear and respect his mother, and her physical presence in
the school building kept him from engaging in much of the activity enjoyed by his peers - petty
vandalism, minor fights, seeing how far they could go in harassing teachers, and either flirting
with or insulting girls, depending on the attitude of the girls. His exclusion from any interaction
with teenage girls had resulted in the arrested development which had driven him now to
satisfy those longings, although he did nothing but look.
The peephole idea had come to him when he was part of the detail cleaning up the
shower room before the event. Because handling animals or riding horses was often a dirty job,
but young girls always wanted to look their best for the young boys, a large shower room had
been provided in the barn area, and it was always in use. Ranny noticed that one end wall
formed the outside wall of the building, and that it was only the thickness of the exterior
covering. A shelf had been fixed to the wall about four feet up, to hold the hair dryers, bottles
of shampoo and conditioner, and the myriad other items required to transform these young
ladies from working cowgirls into rodeo queens. It was here, hidden by the overhanging shelf,
that Ranny had quickly and furtively drilled a half-inch hole one night when he purposely
lingered in the area, at the end of the shift when the other men had headed back to clock out.
He had prepared a half-inch wooden plug with a small nail driven into its center, and when he
went outside and fitted it into the hole his preparation was complete. Grasping the projecting
nailhead, he popped the plug out and pressed his face against the wall, satisfying himself that
he had an excellent view down the length of the room. He couldn’t wait until it was filled with
young, naked, female bodies.
After the first night, when he had spent hours in the dark with his eye pressed to the hole,
his heart racing from the enjoyment of such forbidden pleasure and the fear of being
discovered, Ranny became obsessed with his creation. The next day, he rolled a nearby large
wheeled garbage bin into a position against the wall, close to the innocent-appearing nail,
where it provided shelter from the eyes of people walking past on the main walkway in front of
the building. Whenever he could , he would swing by that container with some trash to put in it
as an alibi, and quickly steal a peek into the shower room. Sometimes it was empty. Sometimes
there were only a couple of girls, and sometimes they were clothed and just fixing their hair.
But other times, and these were the times when Ranny felt himself glued to the wall and
almost unable to tear himself away, the shower room was indeed filled with young, naked,
female bodies. Some of the girls tried to keep themselves covered as much as possible, whether
from shyness or because they had bought into the image of beauty presented in the teen
magazines and didn’t like the way their own bodies looked. But others, who were used to
communal nudity from their team sports shower rooms, or who were proud of their bodies and
had a touch of exhibitionism in their makeup, made no effort to dress quickly. Ranny loved
them all, but he was especially appreciative of those young goddesses who strutted around the
room, displaying their tanned young bodies with high, firm breasts, flat stomachs with trim
waists, and perfect hips and legs. Under cover of darkness, he hid undetected behind the trash
bin and feasted his eyes on sights that went beyond anything he could ever have imagined
being allowed to see.
His actual experience with women had been very limited. In his high school days, his
mother had been a constant presence in the school, and she insisted that he spend his time at
night doing homework and not hanging around with evil companions. That, combined with his
appearance and manner, had meant that he hadn’t had much of a social life involving girls, and
certainly not with naked girls. In boot camp, he had accompanied some of the recruits on
expeditions to the nearby town where an evening of drinking had been climaxed by sex with
some of the cheap whores who hung around there. Those incidents were dimly remembered,
filtered through the alcoholic haze they’d been experienced in. It was probably as well that the
details were clouded, because girls who would do anything with anyone for a $20 bill were not
exactly the cream of young womanhood in appearance.
Although the encounter with women here was only visual, the sights Ranny saw through
the peephole were etched so clearly that they pushed those dimly-remembered physical
experiences with prostitutes to the dark recesses of his mind. The hours of voyeurism at night
and the desperate moments snatched through the day supplied him with images that he would
be able to call up and enjoy for years to come. He had no illusions about ever enjoying any
physical sex with these girls. Besides being underage, none of them would be at all interested in
a man twice their age who was not particularly attractive, and he had no desire to force sex on
a woman who wasn’t willing, so rape wasn’t something he considered. He did fantasize at night
in bed that one of the young lovelies he had seen that day would walk up to him, in her tight Tshirt and tighter jeans, and say, “Mister, I’m really horny and I’m tired of these young boys who
don’t know what they’re doing. I want a real man, and my pickup has a camper shell with a bed
in it. Would you please come back there with me and see if you can satisfy me?”. But he knew
that was a fantasy with much less chance of ever becoming a reality than his dream of winning
the lottery, so he contented himself with accumulating more unforgettable images.
It all came to an abrupt end, though, and Ranny was very lucky to have escaped without
being caught. The knowledge of what might be hidden on the other side of that wall drew him
like a magnet, and he had taken risks time and again in going out of his way to take trash to that
particular dumpster so that he could enjoy one more vision. He had been there during his shift
one night, breathing heavily, his eye pressed to the hole. One hand clutched a crumpled
cardboard box as alibi and rested on the edge of the open trash bin, the other hand slowly
rubbed the bulge on the front of his pants. Suddenly he heard a truck coming down the
alleyway toward him, and he had barely had time to pull his head away from the wall and make
a show of cramming the cardboard box well down into the bin and closing the lid when the
truck stopped beside him. It was the foreman, and he yelled, “ Come on, Ranny, the boss wants
a bunch of us up at the main building right now! Jump in, and let’s go!”.
There had been no time nor opportunity to replace the plug, the plug which provided the
innocent appearance of a knot in a board, a knot which happened to have a small nail stuck in
it. Ranny was so shaken by the close call that he went home right after his shift, and was almost
asleep when he remembered that he hadn’t put the plug back. He reset set his alarm for 10
minutes earlier, so that he’d get to work on time tomorrow to replace it then. Unfortunately,
when he clocked in the next morning there was the palpable excitement and tension in the air
which told him that something was up, and when he whispered to a co-worker to ask what was
going on, he was told, ”There’s going to be hell to pay! The boss found a peephole in the girls’
shower room wall, and they think one of us did it.”.
When it was his turn to enter the office being used for the interrogations, Ranny
immediately noticed the incriminating plug , which was sitting squarely in the center of the
desk. Forewarned, Ranny was able to keep his eyes off it and to protest his innocence when
questioned, although the boss grilled him longer than some of the others, pointing out that
Ranny had been seen in that vicinity just last night. Apparently, the crew foreman for that area
had arrived at work even earlier than Ranny, and had been driving past the shower building
when he noticed a thin stream of steam trailing up the end wall. It was a cool morning, and the
place was filled with girls getting ready for the day, a preparation which took some of them an
hour or more. The continual cascades of hot water had filled the room with steam, which
escaped out the unplugged hole and exposed Ranny’s secret. One quick glance into the hole
told the foreman that this was not just a natural knothole, and the regular dimensions of it and
the plug found lying on the ground just below verified that.
This foreman had a 16-year-old daughter himself, and he was outraged that some pervert
had been spying on these innocent young girls. Had he been less upset, he might have thought
to catch the perpetrator by hiding nearby and waiting until someone showed up to make use of
the hole, but he was too upset by visions of some deviate staring at his own daughter while she
was in a shower room to think clearly. He was able to realize that it was in his interest to keep
this out of the papers and contained within the ranks of the Cow Palace staff, so he brought in
the head of Security and impressed upon him the need for keeping it quiet. But one of the
maintenance men overheard the conversation, so word spread rapidly among the men and any
hope of nailing the guilty party was lost. The Security boss tried to flush out the perpetrator by
informing them that they were going to take fingerprints from the plug and they had
everyone’s prints on file, so the guilty one might just as well come clean. But Ranny knew that
they couldn’t get prints from the nail, and he wasn’t about to confess to anything, anyway - let
them prove it if they could.
Although he had narrowly escaped being caught, Ranny still regretted the loss of that
peephole into such a world of forbidden delights. He deeply resented the foreman for having
found and exposed his secret. If it hadn’t been for that busybody, Ranny could have replaced
the plug the next morning, and now six months later he could be feasting his eyes on the sight
of more mature women taking showers - and there were certainly lots of these barrel racers
and cattlewomen who he would love to see naked. Their lifestyle of physical work and play kept
their bodies in shape, but Ranny wasn’t going to get to enjoy watching them unclothed.
Still thinking bitterly about the loss of what had been the best part of this job, and had
provided Ranny the most excitement he’d experienced in his life, he trundled a handtruck to
the haystack and loaded a bale of hay to deliver to stall 17 in the show horse barn. Many
owners brought their own hay, but the Cow Palace sold it to those who didn’t want to bother
trucking their own supply. This was excellent quality alfalfa from a top Central Valley grower,
and the price charged was just double the cost. There had been a near disaster one season
when a new manager had attempted to maximize profit by buying inferior hay, when a couple
of horse owners had found a few dried yellow star thistle plants in the flakes of hay and had
threatened lawsuits.
Star thistle wasn’t a native California plant but a Mediterranean import, probably
introduced accidentally when some of the microscopic seeds emigrated along with some
legitimate imports. In its native land a natural form of control was provided by an insect which
laid eggs in the flower bud, and the resulting worm ate out the material before it could mature
and turn to seed. Integrated Pest Management was being tried in California as an alternative to
chemicals, but there was fear that introducing that insect here might lead to decimation of the
state’s artichoke crop, and that was a very valuable thistle species indeed. The hot, dry climate
in the New World’s west coast, which allowed alfalfa to be cut every 28 days for up to ten crops
a year, suited the newcomer perfectly, and now the noxious weed could be found all over the
state. In its early stage in pasture land it was devoured by cattle, who loved the tender green
leaves and whose systems digested it with no ill effects. In the hot summer, it grew spindly
stems which ranged from single stalks less than a foot high in poor conditions to thick, rangy
bushes up to three feet tall in excellent soil. The bright yellow flower gave it part of its name:
the dozen inch-long needles which projected out from and below the head gave it the star
nomenclature. It was a very nasty plant for animals or man to walk through in its ripened form,
but it wasn’t that aspect that made it so feared by horse owners.
When eaten in sufficient quantity, yellow star thistle caused irreversible neurological
damage to equines, leaving them in a condition in which they would stand around with a vacant
stare, head down and tongue hanging out. Like all animals, they instinctively avoided poisonous
plants in pasture or rangeland provided that there was adequate other forage. However, if they
were confined by fences, they would eat plants such as star thistle rather than go hungry, once
the good plants had all been grazed down. Hay growers had a constant battle to keep the plant
out of their fields, since clean hay could be sold at a premium to horse owners. People raising
dairy or beef cattle didn’t care if there were a few such weeds in the hay, since cows had no
problem with it. But horse owners, knowing the possible damage and with considerable
investment in money, training time, or emotion in their animals, were very upset if they
purchased hay and found star thistle plants mixed with the alfalfa.
The Cow Palace had survived the incident and their guarantee of top-quality hay, at a
premium price, had regained the trust of owners, so Ranny now found himself delivering bales
of hay to these people he despised. Although indoors, this area resembled nothing so much as a
mediaeval encampment set up for a jousting tournament. There were no bare, exposed stalls
when the horse show people were present. Instead, they brought their own materials which
covered the stalls to give the appearance of tents, in rich colors of royal blue or purple,
chocolate brown or deep forest green, with scalloped trim in white or gold. They always rented
an extra stall which was similarly tented and held the tack, with gleaming metal and highlypolished leather. This room, with the flap closed, doubled as a changing room. They also
brought metal stands and ornamental chain or rope so that they could fence off an area in front
of their encampment: this was decorated with a few live plants in boxes or stands, and had a
couple of chairs and a small table to hold the champagne bucket and the gourmet deli lunches.
It was all quietly festive, very upper-class and very rich in appearance, and Ranny loathed it
intensely.
As he steered the hand truck through the opening into the enclosure in front of stall 17,
Ranny’s glance took in the ornate crest on the canvas wall ahead of him, a crest which seemed
strangely familiar. Just as his eyes took in the name, “Windmere Farm”, etched on the side of a
leather-bound tack chest, Ranny realized that he was delivering hay to that bitch who had cut
him off at the gate this morning. As he started to tilt the handles forward, his blond nemesis
stepped out of the tack room in front of him, startling him so that he let the hand truck snap to
an upright position too quickly. He had been carrying the bale in a vertical position for better
balance and maneuverability, and also because he could only take one bale at a time that way
and so kill more time. But when the bale was tilted upright too suddenly, it overbalanced
before he could grab it and it fell forward, the 130-pound weight of the tightly-compressed hay
causing a very loud thud as it crashed to the concrete floor.
Unfortunately for Ranny, the bale was about four feet long, and a little Pekinese was
eating from a dog dish which was slightly less than four feet away. The corner of the bale struck
the dish, flipping it over and causing the dog to race, yipping in terror, past its mistress and into
the safety of the tack room. Bits of kibble were scattered across the floor, and Cynthia was livid.
“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 broadranging 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, handmade 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.
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.
*************************************************************************
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-offact, 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.
CHAPTER 13
While Laura and Monty were enjoying their evening at the Cow Palace, not everyone in
San Francisco was having such a good time.
Ranny had finally finished his day shift, and seen his last wheelbarrow load of horse
manure for that day, but he knew that there would be lots more of the same to face tomorrow.
He felt tired from the day’s labor. He was drained by the emotional turmoil caused by his run-in
with that blond bitch in the horse show stables, and the tongue-lashing she’d given him. As he
drove out of the parking lot, he thought again bitterly of how she’d cut him off that morning
when she swung her expensive truck and trailer in front of him, just because she thought she
should go in front of any workman in an older car. But he had to smile as he thought of the
humiliation she must have felt when she stomped into that moist horse turd he’d dropped into
her expensive riding boot.
When he got back to his little rented room, he put a couple of frozen burritos and a frozen
chicken dinner into the microwave and popped the top on a beer from the refrigerator. He
finished the first beer while the oven was preparing his dinner. The microwave’s bell called him
to dinner just as he’d started to slowly turn the pages of the magazine he’d found discarded
behind one of the cow barns that afternoon. It was of the genre referred to by his peers as “tits
‘n clits”. He set the magazine aside so that he could more thoroughly enjoy it later, fetched
another beer, and sat down to his dinner.
When he finally went to bed, he his last thoughts were of the boring, tiring day he’d face
again tomorrow.
He had no way of knowing that circumstances tomorrow would conspire to make it far
from boring, for him and for everyone in the Cow Palace.
Chapter 14
Laura and Monty each had a good sense of humor, which helped the conversation between two
strangers. She kidded him about the way he was dressed, asking if he needed the high heels on his fancy
cowboy boots to make him taller. Monty took it in stride, explaining that the pointed toes made it easier
to slip into a stirrup if a foot came out during a wild ride, and the high undershot heels kept a foot from
sliding all the way through the stirrup. Then she joshed him about the fact that his light blue shirt had
dark blue pearl snaps rather than buttons, but he explained that when a shirtfront or sleeve got caught
when riding through brush, snaps popped open and left the shirt unharmed, whereas buttons would
hold and the shirt would rip.
Monty got his own back when the timed bronco riding began. Monty explained the scoring system
used, with points given both to the horse and to the rider. Shortly after each ride, the announcer would
call out the score, “86”, “78”, “no score”. After the third ride, Monty started guessing at the score as
soon as the ride ended, and he was always within one or two points of the score when it was
announced. Laura was more and more impressed with each success – until she finally noticed the small
screen high in the rafters, where the score was displayed a few seconds before the announcer called it
out. “You cheater!” she exclaimed, playfully punching Monty on the shoulder, and they both laughed
over that.
So the evening passed, with the two young people becoming more and more comfortable with
every passing minute. Monty said he felt like having some nachos and a beer, and asked what she’d like.
Laura usually drank wine, but had noticed that most of the rodeo spectators were drinking beer so
decided she would fit in better if she asked for a beer. They shared nachos and sipped their beers, and
both silently thanked whatever throw of the cosmic dice had resulted in those two seats being occupied
by those two people on that particular night.
When the performance ended, Monty asked Laura if she needed a ride home.
“I took a taxi from the hotel in town to get here, so I can just catch one to go back – and I can
charge it to my expense account”, Laura said, secretly hoping that the evening wouldn’t end that
quickly.
“Taxis will be hard to find now with all these people flooding out of the Cow Palace at the same
time. If you don’t mind riding in a pickup truck, I’d be happy to drive you back into the city”, said Monty,
hoping that she’d accept, because he didn’t want the evening to end this soon, either.
“A ride in a pickup truck with a cattle rancher seems a more fitting way to leave the Grand
National at the Cow Palace than a ride in a 4-door sedan with a cab driver who probably doesn’t speak
English, so I’ll gladly accept your offer”, laughed Laura. Inwardly, she was bubbling over with joy, but
restricted herself to just a broad smile of pleasure as Monty took her hand to guide her through the
throngs of people leaving the performance.
When they reached the truck, Laura was pleasantly surprised to see that although it appeared to
be few years older than a lot of the other trucks in the lower parking lot by the barns, Monty’s pickup
was shiny and clean. When he held the door for her to get on the passengers’ side, she was happy to se
that the interior, too, was clean and obviously well-cared for. Monty, too, was glad that he always kept
the vehicle in such good shape, although he had never considered it remotely possible that on this bullbuying trip he might be taking any female passenger, and such an attractive one as Laura, in his truck.
From long practice, it took Monty only a minute to unhook the electrical connector and the
locking pin from the fifth wheel cattle trailer, drop the tailgate, and crank up the support so that the
trailer rose enough to clear the big hitch ball in the center of the pickup bed. Then he jumped in the
truck, started it up and moved ahead a few feet to clear the trailer overhang, jumped back out to put up
and lock the tailgate, got back in behind the steering wheel, and they were off. Monty didn’t worry
much about leaving the trailer in the parking lot: if it had been a bumper hitch, he would have locked a
chain around an axle and through wheel spokes to prevent theft, but only a specially-equipped truck
could steal his trailer. And there were security guards driving around the lots in golf carts, which
provided extra security.
Laura had watched through the truck’s rear window, fascinated, as Monty prepared the truck to
go solo without the trailer. His movements seemed so effortless, so efficient, but she guessed that some
of the procedures took strength, although Monty didn’t seem to strain at all. Her day was spent with
office workers, and it was only during weekend sporting activities that she ever saw men using their
muscles. Seeing this man doing useful physical work, and doing it with movements so fluid but which
spoke of much strength under his Western clothes, caused a tingle in Laura which she hadn’t
experienced for some time.
“Which hotel are we headed for? I’m not all that familiar with San Francisco”, confessed Monty as
they rolled out the parking lot gate onto the street.
“I’m staying at the Marriott, because that’s where the training class is being held, and it’s right
downtown” replied Laura.
“That one I do know. It’s quite a landmark with that great Art Deco design. Is that place as
impressive inside as it is outside?” asked Monty.
“Well, it certainly is a rather fancy hotel, but my room is quiet and comfortable, which is what I
mainly look for when I’m traveling on business”, replied Laura. She couldn’t help a slight flush rising to
her cheeks when the mention of her room brought a sudden thought of its queen-sized bed, and this
very attractive man sitting beside her on the pickup’s bench seat. Fortunately for her, Monty was too
busy coping with the night’s traffic on the Bayshore freeway to notice.
While Monty was more used to driving on roads with two narrow lanes than on freeways with 4 or
5 lanes in each direction, he was having no problems coping with the traffic. In fact, Laura thought she
had never driven with such a good driver. He had always loved driving since he started operating a
tractor on the ranch when he was 10 years old, and considered it a skill to be executed using all his
knowledge, abilities, and all his attention. For one who was used to scanning several hundred head of
moving cattle, and maneuvering among and around them on his horse, it was familiar work dealing with
the flow of hundreds of vehicles. And his modified Chevy was as responsive as his horse Buck, as Laura
noticed when he tapped the accelerator. She was a good driver herself, and she noticed how he
anticipated situations and either courteously gave another driver a break, or used the truck’s power to
quickly move to a better spot in the flow of traffic. Her appreciation of this man was growing as the
miles passed.
Monty concentrated on his driving, which kept him from enjoying the view in his passenger seat,
much as he would have preferred to be looking at her instead of the traffic. Their conversation on the
20-minute trip was confined to comments about some of the more memorable events they’d seen at
the Grand National, and exclamations over the beautiful nighttime scenes which unfolded as they drove
north. First was the vista to the East, with the string of lights from the cities along the eastern coast of
the broad expanse of dark San Francisco Bay. When they rounded the bend at Hospital Curve and the
magnificent display of the downtown high-rise skyline, the Bay Bridge, Oakland and the East Bay cities,
was laid out before them, Laura gasped in astonishment. She had only seen the city from the air when
she arrived, and the taxi to the Cow Palace had taken a different route out of the city, so this was her
first view of this spectacular night scene.
Monty, too, expressed his appreciation of this sight. It had been years since he had driven into San
Francisco at night – his annual trips to the Cow Palace usually kept him in South San Francisco where
there were cheaper motels. Besides, he had never had the excuse on such a trip of delivering a beautiful
girl home into the city.
When they turned onto 4th street and reached the Marriott with its soaring façade of glass, curved
at the top, Monty swung into the curb and parked. Laura was disappointed, because she was sure he
couldn’t park there so near the front of the hotel and expected that he’d be saying goodbye right then.
To her surprise, he killed the engine and set the parking brake.
“Are you sure you can park here?” she exclaimed, starting to open the passenger door. “I’ll just
jump out so you don’t get a ticket, or get towed.”
“Don’t worry about that. Notice the yellow line on the curb? That means it’s a loading zone, and I
have commercial plates on the truck. I’m safe parked here for a bit. Besides, my mother always told me
to be a gentleman. I’d never just drop a lady off at the curb”, smiled Monty.
Laura relaxed her grip on the door handle and waited for Monty to come around and open the
door for her, taking her hand to help her down from the truck. Neither seemed to notice, or care, that
he didn’t release her hand as they walked toward the hotel and in through the large doors opened by
the doorman. They were still holding hands as they strolled through the ornate lobby toward the bank
of elevators, but when they reached that area Laura dropped her hand, turned to Monty, and smiled as
she said, “Well, I guess I’m home now. Thanks for driving me here, and thanks for making this a really
great night.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see you right to your door, Laura. No ulterior motives, just that I’ve
read about women being attacked in elevators, even in fancy hotels”. Monty’s face wore a concerned
expression as he said this, and Laura felt that the offer was sincere and had no strings attached. This
man was unlike any she’d encountered before. She gladly accepted his offer, and leaned forward to
push the button to call an elevator.
Once they entered the elevator and Laura pressed the button to her floor, they both seemed less
at ease than they had been all night. Others had entered the elevator too, and their presence had a
stifling effect on any conversation. Although the newly-acquainted couple were standing very close
together, they had not rejoined hands. Both were hoping this was not to be just a case of two strangers
passing in the night, neither was quite sure how to move it beyond that.
When they got off on Laura’s floor and started walking down the long hallway past room doors,
Monty felt like he was a young teen again, about to ask a girl for a date for the first time. He desperately
wanted to see this wonderful woman again, but didn’t see how their lives, so different in location and
lifestyles, would allow for that. Almost in desperation, for he saw that Laura had taken her room entry
card from her purse, he stammered, “Did you say that your course here lasted for 3 days?”
“Yes”, Laura said, as she stopped in front of her room door. “I can hardly believe it, but this was
just my first day here. I leave on Friday”.
“You’ve probably had enough rodeo, but tomorrow night is Cattleman’s Night and they start at
5:30 with a huge Santa Maria barbeque in the arena, and a lot of special events later. You’d probably
rather have dinner in one of San Francisco’s famous restaurants, but if you don’t have any other plans
for tomorrow night, I’d be glad to pick you up here and take you to that”.
“I assume that a Santa Maria barbeque, whatever that is, isn’t just hot dogs on a grill?” questioned
Laura.
“Definitely not. Santa Maria is a cowtown a couple of hundred miles south of here, although it’s a
lot more urban now. The local Lions Club did a fund raiser years ago with a traditional California ranch
roundup feast, and now they take that act on the road. Big pieces of top beef, tri-tip cuts, are cooked
and basted with special BBQ sauce over a slow oak wood fire, in large portable barbeque trailers. They
carve off slices, as many and as thick as you want, then load up the plate with the world’s greatest
baked beans and a salad made with lettuce and other vegetables which were probably still growing
yesterday. It’s definitely way more than hot dogs”, Monty enthused.
“I’ve never eaten anything like that, and your description has me salivating already, so yes, I’d love
to go. I’m out of class at 4:30 and there’s a cocktail party afterwards, but I’d much rather get to see
more of the West at the Cow Palace. I’ll meet you in the lobby at 5. And thanks again for a really great
night, Monty”, said Laura sincerely.
She inserted and withdrew the entry card for her room door and opened it with her left hand on
the door handle, turning toward Monty. Although they had gotten to know each other in the few hours
since they’d met, neither felt that it was time yet for a good-night kiss. So Laura held out her right hand
to Monty, and he took it, giving it a slight squeeze as he said, “Thank you for making the night more
enjoyable than I’d expected it to be. I’ll see you at 5 tomorrow. Goodnight, Laura.”
They gave each other one last smile, and Monty turned and started back down the hall as Laura
softly closed and locked her room door. She didn’t know that Monty was so overwhelmed with
emotions from the night’s chance encounter with her that he was hardly aware of where he was going
as he headed for the elevator. But she did know that she was so affected by the night’s encounter that
she just flung herself back on the big queen bed, and had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from
laughing hysterically from sheer enjoyment. Instead of shaking hands, she had wanted to hook her hand
under Monty’s big oval silver belt buckle with his Bar A brand, and drag him into the room onto the bed
on top of her. She couldn’t believe a man she’d met so recently could have such an effect on her, and
she couldn’t wait until tomorrow night to see him again.
In their wildest dreams, neither Monty nor Laura could have imagined just how unpleasantly
exciting the next night would prove to be, and how it would change their lives.
CHAPTER 15
It was Thursday, Cattleman’s Day at the Grand National. When Ranny drove in to work
that morning, he didn’t encounter anything as upsetting as the previous day’s run-in with the
pushy blond and her fancy rig, but he was in a foul mood anyway. He had stayed up too late last
night with his porn magazine, and drank too many beers. Shoveling manure all day while
nursing a hangover was not conducive to making Ranny one of the most cheerful workers that
day.
When he clocked in, he checked the work assignments in the forlorn hope that he might
be given a nicer job today, like delivering hay. But today, he was assigned to the horse show
barn manure detail again, although to a different part than where Cynthia kept her horse. He
was glad he wouldn’t encounter her again, but had a twinge of fear that management
suspected him of that trick with the horse turd, since they’d reassigned him yesterday
afternoon right after that incident, and now again today.
But the mind-numbing work of shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow, then trudging with
the load through the barn and down to the growing mountain of manure below the cow barns,
was enough to push any worries out of his mind. He did the work robotically, as usual not
joining in any of the banter between his fellow workers. When they were sure no supervisors
were around, they passed along information: “Did you check out that cute little blonde jailbait
in the wash stall, rubbing soap all over that big red bull?” “He doesn’t know how lucky he is – I’d
be getting it up if I had her soaping me down.” “And that ass of hers in those tight jeans is one
of the nicest in this place today”.
So the morning passed uneventfully. At lunchtime Ranny fetched his lunchbox with the
sandwiches he’d hastily thrown together that morning, pre-packaged slices of ham and of
cheese on white bread. He had overslept so hadn’t even taken time to spread mayonnaise on
the bread, and had forgotten to add a Coke to his lunchbox. It was food, but the remnants of his
hangover would have been better served with something like hot chicken soup, not dry
sandwiches without any drink. Ranny’s day was not going all that well, but it was about to get
much, much worse.
The day’s downturn towards disaster started innocently enough mid-afternoon, with an
inspection of the premises by a couple of the higher-ups. Although many events used the
facility throughout the year, the Grand National was the premier event held at the Cow Palace.
It had been going on for so many years, and many of the staff had been working the event for
so many years, that things tended to run smoothly with little oversight. But the president of the
Cow Palace organization still liked to tour the whole facility periodically to ensure that
everything was being kept to the high standards exhibitors and spectators alike had come to
expect.
The president’s area of interest this afternoon was the conditions in the lower barns, and
he had chosen the manager in charge of overall labor to accompany him. This year’s president
cut an imposing figure, well over six feet tall. His broad shoulders and slim waist and hips spoke
of the summers he had worked on a ranch while getting an MBA. While he was equally
comfortable in cowboy clothes, he felt that casual dress would diminish his authority around
the grounds, so he was better dressed for today’s tour of inspection. Now in his early 40’s, his
hair was jet-black where it was visible below his snow-white Stetson. He wore a perfectly-fitted
suit from Sheplers Western Wear in a dark blue, with Western-style yokes front and back. His
light blue shirt with darker blue pearl snaps was accented with a black leather braided bolo tie,
set off with a large turquoise slide. His boots were dress cowboy boots, in the plain leather he
had chosen today rather than fancy ostrich, alligator, or other exotic finish. They were old
school, with very pointed toes and high, underslung heels, but the black finish was polished to a
mirror shine. His management style was no-nonsense, and he strode rather than ambled,
forcing the shorter, stouter manager beside him to almost trot to keep up. His eyes swept from
side to side, taking in the appearance of everything, and as he walked, he made brief comments
to his underling, mostly favorable. But occasionally his sharp glance spotted something which
he felt needed improvement, and his comments on those items were dutifully recorded in his
manager’s mind, to be attended to later.
It was when they rounded the corner of the lower cow barn that he saw something which
made him clench his jaw, and tighten his fists, and his face to darken in anger.
Ranny had just upended his wheelbarrow and dumped his last load of manure onto the
pile. Another worker, a black man who had a pleasant personality, and who always got along
well with his fellow workers, had also just dumped his load at a spot just next to, but somewhat
behind, Ranny. As Ranny stepped back, he tripped over the other’s wheelbarrow wheel, and fell
backwards into the pile of hot, steaming, fresh manure.
Yesterday’s run-in with the blond bitch, the distasteful work assignments, today’s bad
lunch, the remains of the hangover from last night’s beer, all combined to push Ranny over the
edge. It didn’t help that his co-workers who saw his fall laughed – not cruelly, but just because
such an unexpected fall, like those recorded on “America’s Funniest Home Videos”, always
caused involuntary laughter. But Ranny took it the wrong way, and he snapped.
He struggled to his feet, getting more covered in the stinking dirt as he extricated himself
from the pile, his face furious. When he regained his feet, he immediately charged at the man
he felt had caused his fall, even though the other worker outweighed him by 30 pounds or
more.
“You black bastard, you did that on purpose!” he screamed, piling into the surprised man.
That was the scene which confronted the Cow Palace president when he rounded the
corner of the barn. One worker, his back covered in shit, was attacking another, screaming
curses. The black man, larger and stronger, was trying to push Ranny away after his initial shock
at being assaulted, and the other men nearby helped by grabbing Ranny’s arms to pull him off.
The sight of this fight was too much for the president to stand, and he didn’t wait for the
labor manager to deal with it. He strode up to the group, and in a tightly-controlled voice,
seething with anger, snapped “Stop fighting! What in hell is going on here?”
Ranny knew he was in trouble, because any fighting, especially when there were
exhibitors and spectators not too far away, was an unforgivable breach of behavior. But he put
up a bold front anyway, saying sullenly, “That man tripped me into that pile of shit!”.
Before the black man could give his version of events, several of the other workers who
had viewed the accident jumped in to his defense, because he was well-liked and Ranny wasn’t.
They protested that it was just an accident, and that Ranny had attacked the other man.
“Hose that man off, take him to the office, and deal with him there”, the president
directed his manager, pointing at Ranny. “We’re not having that kind of behavior on the Cow
Palace grounds, not while I’m in charge”. He turned on his heel and left the scene.
The labor manager was furious with Ranny, angry at his behavior and especially mad
because it had happened in front of the president. He directed Ranny to a nearby water hose,
and he was not overly tender as he sprayed the smelly residue off of Ranny’s back. And he
didn’t seem to care that Ranny was still dripping water when he stood later in front of the
manager’s desk in the labor office, trying to maintain his defiant attitude.
“You’ve really done it this time, Worlham”, he said. “You’ve finally handed me the rope I
need to use to hang you. We’ve had our eye on you for a long time, but you were just sneaky
enough to keep us from nailing you. We’re sure you were the one responsible for that peephole
in the girls’ shower building, and we’re sure it was you who put horseshit in the boot of one of
our richest horse owners yesterday. But we’ve got you dead to rights this time, with no less a
witness than the president of the Cow Palace himself. I’ll have Accounting draw up your final
check and mail it to you tomorrow. Now, give me your ID badge, get out of here, and don’t let
me ever see your face again.’
Ranny knew that it would be useless to protest his innocence or to beg for his job, so he
ripped off his employee badge and slapped it down on the desk. Then he turned and stormed
out of the office, closing the door behind him with the amount of force just below what would
be considered slamming.
If they thought they had seen the last of Ranny Worlham, they were so wrong.
Chapter 16
Monty was nervous when he parked his pickup in the yellow loading zone near the front of the
Marriott on Thursday afternoon at 5. He’d tossed and turned for a long time last night on his bed in the
motel in South San Francisco before finally falling asleep. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable, and
he’d sometimes slept on the ground with nothing under him but the bottom layer of a sleeping bag. But
it was a long time, too long, since he’d spent much time with a woman, and never with a woman as
attractive, witty, down-to-earth yet apparently sophisticated, as Laura. He couldn’t get her out of his
mind, and kept reliving the previous evening, involuntarily smiling at some of the fun things she’d said,
and reflecting on the intelligent curiosity she’d shown in her questions about ranching life and about the
rodeo.
When he woke in the morning, he let the hot shower water cascade over his head for longer than
usual, trying to clear his mind. Was last night all a dream? Had his lack of experience conversing with
such a woman caused him to say anything stupid, or to ramble on about things important to him, and
she was just feigning interest out of politeness? Yet he could recall nothing which had struck a sour
note, and he remembered how quickly she had accepted his offer of a drive back to the city, and then
his invitation to attend the Cattlemen’s Day celebration tonight.
Yet now that he was here to pick her up, for what was in all respects a date, all his doubts rushed
back. Maybe it was just the novelty of attending a rodeo and meeting a real cowboy that had made
Laura so enthusiastic last night, and maybe she’d come to her senses today and regret having agreed to
accompany him. Maybe she wouldn’t even show up: they hadn’t exchanged phone numbers last night,
the name of his motel hadn’t come up, and while he could have looked up the number and called her at
her hotel, his self-doubts had led him to just show up at the agreed-upon time, and see if she was there.
All of his doubts were swept away when he stepped into the lobby, and all of his breath was
knocked out of him. Laura had been sitting in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the lobby, facing
the front entrance, and she stood up quickly with a radiant smile when she saw Monty enter. While she
had felt that her clothing last night had been acceptable, she wanted to fit in more tonight. At morning
break, she had scanned the San Francisco Yellow Pages, looking for Western wear stores. To her
surprise, there was actually one listed in the city, and it was on Third Street, only 2 blocks from her
hotel. She forced herself to pay attention to the rest of the morning’s session, but when they broke for
lunch, she rushed out and around the corner to the store.
The store had obviously been there for along time, judging by the worn, scarred pine floor and old
counters. And it definitely had Western wear – in fact, there was not an article in the place which would
not be at home on the range. Men’s and women’s clothing ran the gamut from simple, everyday
working cowboy wear, to flashy square dance costumes, to elegant dresses and suits of Western cut.
One entire side wall held cowboy boots in every imaginable leather, from plain rough-out suede to
alligator to ostrich. Women’s boots were more colorful, with more exotic patterns on the shafts, in reds,
blues, greens, as well as the traditional browns and blacks. Racks on the other side held cowboy hats,
again with the women’s hats styled the same as men’s but in a variety of colors besides the white,
brown, and black of men’s hats. Glass cases held a huge assortment of Western accessories and jewelry
– oval belt buckles in silver and gold, with embossed patterns or Western scenes, tie pins and earrings in
the shapes of saddles, boots, horses, Longhorn steer heads. It was all so overwhelming that Laura hardly
knew where to begin.
Her thinking had been that she would try to find perhaps just a Western-style blouse or shirt.
Despite the plethora of choices, she quickly settled on a long-sleeved shirt in a pale creamy yellow, with
narrow vertical stripes in a medium brown. It had Western-style yokes front and back, light bronze pearl
snaps, and was cut to fit perfectly over the swell of her breasts and was tapered to hug her small waist.
The mirror showed her that the colors set off her dark hair perfectly. However, she was wearing the blue
dress slacks that she’d worn to class today, and while she could visualize that new top with her jeans of
last night, she suddenly wanted something a little dressier than jeans. As she remembered again how
handsome her seat companion was last night, she blushed slightly as the thought popped unbidden into
her head – she also wanted to look a little sexier.
While many of the women in the audience at the performance last had been wearing jeans, and
most of them looked very good in jeans, a sizeable number did wear skirts or dresses. While wandering
around the concession stand area before and after the performance, she had noticed a few long-legged
young women who wore very short denim miniskirts. These girls were accompanied by much older men
who looked like wealthy ranchers away from home without their wives: she doubted these girls were
their nieces. But she had also noticed a few women with good legs who wore skirts or dresses which
were more modest in length, and they looked very good.
She found a skirt in light brown denim with dark brown fringe on the edges of the pockets and on
the hem. With her height, in her waist size the actual hemline was a couple of inches above her knee,
with the 2-inch fringe giving it at the same time a more modest and yet a more sexy look. When she saw
the reflection presented her with this shirt and skirt, she knew that she would be the equal of any
woman at the Cow Palace that night.
But the shoes, and the hiking boots she’d worn last night, just didn’t go with this outfit. Thinking
how ridiculous it was to buy yet another thing she might never wear again, Laura perused the shelves of
women’s cowboy boots. Before she could talk herself out of it, because she needed to act fast and get
back to the afternoon session at the hotel, she grabbed a pair of boots in a medium tan color, with a
flame pattern stitched on the shaft in dark brown threads. She snatched up a pair of the little nylon
socks they provided for trying on boots, pulled those on, then slid her foot into the unfamiliar footwear.
When her foot reached the bottom of the shaft, she found that she had to hook her fingers into the
leather loops on each side at the top of the boot shaft, and tug on those while pushing her foot into the
boot bottom. But when she had both boots on, she took a few tentative steps and was surprised at how
comfortable these felt. The heels, while high, were not as high as on some of her dress shoes, and the
wider base of the heel made walking easy.
Did she dare complete the picture, and rack up even more charges on her Visa card, by buying a
cowboy hat? Normally, Laura was very decisive. Having to make choices quickly when she was dealing
with a broken computer program in a production environment had given her the habit of making snap
decisions. But would it appear that she was trying too hard to look like something she wasn’t? Would
Monty be embarrassed if she showed up in a Stetson? Would Monty even show up, and she’d have
wasted all this money for nothing?
She decided that enough was enough and had the clerk ring up her purchases, without a hat.
Although the clerk wore Western wear, she could tell that he was gay so she wasn’t offended when he
took much less notice of her than she was accustomed to when being waited on by a man. She hoped
that her new outfit would spark much more interest than that in Monty.
And she was right. When she stood up with a big smile and took a step towards Monty, she looked
so gorgeous that Monty was absolutely awe-struck. As he drove in to the city, he had been remembering
how she had looked last night in her fitted blouse, jeans, and those cute hiking boots. While he still saw
the same beautiful face tonight, the Western clothes she had selected went so perfectly with her
coloring, and the skirt and boots showed off her legs so well that she was simply stunning. Monty stood
stock-still for what seemed like an eternity, and almost stumbled when he forward started to meet her.
“You look wonderful!” he blurted.
“Thanks. I just didn’t want to look like a city mouse among all the country mice tonight”, smiled
Laura, very pleased by the effect she apparently made on Monty.
Monty was recovering some of his poise, and replied, “City or country, there’s no way you’d ever
look like a mouse. That’s really a becoming outfit – you’ll not only fit in tonight, you’ll stand out. You
sure know how to pick an outfit”.
“Well“, Laura replied, “I did notice what all the women were wearing last night and found a store
right by the hotel, so I made some quick purchases, and here I am. I’m glad you like it”.
“Like it? I’ll be the envy of every cowboy in the Cow Palace tonight” Monty said. “But where’s your
hat?”.
“I thought about one, but then I thought I’d look too phony, like I was trying to be something I
wasn’t”, Laura said apologetically.
“No, really, Laura, you look as though you’d been wearing clothes like that all your life. No one
would ever know that you’re a big-city girl. With those clothes, I think you’d look great in a cowboy hat”.
“Too late now”, laughed Laura ruefully. “The store where I bought these closed at 5 tonight, and
my credit card took a beating already on clothes I won’t have much use for after tonight”.
Monty didn’t say anything, but he had a sudden thought: there were lots of vendors selling
Western wear, including hats, at the Cow Palace so he lost no time in getting there. They parked in the
exhibitors’ area by the cow barns, and he kept up a conversation with Laura as he maneuvered her
skillfully through the barn area and into the passage way under the stands where the concessions were.
When they neared one selling cowboy hats, he reached out and plucked a light tan felt woman’s cowboy
hat and set it on Laura’s head.
“Oh!” Laura exclaimed, flustered. She stepped in front of the head-height mirror provided and
adjusted the hat so that it sat squarely on her head like Monty’s, not tilted far back on the head the way
long-ago movie cowboys wore theirs. “I do like the way it looks, but I think I’ve had more than enough
foolish extravagances for one day”.
“No, this is on me.” said Monty, handing the seller several twenties. “This is your souvenir of your
visit to the Cow Palace”.
“Oh, Monty, I couldn’t. I saw what these cost in the store in San Francisco today, and that’s way
too much for you to spend on a souvenir. But thanks for the thought. That was nice of you.”
“No, I insist. It’s perfect with your outfit – you look really great. Besides, I paid a lot less for the
bulls I bought yesterday than I’d planned, so I can easily afford it”, smiled Monty.
“I don’t know how I’ll take this on the plane with me, and I still think it’s too much, but thank you
very much”, Laura said sincerely. “I do love the hat.” She liked how the hat completed her look, and was
secretly pleased with the fact that Monty apparently was very happy with how she looked, too. But at
the same time, she had a sudden momentary feeling of a coming loss, the loss that would happen when
this night ended and they returned to their respective homes, and lifestyles, so many thousands of miles
apart.
She brightened suddenly. “You didn’t tell me you’d bought bulls yesterday. Are they still here? Can
I see them?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, they’re still here, and we can certainly go back down below and I can show you them. In fact,
I should load them in the trailer after the barbeque because I have to have them removed tonight. But
don’t worry, I won’t strand you here after the show tonight – it’s not a problem to go into the city with
the truck and trailer”, smiled Monty. He turned his face slightly away for a moment to hide the look of
pain he couldn’t hide, as he, too, suddenly thought how in just a few hours he and Laura would be
parting.
He could never have imagined the circumstances which instead would mean that shortly they’d be
thrown together closer, and for a longer time, than few other newly-acquainted couples had ever
experienced.
Chapter 17
Early Thursday evening at mealtime saw two very different scenes just a few miles apart in San
Francisco.
Inside the Cow Palace, Monty and Laura were enjoying themselves hugely. To minimize the time
his new bulls would spend in the trailer, Monty had suggested to Laura that they try to get in line early
for the barbeque, then go down to the bull pens and she could see his purchases while they were being
loaded. Since it would take quite a while to feed all the hungry cattlemen and women who were
crowded into the arena, they should be back inside in time for the evening’s performance.
At his mealtime, Ranny was in an ugly mood. After his ignominious firing from his job at the Cow
Palace, he had gone home, showered for a very long time, and changed into clean clothes. Ignoring the
fact that he was now unemployed and would be better conserving his money, he had gone out to his
neighborhood working-man’s bar which served minimal meals from a scanty menu. He ordered a
cheeseburger and fries, then had two quick glasses of draft beer with chaser shots of cheap well
bourbon while he waited impatiently for his food. His surly expression and curt tone when he ordered
did not encourage the bartender to spend any time conversing at that end of the bar. Besides, the older
man, who was also part owner of the place, had been behind the bar on other occasions when this
customer had made one of his infrequent visits here, and he remembered the trivial number of coins
left as a tip. In a bar like this, drinks were paid for when received, but patrons often waited until they
had their last drink before leaving the tip. When the tray of food was passed through from the small
greasy kitchen behind, he slid it down the bar in front of Ranny.
Without bothering to say thanks, Ranny grabbed the burger and started wolfing it down. Halfdone, he set it down and called for another beer and shot, then splashed ketchup from the bottle in
front of him onto his fries. He started picking those up eating them, ignoring the ketchup on his fingers,
but his expression showed no enjoyment in his food, only anger. By the time he had eaten half the fries
and started on the last of the burger, he had also finished his drinks and impatiently waved at the
bartender. Busy talking at the bar’s serving station to the well-built young blond waitress in a scoopnecked white T-shirt and tight jeans, the barman wasn’t quick enough to suit Ranny, who half rose off
his stool to wave one arm furiously while he clenched the remnant of his meal in his other hand. The
bartender barely managed to conceal his distaste for this customer, but the fresh drinks were served
quickly this time, because he hoped that Ranny would finish his meal and drinks and leave the place. The
feeling of depression in that area of the bar was almost palpable, and the bartender liked his place to
have a happy clientele, not surly drinkers like this one. But he had to serve one more set of drinks before
Ranny stood up unsteadily, tossed on the bar a small handful of some of the change he’d been receiving
from his drink and food orders, and lurched out the door. His ordinary drink of choice was just beer, and
the unaccustomed addition of the liquor had made him more intoxicated than usual.
Since Monty had been to the Cattleman’s Day celebrations before, he knew the drill and putting
his hand lightly on Laura’s arm just above the elbow, guided her through the gathering throng so that
they ended up very near the front of the line which was forming for food. She was impressed by how he
managed to get them there so quickly without giving any appearance of being pushy, even pausing for a
moment to say hello to someone he knew, then moving on until they took their place at the end of the
short but quickly-growing line of couples. Then they relaxed and for a moment just took in the scene. A
far cry from suburban backyard barbeques, these were heavy metal bins about 4 feet wide and 10 feet
long holding the glowing oak coals. Insulated metal fenders protected the 4 trailer tires from the fierce
heat of the fire. Vertical frames in an inverted V shape at each end supported a long axle turned by a
spoked metal wheel attached to one end. That allowed raising and lowering the large grate, suspended
by chains, so that the right temperature was always maintained for the dozens of 5- or 6-pound chucks
of prime tri-tip beef slowly cooking on each of the half-dozen setups. Mixed with the mouth-watering
aroma of the basted meat was the not-unpleasant smell of the smoke from the oak wood fires, and the
smoke created a light haze as it filled the arena on its way to ventilator openings high in the rafters.
“Hey, Monty, how’d an ugly old boy like you get to stand beside such a good-looking lady?” was
the boisterous greeting from a big man who stepped out of the crowd and shook Monty’s hand. A bit
older and not quite as tall as Monty, he outweighed him by considerably more than 50 pounds and his
barrel chest and huge arms threatened to pop the snaps on his Western shirt. His deeply-tanned face
under the brim of his big white Stetson wore a huge grin that said he was happy to see a familiar face in
this crowd who had come from all over the Western states.
“Laura, this is my neighbor Curtis Williams, and you’ll have to excuse his manners - they don’t
allow him to wander off the ranch and into the city with civilized folks very often” was Monty’s goodnatured retort. “And Curt, I’m not just standing beside this good-looking lady, she actually agreed to
accompany me to this event. We happened to have seats together at last night’s show.”
The implication that this was their second night together wasn’t lost on Curt, but despite Monty’s
jibe, he was well-mannered and didn’t comment on that further. Instead, he tilted his hat as he took
Laura’s offered hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Laura. I may be married, but I still notice pretty
girls and I’m sure I’ve never seen you around before. What part of the country do you hail from?”
“Oh, I’m not even from this country, and certainly not from the kind of country you guys are from”
she laughed, pleased that her Western clothing apparently made her look to Curtis like a real cowgirl,
not like a dude. “I’m Canadian, from Montreal, in town for a computer course, and I decided to see what
a Western rodeo was like. Monty has been very helpful in educating me – even showing me how to
judge bronc-riding”, she said, giving Monty a sly nudge in the ribs.
“Well, Monty’s as good a teacher as you could have. I’ve known his family for years, and known
Monty since he was born, and he’s one of the best young cattlemen I know. His steers usually top the
market at auction, his place is one of the best-run ranches in our area, and his fences are always kept
up”, said Curt, serious now.
Embarrassed at this unexpected praise, Monty flushed slightly and replied jokingly, “And I’m
expecting to find some of my fences between our places broken shortly. I bought 5 excellent Brangus
bulls yesterday, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get some of that good breeding into that herd of
mangy Herefords you run”.
Laura wasn’t used to hearing grown men exchange insults, even good-natured ones, and was
shaking her head and laughing as Curtis tipped his hat to her once more, and said, “Very nice to have
met you, Laura, and Monty, I’m sure I’ll see you back home sometime. You two enjoy the evening, now”
and he smiled as he turned and wandered off to find the end of the ever-growing line.
“He seems like a nice man, your neighbor” Laura said when he’d left.
“He is. Curt is one of the best. But actually, all my neighbors are nice people. The ranches are so
far apart – Curt’s house is two miles from mine – that we depend on each other if we need something
without driving to town for it, or if we get in a jam. When we work cattle, all the neighbors get together
to help gather the cattle and brand the calves, and then the owner throws a big barbeque to repay
them. Anyone who was nasty or unfriendly would have a pretty hard life of it out in the country”.
The line had finally started to move, and Laura was silent as she thought over what she’d heard
during the last few minutes. She could tell that Curt had been completely sincere when he had given
Monty such high praise, and it reinforced Laura’s high opinion of this man she’d only met last night. And
the easy way the two neighbors had acted with each other, and Monty’s description of the life with his
ranching neighbors in the country, made her realize that life there must be much different from life
among the varied types of people crowded together in the big city. Much different, and probably, she
thought, much better.
Then they reached the tables serving the food, and she realized that she was really hungry. She’d
skipped lunch to do her shopping for the Western outfit and hadn’t eaten anything since a hurried
breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. So when the man carving thick slices off the steaming chunk of tri-tip
asked, “Two slices or three, miss?” she smiled and said “Three, please. I skipped lunch today”.
‘This should make up for lunch, then” he said as he sliced 3 thick slices and laid them on her plate,
their centers pink and their edges darkly crusted with the spices which had been rubbed in and the
sauce basted on as the final step in cooking.
One fragment of meat had dropped away from the slices, and Laura sneaked it off her plate and
into her mouth as she carried the plate along to the next table to get the baked beans. The taste was
indescribably good, nothing like any beef she’d eaten before, and the texture surprised her with how
tender it was. She could understand now how she’d be able to cut the meat using only the serrated
plastic knife in the package of utensils, and the sample of meat she’d eaten made her eager to get
started. But first, one aproned woman ladled a big scoop of savory baked beans, with fragments of
onion and bacon visible, into a second compartment on her plate, and a second woman used large tongs
to fill the third compartment with crackling-fresh salad. Laura chose blue cheese from the selection of
dressings available on the last table and drizzled some lightly over her salad. Unlike the vegetables she
usually ate, which had traveled many miles and days to her grocery store in Montreal, the lettuce and
other vegetables in the salad had been growing in fields in the Salinas Valley only yesterday. She knew
she didn’t need to spice up or disguise the taste of this salad with a lot of dressing.
Monty had followed behind, loading up his plate too, and pointed to a couple of empty seats
where they could sit to enjoy the meal. And they did enjoy their evening meal to the fullest, both the
excellent food and each other’s company here in the Cow Palace on Cattlemen’s Day.
Little did they know that a disgruntled former employee of the Cow Palace had finished his
evening meal at about the same time, nor could they have had any inkling that information would have
any meaning for them.
Chapter 18
When they had eaten the last morsel of food, exclaiming over the taste of each item, Monty took
their trash to a nearby barrel and then took Laura’s hand to better lead her through the throng in the
arena. When they took one of the many exits under the stands and were out into the wide passageway
circling the building, it seemed natural to keep holding hands although the crowds here were much
thinner. There were a few people who hadn’t gone to the barbeque, and they were checking out the
goods in the vendors’ stands, or purchasing beer, hot dogs, or other foodstuffs to tide them through the
coming performance.
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.
Then he left the apartment, went to his car, and headed for the last time to the Cow
Palace.
CHAPTER 20
When Monty had positioned the truck and trailer where they could exit the grounds
quickly after the performance, he and Laura started toward the main building. The Cow Palace
itself was up on higher ground, with the building used currently as a horse barn attached to the
west side. The two cattle barns and the acres of open pipe corrals were down below to the
south. As they started uphill, Monty glanced at his watch and said, “Rounding up my 5 bulls
took longer than I thought. It’s already 8 o’clock and the performance always starts right on
time at 8. I’m glad you got to see the opening last night, because it will be pretty much the
same tonight – maybe a little more because it’s Cattleman’s Night. But let’s hurry anyway”.
He took Laura’s hand and they walked briskly up the slope and entered by the wide
doorway where the livestock were taken into the ring. The sharply-pitched seating around the
area meant that there was a lot of space under the stands, all around the oval of the building.
Vendors and food concessions were wedged back in the smallest space, leaving a wider path for
customers to circulate, checking the wares and searching for the right tunnel-like entrance
which led up a dozen steps to place them in the spectator area, from which point they could go
up to their seats. If they were among the favored few, they went down instead of up, down to
box seats in the first six rows nearest the action. As Monty and Laura started along this circular
path, they could hear someone welcoming the guests over the loudspeaker, although they
couldn’t distinguish the words.
A few minutes before they reached this point, Ranny had come the same way. He had
entered by the employee gate, flashing his old ID badge. Since he had just been fired late that
afternoon, the grapevine hadn’t yet gotten the word to everyone, and the guard on that gate
wasn’t aware that Ranny was no longer an employee. He did wonder at the way Ranny was
dressed, since it wasn’t really cool enough this evening to warrant such a long coat, but
shrugged it off as just another thing marking that particular employee as being a strange one.
Ranny breathed a sigh of relief at getting into the place so easily – he was afraid that if
he’d tried to come in through the normal entrance to the building, there might have been
metal detectors. But he was in, and had his badge pinned in front of his coat to give legitimacy
to his presence here, as he hurried, head averted to try to avoid detection by anyone who knew
him. He had timed his arrival so that he would be getting to his selected seat area entrance
tunnel right at 8 o’clock. He knew the schedule from previous years, and it never varied. The
Cow Palace president would be in a special announcer’s box at the south end about 5 rows up
from the arena wall, at a small table where a few invited guests sat. All the lights would be
suddenly and dramatically completely darkened, leaving only a soft spotlight shining on him,
and he would greet everyone, welcome them to the Cow palace on Cattleman’s Night, and
jokingly ask if everyone had had enough to eat. Then he’d announce the opening of the
evening’s performance, and in the still-black Cow Palace arena, the spotlight would shift to the
open gate at that end of the ring. One by one, the 7 flags which had flown over California would
be spotlighted as a cowgirl carried it, racing at top speed around the ring.
At least, that was the normal sequence of events.
Tonight, Ranny had arrived at the bottom of the tunnel steps right at 8 o’clock, just as all
the lights in the arena went black. He stepped quietly up the steps, and was relieved to see
through the darkness that the older female usher stationed at the top of the stairs was on the
side away from the speaker’s podium, whispering seat directions to a couple of latecomers
blinded by the sudden darkness. Ranny’s position was about 75 yards from where the president
stood in the pale spotlight. Ranny couldn’t make out the man sitting next to him, but he’d
overheard the maintenance manager boasting to a foreman that he’d been invited to sit with
the president tonight. That was the manager who’d fired Ranny this afternoon.
The president, standing tall under the spotlight in his well-cut Western suit, started his
speech: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Cattleman’s Night at the Cow Palace. I
saw a lot of you enjoying the delicious barbeque earlier, and I hope –“.
His announcement was cut off by a staccato burst of fire from an automatic weapon, and
he crashed forward onto the table, then slumped to the side against the maintenance manager
who had pitched back in his seat, blood streaming from fatal wounds in the head and chest.
Ranny, hidden in the darkness, had quietly reached inside his long black coat with his left hand
just as he had practiced in his apartment. He had grasped the M-16 by the front stock, swung it
quickly to his shoulder, this time with his finger inside the trigger guard rather than outside it,
and fired a quick burst, killing not only his two targets but also an unfortunate wealthy rancher
sitting in the private box behind them, and wounding several people. He dropped the gun,
supported by its shoulder sling, rushed down the steps, and headed out the passageway toward
the nearest exit at the south end.
Monty recognized the sound of gunfire immediately, and grasping Laura’s hand more
firmly, said urgently “Someone’s shooting in there! We need to get out of here, fast!” and
turned back the way they’d come.
As they ran toward the south entrance, they were joined by others who had left their
seats and were already starting to stream out of the tunnels. They could hear screams from
inside, and people yelling –
“Get an ambulance into the ring!”
“Get a paramedic up here!”
“Does anybody see who was shooting?”
And someone who had commandeered the president’s microphone urged “Take cover by
your seats – there’s too many people trying to leave at once and you’re going to get injured”.
Some saw the wisdom in that, and crouched down where they were, trying to stay below
the seat back in front of them. Others tried frantically to escape, crowding the stairwells,
panicked by recent incidents across the nation where random acts of gun violence had resulted
in many deaths in a suburban shopping mall and in a rural high school. But people began to
calm down when they realized that the shooting had stopped, and the initial chaos was being
replaced by a more orderly evacuation.
Since Monty and Laura had not yet entered the stands, they were in the forefront of the
mob of people rushing out the south entrance. They had started to slow down once they were
well clear of the building, when Monty suddenly felt something hard pressed against his back.
Ranny had pulled his .38 from his pocket and used the flap of his long coat to help conceal it as
he stuck it in the back of the tall cowboy ahead of him.
“Keep running to your car, or you’ll be as dead as those two bastards back in there!”
Ranny hissed. “You two are my ticket out of here”.
Monty partially turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Alright, just take it easy and
I’ll get you to my truck down by the cow barns, but let the girl go”.
“Forget that” Ranny snarled. “Two hostages are better than one, and don’t get any ideas
about being a hero or your girlfriend will get it first”.
“She’s someone I just met, and she shouldn’t be involved in this” Monty protested, as all
three ran down through the dim light past the cow barns.
“She’s coming too, so shut up!” was Ranny’s furious response.
When they got to the truck and trailer, Ranny sized up the situation quickly. He had been
around these rigs for years, and he saw that Monty’s was a fifth wheel hitch, with a small
enclosed compartment which extended over the pickup bed and above the hitch. It had a door
just large enough to squeeze in a couple of bales of hay or a couple of saddles, and had a small
sliding window in the front which could be opened to provide ventilation to the animals in the
trailer.
“I’m going to get in there to hide, and then you’re going to drive me out of here. If you get
any smart ideas about tipping off anybody, I’ve got this and I’ll sure use it again” and Ranny
flipped his coat open to let them see the M-16. “Now give me your cell phones!”.
Laura, still in shock from this sudden terrifying turn of events, pulled hers out of her purse
without thinking and handed it to Ranny, who stuck it in his shirt pocket. Monty said “I don’t
have one – there’s no service out where I live”.
“Good girl. Now, both of you stand right here until I get inside that compartment, and
remember this gun has 30 rounds. Then you, girly, stand by the passenger door where I can see
you, and you, cowboy, close this door behind me, then both of you get in the truck and drive
out of here. And no hero stuff or you’re both dead”.
He stepped from the truck’s rear bumper over the tailgate, then unlatched and opened
the little door on the side of the compartment. He waved the revolver menacingly at the two
standing beside the truck, then stepped up onto the pickup’s side to get close to the opening
and awkwardly backed into the tight space. Ranny was thankful, for the first time in his life, that
he wasn’t a large man, because the space was small. Still pointing the revolver out the
compartment’s side door at his two hostages, he slid open the small window in the front of the
compartment and wriggled around from his prone position to get the M-16 pointing toward
that opening.
“Now close this door and get in the truck and drive out of here. And remember that this
gun is covering your girl” Ranny hissed. “And open that window in the back of your cab so I can
yell at you if I need to”.
Laura was standing by the passenger door as she’d been told, so Monty had no choice but
to do as directed by this madman with his guns. They got into the truck, Monty slid open the
small window in the pickup’s cab behind their heads, and Laura slid across the wide bench seat
close to Monty. He fired up the truck, and the deep rumble of the dual exhausts provided some
cover so they could talk without their voices carrying to Ranny’s station about 8 feet above and
behind their heads.
“Oh, Monty, what are we going to do?” she questioned quietly, her voice quavering
slightly despite her effort to keep it even. She lived in a big city, but Montreal was so crime-free
compared to most American cities that this violence was something entirely outside of her
experiences to date.
“From what he said, it seems like he had a grudge against specific people in the Cow
Palace. I think if we stay calm and do what he says until we can find a way to get clear of him,
we’ll be OK” Monty replied seriously, hoping that what he said was accurate and not just
something to calm their nerves. Laura twisted her legs away from Monty’s side so that he could
use the floor-mounted stick shift, and they started rolling toward the exhibitors’ exit gate.
The gate guard ran out of his booth and waved at them to stop – he had just gotten a
phone call telling him there had been a shooting in the building. Monty was contemplating just
accelerating past him instead, although that might have provoked a chase. That decision was
taken away from him when a black and white CHP cruiser, with siren shrieking and all lights
flashing, swerved in off the street with rubber burning off the tires as he braked hard. The way
was blocked, and Monty had to stop, which he tried to do smoothly so as not to arouse
suspicion. He whispered to Laura, “Try to stay calm, and I’ll try to get us through this. If there is
any shooting, drop to the floor under the dashboard”. He squeezed her hand, and rolled down
the window.
The CHP officer had his gun out in his right hand, his heavy flashlight in his left, as he
cautiously approached the truck. When he saw Monty’s tall figure with his cowboy hat, he
relaxed slightly, but still held his gun ready.
“The report said the shooter was a small man with a long black coat, and that doesn’t look
like you”, he said to Monty. “But I can’t let you leave until I get your name and address, and
check your trailer. Let’s see your driver’s license first, please.”
“No problem, officer” Monty said, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and flipping it open
to the license. “But if you need to get that for everyone here, it would be a lot quicker if you
just recorded our exhibitors’ number because the Cow Palace has all our information tied to
that number”.
“Good suggestion” the cop replied, handing back the license, as he copied down the
number from the yellow parking sticker in the bottom left corner of the truck’s windshield. “Let
me check the trailer and then you can be on your way”.
The trailer had solid metal sides about 4 feet tall, and a metal roof with sides slightly
curved down. Between the side walls and roof was a foot or more of open space for ventilation,
with a couple of horizontal iron bars to keep animals from sticking their heads out. Fearing that
the shooter might have hidden in the trailer, the CHP officer crouched down as he approached
the side. He turned on the flashlight and cautiously raised it in his left hand, sticking it in the
open space above the solid wall, illuminating the inside. Holding the light at arm’s length to
keep his head well away from that spot in case there was someone in the trailer, he slowly
lifted his head up to peer inside, holding his gun up to the opening with his right hand.
The bull nearest that point, curious to see what was going on, lifted his head at the same
time. The officer, instead of seeing emptiness or a fugitive, was suddenly confronted instead
with a massive black bull head. He leapt back, and only his training kept him from firing his gun
reflexively at such a startling sight.
“You should have warned me about the bulls” he said to Monty, laughing shakily. “I guess
no one would dare hide in there with those big brutes”. The start he had gotten from that
encounter had rattled him, and it didn’t occur to him to check the small compartment above
the trailer hitch. “You can leave with your load, but if you think of anything that might help, call
us.”
“Thanks, officer. We were loading the bulls and didn’t see anything until people started
running out of the building” Monty said, hedging the truth, but finally able to relax the tightness
in his back. He had been half expecting the hidden man to panic when he saw the cop and start
shooting, so it was a huge relief to be cleared to leave.
He put the truck in gear again, starting off slowly to avoid jostling his load – his load of 5
bulls which he wanted, and one man whom he definitely didn’t want.
CHAPTER 21
For the first few minutes, neither Monty nor Laura spoke, each too shaken by this totally
unexpected, unsettling, and unfamiliar experience to say much. When the silence was broken,
it was Monty who spoke first.
“Laura, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this has happened. I wanted to treat you to a
good experience for your last night in San Francisco, and instead I’ve dragged you into a
nightmare”, he said sadly.
“Oh, Monty, don’t apologize, please” Laura begged, putting a hand on his arm. “None of
this was your fault, and I heard how you tried to get him to let me go. That was very brave of
you.” Then she brightened, despite the danger they were still in. “Besides, I did love the Santa
Maria barbeque tonight, and it was every bit as good as you said. And I really enjoyed helping
you load your bulls. That was definitely a unique experience, and one I won’t forget.” Then her
mood changed again, and she added soberly, “I guess I won’t soon forget this part of the
experience, either”.
“When we get a bit further out, I’ll see where he wants to go and maybe we can get rid of
him” Monty said hopefully. “We’ll just have to hope for the best, try to not anger him, and we’ll
get this behind us”.
As they drove south, several times they were met by police cars from different
jurisdictions racing north with lights and sirens, obviously heading toward the scene of the
shooting. When they had driven several miles south, into a more deserted area of industrial
buildings, Monty swung the truck in to the curb and left the engine idling. He checked to ensure
that there were no pedestrians around, turned his head to the small opening in the rear
window, and yelled back to Ranny, “Do you want out in South San Francisco, or San Jose, or
where can we drop you?”
“Are you headed south?” Ranny yelled back.
“Yes, but I’ll be happy to take you wherever you want to go” Monty replied.
“Mexico is south, and that’s where I want to go” Ranny, yelled back, having been thinking
for the past few minutes about a possible destination. “But we’ll go to your place tonight and I
can make my plans there. Let’s get going!”.
As they started up, heading in the direction of the freeway, Monty said unhappily, “Well,
so much for getting rid of him quickly. No idea whether he expects to take the truck to go to
Mexico, or whether he plans to take us with him as protection. It doesn’t sound as if he’s
thought this all the way through”.
“But if he just takes the truck and leaves us, wouldn’t he be afraid we’d put the cops on
this trail? Doesn’t that mean he might shoot us?” Laura asked fearfully.
“I really think he just had it in for certain people, and I don’t have the feeling he’ll shoot us
unless we try to escape or alert the police. I think he’d just tie us up securely if he leaves us,
rather than shooting us. But we have about 2 hours’ drive, so let’s see what we can come up
with to try to get out of this” Monty said, with more assurance than he felt.
They were silent with their thoughts for a while, and then Laura said, “I wonder if I should
write something on paper and drop it out the window?”
“There’s so much other trash along the freeway I doubt it would be found, and I’m afraid
he might see it blowing out the window and get angry” Monty replied, not voicing his fear of
what that anger might turn to. “But thanks for giving me an idea, Laura. In about 100 miles,
there’s a highway rest stop. We could say you need to use the restroom, and when you’re in
there, you could leave a note where someone would be more likely to see it”.
“We should be thinking about what kind of message to write while we’re driving. I have a
pen in my purse, and there will be toilet paper in the restroom” Laura said, quickly reverting to
her normal habit of analyzing a problem and coming up with possible solutions. “But also, let’s
talk to take our minds off what’s in the trailer behind us. You go first, Monty. Tell me about
your ranch, and what work you do there, besides chasing bulls into trailers. Do you do the calf
roping and bronc like riding we saw last night?”
“Bronc riding, no”, laughed Monty. “I’m not sure whether I’m too old, too chicken, or too
smart for that. I have a well-trained horse who does everything I need him to do, without any
bucking. As for calf roping, we definitely do that, but not the way they do it in competitions.
Neighbors are always more than happy to get together to help, and they enjoy showing off
their roping and riding skill, but any cattleman who saw his calves treated that roughly would
kick the offending cowboy off the ranch immediately”.
“So how do you handle the calves differently, then?” questioned Laura, eager to add to
her knowledge of a field completely new to her and happy to have something to take her mind
off the predicament they were in.
“Well, it actually involves teams of 4 or 5 people, usually. The best ropers catch the calves,
one roping the head, the other the hind feet, but they don’t chase them any more than
necessary, and don’t drag them once they’ve been roped. Someone on the ground, often a
woman or a younger person, grabs the calf and throws it, which is fairly easy when it’s roped at
both ends. Once on the ground, that person kneels on the calf to hold it down and loosens the
rope on its neck enough to slip one front foot through the loop also. That ensures the rope
won’t choke it, and helps to keep the calf down. A fourth person runs over with a branding iron
and stamps the brand in the right spot for that ranch owner, on the hip, ribs, or shoulder. The
same person, or another, depending on how many people are available, gives any vaccination
or medication, and if it’s a bull, castrates it”, Monty explained.
“A couple of questions”, Laura laughed. “First, you said it was often women or kids
holding the calf. Do you mean only big macho men get to do the fun stuff like roping?”
“No, we’re not male chauvinists at all” Monty protested. “Far from it. Some of the best
ropers are women and kids, and they’re always welcomed. But some people are not as skillful,
because roping really is harder than it looks, especially for catching the heels, and others just
prefer to work on the ground crew”.
“OK, next question. Do you mean you brand the calves without any type of anesthetic?”
Laura asked, concern in her voice.
“Check the thickness of the cowhide on those new boots of yours, and I think you’ll find
it’s pretty thick. The iron is very hot so it’s only held for a few seconds. I don’t expect it hurts
much more than when you got those pretty little earlobes of yours pierced”, Monty teased.
“Well, I’ll not believe it doesn’t hurt them until I see it. If I ever get that chance”, Laura
added wistfully, thinking of how nice it would be to spend time with this wonderful man on his
ranch, but fearing that the outcome of this trip might mean that she wouldn’t be experiencing
much of anything any more.
Then Monty turned the tables by asking her about her work, and she described briefly
what it was that she did in the field of information technology. Since it was so technical, and
not really interesting to someone not in that field, she wrapped that up quickly and instead told
him about her city. She described her favorite restaurant, in a stone building in Old Montreal, a
building older than any in California. She told him about the nighttime parade through the
streets, honoring St. John Baptiste, Quebec’s patron saint. Mount Royal’s sloping parkland was
her favorite urban hiking spot, and a great place for watching any fireworks displays. She
described the views from the top of Mount Royal, and how from her office window she could
see the mighty St. Lawrence River through spaces between the skyscrapers. The swift, silent,
and clean Metro subway was another thing she liked abut her home town.
But enthused as she was describing Montreal, she was aching to know more about
Monty’s life. She was saddened to hear how his parents had died in the tragic accident which
had made him ranch owner at such an early age, and she put her hand again on his arm in
sympathy. She pressed him to describe the ranch, although it seemed she would be getting to
see it if their unwanted passenger had his way
. He told her how the little river ran through the middle of the ranch, making water
available for the cattle to drink so that he didn’t need many storage tanks or wells. Unlike most
California rivers, which spent most of the summer and fall as dry sand beds, this one was fed by
a reservoir upstream so carried water year-round. Unaccustomed to describing the ranch, he
drew on his memory of what he saw as he rode Buck up hills and down swales, through
foothills dotted with oak trees, and up to the top of the highest peaks on the ranch. He
described the wildlife he saw frequently: coyotes, deer, bobcats, rattlesnakes, possums, even a
mountain lion glimpsed one memorable morning years ago. He told her of the cycle of life in a
year on the ranch. In the late fall, the calves were born so that the nursing cows would have
feed when the rains started. By spring, the calves were also eating grass, and had grown big
enough that it was time to gather the cattle in. Then the calves were branded and decisions
were made about keeping the best heifers to put back into the herd while culling out any old,
crippled, or barren cows. The cattle leaving the ranch were either hauled by the owner to be
sold at the local auction, or if there were many steers and heifers, sold as a lot to buyers who
came with huge double-decked cattle trucks. Those were sold by weight, with the truck being
weighed empty and again loaded, to determine total weight of the livestock.
“Sorry, I don’t usually talk about the ranch, and I guess I got carried away”, Monty
apologized sheepishly.
“No, no, it’s all new to me and I love hearing about it. It seems so much more interesting,
so much more real than what I do”, Laura exclaimed. “But if we’re getting near the rest stop,
what do you think we should write as a message?”
“I’m thinking maybe the license number of the truck, then something like “S F killer in
truck”. Does that sound like anything you’ve been thinking of?” Monty said thoughtfully.
“Yes, the license number is good, because they can track down quickly who that belongs
to and where you live. It will also alert the police to watch for that truck. Maybe if there’s time
and space on the paper I could add the make and color of the truck”, Laura replied.
“I think there are probably a half dozen stalls in the place, sine it’s a women’s restroom,
and I don’t think you’ll have time to write in every one – he’ll get suspicious if you’re gone too
long. How can we get around that?” Monty mused.
“I’ve got it!” Laura suddenly exclaimed. “I have lipstick in my purse, too, and I can write on
the mirror. Then anyone coming in will see it for sure – women can’t help looking at a mirror”.
“Laura, you’re great. That’s a perfect solution. Maybe it would help avoid suspicion if you
could hide the lipstick somewhere so that you don’t need to carry your purse inside, and he can
see that both hands are free.”
“This skirt does have a small pocket, so I won’t need to hide it in my bra” Laura laughed,
then blushed suddenly as, unbidden, her mind pictured herself unbuttoning her blouse in front
of Monty and secreting the lipstick in her bra between her breasts. Had she turned her head,
she would have seen that Monty, too, was blushing because he was picturing exactly the same
thing.
“Better get ready, because it’s coming up in about a mile. I sure hope he falls for this”,
Monty worried.
He started slowing as they approached the entrance to the rest stop, and then swung in,
relieved to see that there were no other vehicles this late at night.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Ranny yelled angrily from his hiding place. He, too, had
seen that the parking lot was empty so he wasn’t afraid to yell loudly.
“She really has to go – she can’t wait any longer” Monty yelled back. “She’ll only be a
minute, but she’s got to go”.
“Dammit, I should just let her piss her pants” Ranny said furiously. “All right, get in there,
do it, and get back out here. You stay right where you are, cowboy, and both of you remember
this rifle has 30 rounds”.
“Thanks, mister” Monty called, as Laura jumped down from the truck and walked quickly,
pretending that she did really need to go, letting her arms swing at her sides to show that her
hands were empty.
Only a minute had passed when Ranny yelled, “Hey, I’m going to check on her. Get out,
walk around the front of the truck, and come open this door, and remember that an M-16 will
go though this thin metal like paper”.
“She’ll be out in a minute” Monty protested, trying to stall.
“I don’t care, I don’t trust you two. Now get me out of here before I count to 10, or you’re
dead”.
Reluctantly, Monty did as ordered. While Ranny was getting to the ground, his M-16 in his
hands, Monty tried desperately to think of a way to warn Laura. Nothing came to mind.
Whistling or singing would seem out of place, seeming to accidentally blow the horn would also
be suspicious. As they got near the door to the women’s restroom, he started talking fairly
loudly to Ranny, telling him that Laura would be out and they’d be on their way in a minute, but
just then Laura emerged from the doorway. She seemed surprised to see them heading
towards the women’s side, and asked “Aren’t we going? I’m ready to leave“.
“Not until I check this place out” Ranny snarled. ”I started thinking maybe you two were
up to something with this stop here. Get in there, both of you” and he waved the gun to herd
them inside.
Reluctantly, the couple walked fearfully inside, expecting the worst when the gunman
followed them. But to their surprise, he started laughing when he saw the message written in
red lipstick on the central mirror.
“I knew it” he crowed. “Everybody always thinks they’re smarter than me. But I was
suspicious right away when you stopped here”.
Then his mood changed, and he snapped angrily, “Now grab a handful of paper towels
and rub that crap off that mirror. And both of you stand against the washbasins where I can see
you while I check out the stalls to see if you did anything stupid in there”.
He held the M-16 on them as he backed into each stall in turn, glancing quickly at the back
of the door, the walls, and the toilet paper to see if any additional messages had been left.
Satisfied that none had, and that the mirror now had just a reddish tint with no words visible,
he motioned the guilty two out the door.
“We’re a long piece from the city now. Just so you won’t be tempted to try any more
tricks, and so you can’t be plotting, I’m going to ride up front from now on” Ranny said, and
Monty and Laura felt their hearts sink at this news. When they got in the truck, Laura slid as far
away from Ranny as she could, and as close as she could get to Monty so that their thighs were
touching. This time, she swung her legs toward him, tucking them under and behind his so that
he could handle the truck’s stick shift. Her fringed short skirt left her knees and a few inches of
leg above the knee exposed, and she wished desperately that she had worn jeans again tonight.
She was proud of her legs and happy to show them off for Monty, but she definitely didn’t want
this uncouth man sitting against the passenger door to be ogling her. Maybe besides being a
killer, he was a rapist.
Normally, Ranny would have been very interested in her legs, and in the rest of her
beautiful body, but the enormity of what he’d done had finally settled in during the long trip,
cramped up in his hiding place. He did glance occasionally at her legs as her skirt crept up in
spite of her attempts to keep it patted down, but he was so distracted that he didn’t really take
in how beautiful this woman was, nor did he get aroused. Laura needn’t have worried. Ranny
had far too much on his mind to think of women.
So they rode in silence, Ranny asking once, “How much longer until we get to your place?”
Monty replied, “Less than a half hour now, and we’ll be there”.
Ranny reached over without asking and turned on the radio. He turned the dial past
Spanish stations, Christian stations, and syndicated canned national talk show stations until he
found one playing music. But when the DJ broke in with an announcement about a shooting at
the Cow Palace, Ranny snapped the radio off and sat in sullen silence. Monty and Laura were
silent too, each thinking their own thoughts and wondering how this would all play out. They
had been reassured when he didn’t explode at the rest stop incident, but they had no
assurance that he would always treat them that leniently.
Shortly, they turned off the freeway onto a 2-lane county road, which meandered along
the edge of the foothills, the road builders not wanting to cover valuable flatland with a road.
Monty had to drive more slowly here, aware of the long trailer behind and its valuable cargo of
bulls. Then they turned off onto an even narrower road, which butted against the county road
in a T. This road had no painted line to divide lanes. It hugged the edge of the hills even closer,
so that it wound in and out, the straight stretches rarely as long as a hundred yards until the
next curve appeared.
They bumped over the steel rails of a cattle guard, and Ranny broke the silence by asking
impatiently, “Are we ever going to get there?”
“We’re on the ranch now – it’s on both sides of the road. We’ll be at the house in a few
more minutes”, Monty replied.
Laura was impressed by the apparent size of the ranch, but didn’t say anything. Ranny,
however, sneered ”So you must really be a rich bitch to have this big a spread”.
“No, it’s just a little place” Monty lied. “And I inherited it, and there’s no money in raising
cows”. He didn’t want this man to get any ideas about robbery or kidnapping.
In another minute, they swung off that narrow paved road onto a dirt driveway and
stopped in front of a metal gate. Monty reached out the window and pushed a button mounted
on a fencepost, and the gate slowly swung open with the hum of an electric motor. They drove
through and Monty swung the rig around in front of a corral, then backed the trailer up to the
corral gate.
“I have to unload these bulls, then we can go up to the house” Monty said.
“OK, give me the truck keys and when you’ve unloaded the bulls, unhook the trailer too”
Ranny ordered.
Monty didn’t see any alternative, but he wasn’t happy about this turn of events. He
handed Ranny the keys, then Laura joined him and helped him by opening the corral gate and
the end doors on the trailer. She watched as the big black bulls jumped out of the trailer and
seemed happy to trot around the corral, enjoying freedom after their long ride. She saw that
Ranny wasn’t watching closely as Monty fiddled with the trailer hitch, and she noticed that he
didn’t do everything he’d done before. He lowered the supports used to hold the trailer up
when it was unhooked, locked them in place, and turned the handle which cranked the trailer
up so that it cleared the big hitch ball in the middle of the pickup bed. But Laura noticed that,
while he appeared to be working strenuously at the crank, he had only raised the trailer enough
to clear half the height of the ball. Anyone trying to drive the truck would find the trailer being
dragged, and the support stands would be digging into the ground. A small thing, but she
thought maybe Monty had some plan in mind.
The three of them trudged up the path to the ranch house, each of them wondering what
would happen there.
CHAPTER 22
The moon, which had been full 2 nights ago when Monty was saving his haystack from
the pair of marauding wild boar, was still shining brightly in the clear country air, but had
moved further down the sky toward the west. Through 9-power field glasses or rifle scope,
colors could be distinguished faintly, but with normal eyesight everything appeared white or
shades of gray. Where a solid object like the barn, or the huge oak tree halfway between the
barn and house, blocked the moonlight the shadow was pitch black. Monty motioned for Laura
to lead the way up the path toward the long, low ranch house sitting on a slight rise a hundred
yards from the barn and corrals. He followed her, and Ranny brought up the rear, still cradling
the M-16 since he knew it was far more useful than the snub-nosed .38 if these two tried
anything.
The house was a traditional ranch style, a long one-story structure with wooden
clapboard siding and a metal roof. In the remote country areas where fire was a constant
threat, shingle or shake roofs were an invitation to disaster. A shaded porch ran the full length
of the south side, with several comfortable wicker seats which gave a view of the river below
and the mountain range beyond. The main entrance was gained from the porch, and the trio
headed towards the few steps leading to the entrance. When they were still about 20 feet from
the steps, a motion-sensor light came on and the faint moonlight was replaced by brilliant
electric light.
When they stepped onto the porch, Monty stepped ahead of Laura and, opening the
door, stood aside to let her enter.
“Hold it!” yelled Ranny. “Who’s in that house?”
“Nobody. I live alone. There’s no one here” replied Monty.
“Then how come you didn’t have to unlock the door, if there’s nobody inside?” sneered
Ranny. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No”, said Monty. “But I guess you’re not familiar with the way things are in the country.
Nobody locks their door out here – everybody knows and trusts their neighbors”.
“Well, you yokels sure wouldn’t last long in the city” opined Ranny. “Okay, go ahead in,
but if there’s anyone here, I’m warning you that you’re going to be sorry. Now, take me through
the house so I can check it out”.
Laura, although she didn’t say anything, was as surprised as Ranny at finding that Monty
had gone to San Francisco for 2 days and had left his house unlocked. Surprised, but also
pleased that the favorable opinion she’d been forming about this man and his way of life was
proving to be an accurate one.
The room they entered was obviously the most-used space in the house, a combination
living room and family room. A large stone fireplace, with a pile of split oak logs laid ready for a
fire behind the mesh fire screen, showed by smoke-blackened traces on the thick oak mantel
above that it was not just ornamental. The only object on the mantel was a framed photo of a
good-looking couple on their wedding day, both wearing wide smiles, and Laura guessed
correctly that these were Monty’s parents, killed in that tragic accident years ago. She could see
where Monty’s good looks came from, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his loss.
Above the fireplace was a gun rack with several spaces, but only one gun hung there. To
each side of that were mounted heads, a buck deer with a huge rack of antlers, and a massive
wild boar with mouth menacingly open and long, razor-sharp tusks curling from both upper and
lower jaws. Laura guessed, from the quality of furnishings in the room, that those trophies were
the contributions of the men folk, while the rest had been selected by Monty’s mother. The
furniture was Western-style, inviting one to sink into the leather sofa and armchairs, both dark
brown on the rear but well-worn to a light tan on the seats and back. A coffee table of pine,
stained a medium brown, was large enough to serve both armchairs and the long sofa. It, too
looked inviting, and gave the impression that the host wouldn’t really mind if someone, relaxing
after a hard day’s work, rested his or her cowboy boots on that table. A half-dozen magazines
were loosely stacked in the middle of the table. As Laura passed the table, she glanced at the
titles of the magazines she was able to see, and was surprised at the range of subjects. But she
knew instinctively that these magazines were actually read by Monty, not solely placed there to
impress, like those in some of her friends’ houses. This was one more thing that confirmed her
opinion of this man she’d met by mere chance of seat assignments at the Cow Palace. He was
unlike any preconceived notion of what a cowboy was like, and unlike the men she was familiar
with back home.
As they moved through the house, Ranny herding them along, Laura could see that their
captor was not impressed by the house. Laura, on the other hand, spent some of her leisure
time perusing magazines devoted to interior design, and had admired some of the featured
houses with a Western theme: log houses in Aspen, several houses in Montana owned by
movie stars, and the like. She appreciated the way this house had been decorated and the
furniture selected, but she also sensed that it was Monty’s mother who had been responsible,
and that not much had changed since her death. The house had a definite feeling of being one
inhabited by a single man, without a woman’s touch.
From the main room, they passed through a clean, neat, and functional kitchen and then
a dining area with a long, distressed-wood table and six dining chairs, the backs and rungs made
of sturdy tree branches with the bark still on, all varnished and polished to a high shine. The
chair seats were of thick tanned cowhide, each cut from a piece of the hide where the brand
had been placed so that each chair carried a different brand. Ranny may have sneered at the
rustic appearance of this furniture, but Laura knew the source and the price, and she revised
upward her estimation of Monty’s net worth. He may have given Ranny the impression that he
was just a poor dirt farmer, but Laura could tell from the house and it furnishings, and from
what she had been able to see of the size and condition of the moonlit ranch, that Monty was
quite well-off. He just didn’t feel it necessary to bring attention to that fact, again unlike some
of Laura’s friends in the city.
The first bedroom down the long hallway had been converted to an office. An oak roll-top
desk held a computer, printer, and phone. The shelf forming the top of the desk held a dozen
books, held in place by bookends in the form of well-molded horse heads. Mostly hard cover,
some books were from Monty’s college days, others acquired more recently, dealing with
aspects of animal husbandry, veterinary topics, and accounting practices.
The next bedroom appeared unused and was obviously a guest bedroom. Laura guessed
that it had always been used as such, and probably had not had anything changed since Monty
inherited the ranch. But it, like the rest of the house, appeared clean and neat. Laura wondered
if Monty was really that conscientious about housework, or if he could, in fact, have someone
do that work for him. She realized, with a sudden touch of jealousy, that she was wondering if
he had some woman come in to do cleaning, and if that woman was young.
The master bedroom was on the far end of the house, and was much larger than the
other two. It was simply furnished, with a large queen bed, the headboard and footboard made
of large pine logs, the color matching the pine dresser and end tables. A hard-back book lay on
one of the end table. The table lamps used bronze sculptures of cowboys on horseback as
bases, and the shades were cream parchment with depictions of an assortment of ranch brands
in a faint brown. The walls were adorned with several Charles Russell Western scenes, and
Laura noticed that one was not a print but an original. An older house, this had been built
before large walk-in closets were deemed necessary, but the closet was a lengthy one along
one wall.
Ranny had just glanced at the other rooms in the house as they passed through, but in
this one, he took much more interest for some reason. He slid back the closet doors and
glanced in, appearing to see if something he was looking for was in the closet end, or on the
shelf above. He then went to the nightstands and checked inside those. Disturbed by this
invasion of his privacy, Monty asked, keeping his voice level despite his feeling, “Are you
looking for something in particular? Just ask and I’ll tell you if I have it”.
“Yes, I’m looking for something in particular”, sneered Ranny. “I know you cowboys have
guns, and I only saw that one shotgun above the fireplace. Where’s your handguns and rifles?
And don’t lie, because if you don’t tell me and I find them, I’ll shoot you both, your girlfriend
first”.
“I don’t have a bunch of guns, only what I need to manage varmints on the ranch”, Monty
replied, biting back the comment that he’d like to take care of this 2-legged varmint who had
invaded his ranch. He decided that the threat by this man who had already killed several people
tonight needed to be taken seriously, and he did have a card up his sleeve. “My handgun is in a
cupboard in the mudroom next to the kitchen, and I’ll give that to you. You already know where
the shotgun is. I loaned my rifle to a neighbor who doesn’t have one because coyotes were
getting his sheep, so there are only the 2 guns”, Monty lied.
“Okay, you’d better hope you’re telling the truth. Here’s the plan. We’re all going to go
back to the kitchen and I’ll collect the handgun and shotgun. Then you two are going to be
locked in the back bedroom out of my way while I get something to eat and figure out where
I’m going after this. I need a map of California, too”.
“I have maps in the office”, Monty said, hoping that this would hasten the departure of
this murderer, and hoping that he would leave without them as hostages.
Ranny waved the M-16 to indicate that they should head back to the front of the house.
They paused at the office while Monty fished a state highway map out of a cubbyhole in the
rolltop desk, and handed it to Ranny. Just beyond the kitchen was the small mudroom where
people who had been outside in bad weather, or working cattle, could enter through a back
door and shed their boots and coats. A tall cupboard against the wall had the shelf where
Monty kept all his ammunition boxes and his .357 magnum revolver. Ranny reached up into the
cupboard and took out the gun, showing surprise at it size and weight. Monty’s need was for a
heavy-duty, accurate handgun when he was close to a wild boar, or needed to put down a sick
or injured cow. Concealment was not an issue, so the 7” barrel made this gun appear huge
compared to Ranny’s snub-nosed .38. Without comment, he dropped this gun too into a
capacious pocket of his long duster, now well weighted down with the spare carbine clip and
two handguns.
When the cupboard door was opened, Ranny noticed a few basic tools like screwdrivers
and a hammer on the shelf below where the handgun was kept. There was also an open box
with an assortment of nails and screws of various lengths. After he pocketed the big gun, Ranny
picked through the nails and took 3 or 4 of the longest, then took the hammer.
“Alright, let’s get you two lovebirds settled so I can think without having to watch you.
Head for that back bedroom”, Ranny ordered, and they returned once again to that end of the
house. Once inside, he ordered Monty at the point of the gun to hammer a nail through the
side of the old-style wooden window sash, securing it to the window frame so it couldn’t be
opened.
“That’s going to damage the window, and it isn’t necessary. We won’t try to get away”,
Monty protested.
‘Sure you won’t. You really do think I’m stupid’, Ranny snorted. “Now, drive that nail in
until the head is sunk into the wood so you can’t dig it out. And don’t let that hammer slip and
break the glass, either – I can tell what you’re thinking. You two are going to stay in this room”.
So Monty carefully hammered the long nail in as ordered, knowing that there was no way
he could dig it back out easily. It would probably mean chiseling away some of he wood around
it, and then repairing the wooden frame. Maybe, he thought, this would be an excuse to
actually replace all the old windows with more efficient modern ones, as he had been planning
to do for years. As he was thinking that, he put out of his mind the possibility that his future
might be totally under the control of this stranger instead.
The windows secured, Ranny scooped up the portable phone on one of the bedside
tables, and backed to the doorway, the gun still pointing at the pair in the room.
“Now, get into bed and stay right there. I’m going to tie the door handle to something out
in the hall, and if I hear the slightest sound, you’ll see what an M-16 can do through a wood
door. I’m going to the kitchen to get something to eat and make me some coffee. Then I’m
going to look at the map and figure out the best way south, and how I can get out of this
godforsaken place”.
He waved the gun at them, indicating that they get into bed, and they complied.
Somewhat stiffly, they lowered their bodies onto the bed on top of the comforter cover, Monty
on one side and Laura on the other, neither looking at the other and with a lot of space
between them. Both had thought fleetingly at various times since meeting about being in bed
together, but this had never been the scene they had pictured.
Ranny left, pulling the door closed behind him, and they were left alone, locked in a
bedroom.
CHAPTER 23
For a minute, when the door had closed, the two just lay there staring at the ceiling,
wondering at what had happened to them tonight, and what would happen before morning.
Then simultaneously, they rolled on their sides to face each other. Laura laid her head on the
pillow, and asked worriedly, “Monty, what do you think he’s going to do?”.
Monty had raised himself slightly on one elbow, and said quietly, “I really don’t know
what to make of this guy, Laura. Sometimes he seems OK, as though he might leave by himself
and maybe leave us tied up here. Other times, he really seems dangerous”.
“I feel the same way. I don’t see how we can do anything but wait, but I keep thinking
about those cases where hostages didn’t do anything and got shot anyway. But what could we
do now that he’s got us locked in here, and he has all the guns?” Laura questioned.
Monty confessed “I don’t normally ever lie, but I did when I told him I had no rifle. Mine is
down in the barn – I left it there when I was in a hurry to leave for the Cow Palace, and didn’t
want to take it to San Francisco”.
“Yes, but we’re locked in here. If we broke a window to get out, he’d hear it” Laura
protested.
“There’s another thing he doesn’t know”, Monty replied. “There is another way out of this
room. The ceiling in the closet has a trapdoor to give access to the attic. If I got up in there, I
think I could remove the ventilation grate in this end of the house and drop down to the
ground. Then I could get to the barn and get the rifle”.
“But could you get out of the house without him hearing it? And what would you do with
the rifle?”, Laura asked. This experience was like nothing she had ever imagined, or ever seen
outside of a movie. She wanted to know details so that she could try to evaluate the feasibility
of the plan.
“You could turn on that clock radio by the bed to give a little covering noise”, Monty
responded, answering her questions as he considered the actions he’d be taking. “I can move
pretty quietly – I’ve learned to do that when hunting. There’s no light in the attic, but the
ventilation grills at each end will let in a little moonlight. He’s at the very other end of the
house, but I’d have to be extremely quiet anyway – and quick. I don’t know how long he’s going
to stay in the kitchen”.
Laura persisted in her questions. “But what will you do once you have the rifle? Isn’t it
awfully dangerous to try to confront an armed murderer?”
“That’s very true, Laura.” Monty said reassuringly. “I was never in the military. I don’t
hunt for sport. All my experience with guns has been on the ranch, just doing target practice or
shooting varmints, from ground squirrels up to wild boar, when necessary to protect the
animals or property. But I’m quite good with guns, and I know this house inside and out, every
squeak and rattle. I think if I had the rifle, I could slip into the house unnoticed. He’s not
expecting anyone since he thinks we’re secure in here. I could get the jump on him, hold him
with the rifle, and then we could call the sheriff and he’d be out of our lives”.
“It does sound like you’ve thought this out”, Laura said somewhat doubtfully. “I’m just
wondering if we should take that chance, or if we should risk staying put and hoping he’ll let us
go when he leaves”.
“I know, that’s a big decision. It would be really good if you could escape out the attic with
me – there are lots of places outside where we could hide out where he’d never find us. I’m just
afraid that trying to get you out too might result in more noise, and with that assault rifle of his,
if he heard a noise in the attic and started shooting through the ceiling, we’d both be dead.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that. It would be better if I stayed here while you went. But
are we sure we want to risk this?”, Laura queried.
“For myself, I’m perfectly willing to do it” Monty replied. “But this is a big decision, and
we both need to agree on it. I’ll stay here with you if you think that’s best.”
“No, Monty, I keep thinking of those poor people in similar situations who did nothing,
and regretted it” Laura said seriously. “I have faith in you, Monty, and if you say you can do it,
that’s the way I want to go, too”.
“Alright, then, it’s settled”, Monty said, swinging out of bed carefully so that his boots
didn’t make any noise on the polished plank floor. ”Turn on the radio quietly to make a little
background noise. If anything goes wrong, or any shooting starts, hide under the bed or in the
closet. If all goes well, I’ll be back here shortly and have him tied up, and this will all be just an
exciting adventure to tell our grandchildren about”.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, both thought the same thing. By “our
grandchildren”, was Monty meaning grandchildren they would have together, or separately? As
Monty moved quietly over to the closet and slid open the middle door, Laura swung her legs
out of bed and tiptoed over to him. “Do be careful, Monty, and please do hurry. And thanks for
everything”, she said, and almost without thinking, stretched up to give him a quick kiss.
Surprised, Monty returned the kiss, then squeezed her arm gently and said, “I’ll hurry, Laura,
and you stay safe too. I’ll see you shortly”.
Monty slid the shirts in the middle of the closet aside to reveal cleats nailed to the back
wall, forming a rough ladder to the trapdoor above. A gap in the shelf above the clothes was
just wide enough for a body to squeeze through on its way to the attic. He carefully placed one
foot on the bottom cleat, the foot on his cowboy boot turned sideways because the cleat only
projected about 2’’ from the wall. With his height, he was able to stretch his hands almost to
the top cleat near the ceiling, and started to climb. Just before his head bumped the trapdoor
above, he put one hand up and slid the covering slowly and carefully to one side. When the
opening was completely clear, he grasped the joists on either side and used the strength in his
arms to pull himself the rest of the way into the attic.
The lights were on in the bedroom, and with the closet door and trapdoor open, the
interior of the attic was lighted faintly. Monty rested a moment to let his eyes adjust, and
placed his hands on the roof support members and his feet on the matching joists above the
ceiling. Then he carefully made his way toward the slatted ventilation grill on the end of the
house, moving his hands first to feel the next roof member, then his feet to find the joist. He
moved as quietly but as quickly as he could, worrying about Laura left behind. When he
reached the end wall, he carefully knelt down, the sharp edges of the joist uncomfortable on his
knees. Despite his care, a toe of one boot scraped the sheetrock of the ceiling below, and he
paused breathlessly for a moment, hoping the noise hadn’t been heard. It was only his
heightened sense of hearing that made him fear that, because he was far away from where
Ranny sat in the kitchen.
Although he had been in the attic once or twice before, once as a kid exploring the house,
and once as an adult when he installed a ceiling fan in the kitchen, he had never paid much
attention to the construction if the ventilation grates. Felling with both hands, he discovered
that they were in the form of louvers, thin wooden slats about 2”” in width, set at a 45 degree
angle with space between for air to circulate. A light mesh screen on the outside kept out
insects or small animals. Carefully, Monty hooked his fingers under each slat in turn and tugged
gently on it, testing for looseness but fearing to pull too hard and have one snap loudly in two.
Only one seemed a little loose at one end, but that was all he had to work with. He placed one
hand over the nailhead on the loose end to muffle any noise, then grasped the slat close to that
end and slowly pulled back on it, wiggling it as he pulled. The nail barely squeaked as it came
out of the frame, and Monty stopped the pressure as soon as it was clear, because the slat was
bending dangerously. He switched to the other end of that slat, and carefully wiggled it up and
down, back and forth, loosening that end. Feeling that it had loosened somewhat, he repeated
the procedure he had used on the other end, and carefully pulled the slat completely off.
Monty heaved an internal sigh of relief at getting this part of the escape plan started
without any noise. Working more quickly now, he used that slat as a lever, bracing it against the
grill frame with an end tucked under the next slat. He pulled gently with one hand and applied
pressure with the lever using the other hand, and so was able to pry all the remaining slats
completely off. Several times, a nail squeaked alarmingly as it was pulled from the old wooden
frame, each time causing Monty’s heart to stop for a moment, but the noise was much louder
to his ears than in actuality. The final step was to carefully push out on the edges of the wire
screen until it, too, was clear of the frame and had dropped to the ground below. Monty was
now squatting in front of an opening large enough for him to squeeze through and carry out the
rest of his plan.
Carefully reversing his position, Monty settled himself with his feet extending out the
opening. It wasn’t large enough for him to back out in while kneeling, so he had to lie face-first
across several joists and then slowly inch his way backwards until he had his waist at the edge
of he opening, and his feet and legs finally hung down along the end wall of the house. He was
about 12 feet above the ground, but when he had backed all the way out and hung by his
hands, he wouldn’t have far to drop.
He had just started to wiggle his stomach over the edge, when he heard something which
putt chills up his spine and the raw taste of fear in this mouth. Panicked, he abandoned all
effort to be quiet, and desperately wriggled his body backward out the opening, ignoring the
splinters and scrapes he was receiving from the rough joists.
He couldn’t make out the words, but he had heard Ranny yell something, and then after a
pause, he heard Laura’s voice reply.
CHAPTER 24
When Monty’s boots disappeared up into the dark opening of the attic, Laura felt very
alone. Despite her brave front, and although she did truly feel that it was better to do
something positive to get out of this situation, she had qualms about being left alone in this
strange house with a dangerous man. She did feel that she had gotten to know Monty and
could trust in his judgment, but she realized that she had only met him the night before this.
She stood at the closet door and listened nervously to see if Monty was able to move as quietly
as he had promised, but when a minute had passed and she saw no sign of him above, and had
heard not the slightest sound, she relaxed a little and went back to sit on the bed.
Remembering that Monty had said she should provide some cover noise, she turned on the
small radio on the nightstand.
It was set to a classical music station, just one more surprise in her continuing education
about this man she was growing to admire more with every hour that she spent with him. She
had half-expected a country-western station instead. Remembering the fragment of news they
had heard in the truck on the way down, before Ranny had snapped that radio off, she
searched around the dial to find a news station. She kept the volume low enough that it
wouldn’t catch Ranny’s attention, but loud enough to try to counteract any noise from the attic
above.
When she found a station with talk instead of music, she left that one on. When the
weather report ended, the announcer said, “Now for a further update on tonight’s tragic
shooting at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. The three people confirmed dead are the
president of the Cow Palace, the manager in charge of maintenance there, and another man
whose identity has not been released pending notification of next of kin. The two Cow Palace
personnel were hit multiple times, the other man only once, and it appears that he was an
unintended victim of this shooting. Police are looking into the possibility that the shooter was a
disgruntled employee, and are checking employment records. The shooting happened during
the opening ceremonies, when all the arena lights were out with only a spotlight on the
president. Witnesses gave varying accounts of events, but several thought they saw a short
man in a long black coat leaving hastily right after the shooting. Police are still interviewing
witnesses and pursuing leads”.
So it was confirmed. The man in the kitchen down the hall had murdered three people
earlier tonight. That made Laura even more certain that she and Monty had made the right
decision in attempting to do something other than just wait to see what his next move would
be. But at the same time, it worried her to think that she was alone in the house with him,
while her protector was somewhere in the attic above. Her nails bit into her palms, as she
clenched her fists, trying to hold in the tension. This was the most frightening situation she had
ever been in, and she didn’t know how she could stand the wait until Monty made it back to the
house with his gun, and this whole ordeal ended.
She was sitting at the head of the bed by the radio, and a few minutes later she heard
slight creaking noises directly overhead. She assumed that was Monty removing the ventilation
grille, and silently wished him speedy, silent success. The waiting and uncertainty was getting to
her.
When they had approached the house, she had not known that they would be relying on
finding a way to escape from it, and hadn’t noticed the covered openings high up on each end
of the ranch house. But she had noticed that feature on some older houses with pitched roofs
in Montreal, so she was somewhat familiar with the concept. She just didn’t know how they
were constructed, how Monty could take one apart, and if the opening would be large enough
if he succeeded in his plan. It was with trepidation that she awaited the ending of the faint
sounds from above, which would signal that his demolition work was finished.
Mere moments after she heard the last little sound from above, she heard a terrifying
sound from down the hall.
“Hey, cowboy, get your ass out here. I need you to show me which of these roads south
would have the least traffic” Ranny hollered. “I’m untying the door handle, but I’ve got this gun
trained on the door so don’t try coming out doing something stupid”.
Laura thought her heart would stop. How could she possibly get them out of this jam?
Ranny was sure to explode when he found Monty gone, and Laura knew that Monty couldn’t
have gotten to the barn yet. She had to try to stall for time.
She went to the door, and said in a loud stage whisper, “He’s fallen asleep”.
“The hell he has”, snarled Ranny, untying the door handle. He yanked the door open,
sweeping the M-16 back and forth warily as he entered, thinking that Monty might be hiding
behind the door waiting to attack him. When nothing like that happened, he stepped into the
room and saw only Laura, cowering against the side wall, a look of terror on her face.
“Where the hell is he?” he demanded, crouching down to look under the bed, the gun
always pointing in front of him. A glance showed him both windows still firmly nailed shut, the
glass panes unbroken. Then he spotted the closet door opened, and cautiously opened those
doors, sweeping clothes aside with the barrel of the gun. He saw nothing. But something
caused him to look up, and he saw the opening into the attic and knew immediately that half of
his hostage quarry had escaped. He stepped back into the room, his face contorted with rage,
and fired a burst of shots into the ceiling. Laura screamed and covered her ears against the
noise.
“Come on, goddammit” Ranny yelled, grabbing Laura roughly by one arm, his carbine in
the other. He ran down the hall to the front door, half-dragging Laura behind him, his grip on
her arm so tight that she knew she’d have bruises from it. He pulled her roughly out onto the
porch, the motion-sensor light bathing them and a wide semi-circle of the front yard in light
much brighter than the moonlight shining everywhere else. Ranny pulled her around in front of
him, holding the rifle vertically up her back, the tip of the barrel just below the back of her
head.
“What’s that son-of-a-bitch’s name?”, he demanded.
“Monty”, Laura replied through chattering teeth, more scared than she’d ever been in her
life.
“Monty, you stupid bastard!” screamed Ranny. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you’d
better know that I’ve got your girl. If you call the cops there’s going to be shooting, and she’ll be
dead, and it’ll be your fault. We’re leaving now, and don’t even think of trying to do anything to
stop us”. He was almost hysterical with rage, and he was yelling so loudly that Monty’s
neighbors, even a mile away, would have heard him through the quiet of the country air had
they been outside. And Monty heard him, too.
When Monty had heard the commotion inside, he scrambled backwards out of the attic
opening and dropped to the ground, not waiting to lower himself the full length of his arms.
That was a mistake, because dropping quickly without preparation from that height resulted in
a hard fall, and one ankle would have been badly twisted except for the sturdy shaft on his
cowboy boot. But it was painful enough that he was limping as he started running towards the
barn. He ran alongside the path, since the ground was softer there than on the hard path.
He was only halfway to the barn when the porch light went on and Ranny and Laura
appeared outside the house. He had just reached the shade of the massive old oak tree, and
quickly ducked around the far side of it. The light from the house didn’t reach this far, and the
thick foliage of the old oak totally blocked out the moonlight. Monty was inside a little well of
darkness, and by staying on the side of the trunk away from the house, he knew Ranny couldn’t
see him.
But he also knew that the moonlight was still so bright that he couldn’t run the rest of the
way to the barn without being seen. He also knew that the automatic weapon Ranny had would
mow him down if he tried: accurate shooting wasn’t necessary when 30 rounds could be
sprayed in his direction. Impotently, he had to stay silent and listen to Ranny’s rant.
Then he heard them coming down the steps from the porch, Laura’s cowboy boots
making a lot of noise as Ranny half-dragged, half pushed her down the steps. As they came
along the path, Monty had to press himself against the broad tree trunk and shift carefully and
quietly around it to keep himself out of sight. They passed within 15 feet of him, but he could
do nothing with a gun held against Laura’s head.
He knew when they reached the truck, because he heard the door being opened. Ranny
had removed the makeshift rifle sling during his unpleasant ride in the trailer compartment, but
had stowed it in a coat pocket in case he needed it again. He fished it out of his pocket now,
and told Laura to hold her hands together in front of herself. He quickly wrapped the rope
around her wrists and tied a clumsy knot.
“There, that should keep you from trying anything. Now, get in the truck!” he said, putting
his hand on the small of her back and pushing her towards the driver’s side.
With her hands tied, Laura found it hard to get up into the pickup’s cab and past the
steering wheel. Awkwardly, she grabbed the top of the wheel with both hands and lifted one
foot high onto the door sill, then pulled herself up and twisted sideways to slide all the way
over against the passenger’s side door. Ranny forgot his anger momentarily to enjoy the sight
of Laura’s legs, as her short fringed skirt rode up during this maneuver. The back of the skirt,
too, tightened over her hips, and Ranny felt a sudden spasm of lust.
“Maybe when we get to Mexico” he thought, “I’ll just have a piece of that ass, and when
she makes her way back here, she can tell her cowboy hero all about it. It’ll serve them both
right”.
Then he boosted himself up behind the wheel, standing the M-16 up between his legs,
and put the key he’d demanded from Monty in the ignition.
The only time Ranny had experienced driving a stick shift was when he was 16 and one of
his schoolmates had taken pity on him. His mother had refused to teach him to drive, saying he
could learn that when he was out of school and had a job. But the driving lessons were shortlived, because Ranny had trouble learning how to ease out the clutch while feeding the gas, and
the car’s owner didn’t want his vehicle to need an new clutch or transmission. Ranny had
bought his first used car with an automatic transmission, which he found much simpler to drive.
But now he was faced with a floor-mounted stick shift and a clutch. He drilled his memory
to dredge up the early driving lessons, and shoved in the clutch with his left foot. He nudged
the gas pedal, but the sudden loud noise from the dual exhausts intimidated him and he eased
back to a fast idle. When he let the clutch out, he did it too quickly, and didn’t compensate by
increasing the pressure on the gas pedal. Monty had not cranked up the trailer fully so that the
big 4” ball in the middle of the truck bed truck was still partially in the mouth of the trailer’s
attachment to it, which was a heavy vertical metal pipe which fitted over the ball. The
combination of that horizontal load and Ranny’s inept driving resulted in the truck giving a
sudden lurch and then stalling the engine.
“Damn it!” Ranny cursed. He kicked in the clutch again, pushed the gas pedal down so
that the engine roared and the exhaust bellowed, and let the clutch out but a little more slowly.
The increased power allowed the truck to start moving, but the trailer’s hitch was still catching
on the truck’s hitch ball so the trailer was being pulled forward. Since Monty had cranked it up
partially, the weight on the front was now supported by the two metal plates which formed the
bottom of the jack stands. Those were now digging into the earth, putting such a drag on the
pickup’s powerful engine that the truck’s tires stared to spin as it inched slowly forward.
Frustrated by the way the truck was acting, Ranny looked in the rearview mirrors and saw
that the trailer was still behind them. He cursed again, more violently this time, and jumped out
of the truck, taking the gun with him. He yelled back at Laura as he went to see what the
problem was, “Sit right there until I see what’s wrong”.
A quick glance into the truck bed showed him the problem, and he cursed Monty long and
hard as he furiously cranked the handle, raising the trailer well above the hitch ball. He jumped
back in the cab, resting the gun again upright between his legs, and slammed the door. He
repeated his actions, giving the truck a lot of gas, and letting the clutch out quickly. This time
the truck shot ahead, unencumbered by the trailer.
But when it had gone about 3 feet, there was a horrible crash and screech of tortured
metal, but the truck didn’t slow down this time. In his haste, Ranny had forgotten to lower the
tailgate which Monty had also not lowered, and the trailer’s projecting hitch pipe caught it and
ripped it from its hinges. Ranny saw in the mirror what had happened, but the tailgate had
dropped completely off and was lying on the ground behind, so Ranny didn’t care about this
mishap. Again, he cursed Monty, Laura hearing words she didn’t normally hear in the office
environment she was used to.
Monty, meanwhile, was pressed against the side of the tree furthest from the truck. The
headlights were shining directly toward him, and he didn’t dare move from his spot. He had to
listen as he heard his truck being abused, and was chagrined that his earlier trick with the
trailer hitch had not resulted in any advantage to the hostages. He winced when he heard the
crash of the tailgate being ripped off, but he knew well what the cause was – this wasn’t the
first time that a truck driver had neglected to lower the tailgate on a fifth-wheel hitch.
While waiting behind the oak, Monty had been desperately thinking of a plan to rescue
Laura. It was a long shot, but his only shot, other than a suicidal attempt now to run to the barn
and get his rifle. But his plan required utmost speed if it was to have any chance of success, so
he ran through the sequence of steps he’d need to take, visualizing the exact movements
required.
The light from the pickup moved away from his tree as Ranny swung it in a circle to head
out the gate, taking himself and his hostage away. Monty knew he’d be intent on looking
ahead, driving in this unfamiliar terrain, so he left his place of safety and crouching, ran towards
the barn.
CHAPTER 25.
The pasture where Monty’s horse, Buck, stayed was next to the barn. With the
curiosity common to domestic animals, Buck had come to the gate when he heard the
commotion around the truck and trailer. He had his head over the gate, watching as the truck
started, lurched ahead, stopped, and finally started up and drove out of the yard. He was
starting to lose interest and had turned to go back to grazing, when Monty ran from the barn, a
hackamore in his hand.
Monty unlatched the gate, slipped the braided rawhide nosepiece over Buck’s nose and
the earpiece over his ears, then ran back to the barn, pulling his horse along by the reins. Buck
came willingly, but he couldn’t understand why he was being taken from his pasture in the
middle of the night. He was even more surprised when Monty tossed a Navajo-pattern saddle
blanket on his back.
Normally, Monty was very careful about every step in saddling his horse. The saddle
blanket would be smoothed down so that it had no wrinkles, then slid an inch toward the tail in
the direction in which the hair lay on the horse’s back. Any roughness under the 50-pound
Western saddle and 180-pound cowboy could cause a saddle sore that would keep Buck out of
commission until it healed. But tonight was an emergency, and Monty did this initial step faster
than he ever had in his life. Grabbing up the saddle from the sawhorse where it rested, left
hand on the saddle horn and right hand on the cantle, he swung it onto Buck’s back and
immediately reached under the horse’s belly to grab the latigo strap attached to the cinch.
Monty had been saddling horses since he was a young boy, and the actions were
automatic. Pass the latigo up through the heavy metal D-ring on the saddle, feeding it from the
back. Then down through the ring on the cinch, back up behind the first loop of leather strap
and again through the saddle D-ring. Pull on it to take out any slack, and make it tight enough to
ensure that the saddle wouldn’t slip on a hard ride. Then make a smooth half-knot in the strap
to secure it, flat so the rider’s leg wouldn’t chafe on the knot.
That was the procedure Monty had followed for years. But never had he done it with such
speed and urgency as now. Normally, this could be done in a leisurely fashion, with more
attention paid to accuracy than speed. No cowboy wanted to endure an accident, or
embarrassment, due to a flaw in his rigging.
The fastest saddling he’d ever done completed, Monty grabbed his rifle from the corner
of he barn where he’d left it when he headed for San Francisco. He tossed the reins over Buck’s
head, holding those and the saddle horn in his left hand. With his left foot in the stirrup, he
swung into the saddle, the rifle in his right hand. He clapped his heels on Buck’s side, and the
pressure of the reins on Buck’s neck told him to head out the main gate and across the road.
Cattle naturally ate the grass down on the flatland first, but as soon as the choicest feed
was gone, they started ambling up the slopes. The range of low hills started just on the other
side of the ranch road, and it was toward these that the horse and rider headed. When the
cattle came back down to the river to drink, they always took the path of least resistance. As
they grazed higher and higher on the hills, they used the same easy path to go down to drink or
rest, and then to return to graze. Over the years, hundreds of hooves had trod this same path,
so that it was now a smooth and wide route up through the hills. Guided to the bottom of this
trail, Buck now understood that that was where he was to go, although he still had no idea why.
Nor did he understand why his master was urging him to run as fast as he could.
Work on horse back around the ranch was normally done at a walk or trot, when checking
fences or the condition of feed. When the work was over, if Buck didn’t seem tired, Monty
enjoyed having him canter back to the barn for his oats. It was only when gathering cattle that
Buck would break into a gallop, if he was trying to run down and turn a stray determined to
leave the herd. But tonight, the only pace was a flat-out gallop as Buck sensed that his rider had
some very urgent reason to be charging up the path through the hills.
The hills were dotted with the softly rounded shapes of oak trees, and some were close
enough to the trail to cast black shadows onto the path. This wasn’t the first time the horse and
rider had been up this trail, and Buck didn’t slow his charge for anything. They crested the ridge
through a saddle between two hills, and continued the rush down the other side. At the base of
the hill, the trail petered out and the pair headed across a flatter plain at a breakneck speed. In
the moonlight, Monty could see in the distance the barbed-wire fence marking the perimeter of
his property.
When they reached the boundary, Monty turned Buck to run parallel to the fence
.Shortly, he reached the point he was looking for and reined Buck in to a sliding stop. He leapt
off the horse and stood his rifle against a fence post. His objective was a simple ranch fence
gate, put here in case either owner need to go onto the other’s property to return strays. The
gate matched the fence, with 3 strands of barbed wire attached to one post. The other ends of
the wire were attached to a short pole. It was held in place with its top and bottom ends each
snugged into a loop of wire attached to the next fence post.
Monty grabbed the pole at the top and shoved it towards the fixed post, loosening it
enough to slip the top loop off. He then yanked the bottom free and tossed the gate to the side.
He snatched up the rifle and swung into the saddle again. Buck was almost in a crouch with his
hind legs under him, quivering with excitement. The moment Monty had his feet in the stirrups,
Buck sprang through the opening and hit a full gallop. Monty didn’t give a thought to the fact
that he’d just broken the cardinal rule of country living: you leave a gate the way you found it. If
it’s open, you leave it open. If it’s closed, after you pass through, you close it again. But he knew
that in an emergency like this, neighbors would be more than happy to saddle up and help
round up and separate cattle, if any went through the gap and mixed with the other herd.
There was a note of desperation in Monty’s voice now as he urged Buck on, heading him
toward the far corner of this pasture. Over the pounding of hooves on the hard ground, and
over the pounding of blood in his head, Monty could hear a familiar sound. It was the deep
rumble of his truck’s exhaust, the sound carrying through the still night air even though the
truck was on the other side of the ridge. The sound rose and fell as Ranny picked his way along
the narrow, unfamiliar road, curves to the left followed by curves to the right, but the sound
was getting nearer.
When Monty finally reached the corner of the field, where the ranch road butted up
against the wider county highway, he again brought Buck to a sliding stop and leapt out of the
saddle. He dropped the reins over Buck’s head: trained to ground-tie, the horse would stay
there until his master picked up the reins again. The fence was too high to step over, even with
Monty’s long legs, so he passed the rifle through between the top 2 strands of wire. Bending at
the waist, he followed that arm with his leg, and slid his body through. He heard a ripping noise
and felt a stab of pain as the sharp end of a barb dug into his back, but he had no time to worry
about a torn shirt or a scratched back. He got through the fence and raced across the road to
the other side.
The road here had been cut though a small hill, and the embankment was about 8 feet
high. The heels on his cowboy boots helped give him traction in the loose dirt as he scrambled
up the bank. On top, there were clumps of chaparral, and Monty threw himself down behind
one a little to the left side of the ranch road facing him. He slid the rifle though long grass,
parting the grass enough to see clearly through the rifle’s scope. He was frantic in his
movements now, because he saw trees along the ranch road illuminated now by the headlights
of the pickup truck – it had finished the winding section and was now turning onto the straight
stretch leading to the county highway.
Monty hastily turned the knurled ring on the back of the scope to set the magnification at
9X, the highest setting. Then he made the adjustment on the other end of the scope to set the
range at it lowest distance setting. Quickly, he swung the gun to the left to center it on the back
of the stop sign on the other side of the highway. Used to sighting through the scope at
distances more like 200 yards than 50 feet, he was startled to see that the sign filled the scope
and looked to be right in front of his face. He could see clearly every thread on the bolts holding
the sign to its post. Then he swung the gun toward the oncoming truck, thankful that his
elevated position kept the headlights from shining in his eyes.
The moon had dropped low in the western sky now, so that it shone more directly into
the cab of the truck and lit up its two passengers from the neck down . Through the powerful
scope, Monty could see Laura pressed against the passenger’s door, staying as far away from
the driver as possible. When he shifted the gun to the right, the scope was centered on Laura’s
kidnapper. Monty had shot dozens of wild pigs by moonlight, and had shot other varmints
when he felt they needed to be weeded out. But he had never shot a human being, nor had he
ever considered that he might one day be considering whether or not to do so. Then he
remembered how roughly the man had been handling Laura, and how he was planning to take
her to Mexico.
Monty was sure of his shooting ability, but he was wondering whether or not the truck’s
driver, used to city driving, would automatically stop at the stop sign, or at least, do a rolling
stop. Or since he seemed unused to a stick shift, perhaps he would come to a stop to gear down
before he turned onto the main road. While waiting to see what might happen, Monty
centered the scope’s crosshairs on the right shoulder of the truck’s driver and held it there.
Laura had been in a state of shock ever since the truck had been driven out of the ranch
yard. She knew Monty had not had time to get to his gun at the barn, and she hadn’t seen or
heard him since he disappeared up into the attic. Now her kidnapper, who had already killed 3
people, was about to drive onto the main highway and head south to Mexico, taking her with
him.
Suddenly, a loud explosion tore the night air. She thought she saw a flash of fire from the
top of the embankment straight ahead, and the windshield shattered into a thousand cracked
pieces, a hole appearing on the driver’s side. The driver screamed as his right shoulder was
driven back into the seat, and his foot slipped off the clutch he’d pushed in to downshift as his
other foot in a reflex action pushed down the gas pedal. The truck shot across the highway and
stalled with its crumpled grill embedded in the embankment. Blood started running down
Ranny’s shoulder which had been stuck by a heavy bullet more normally used to knock down a
400-pound wild boar.
Before Laura could begin to sort out what had just happened, she saw Monty leap from
the embankment onto the hood of his truck, then down to the ground beside the driver’s door.
He ripped the door open and grabbed the M-16 from between Ranny’s legs, throwing it in the
ditch back behind himself. Then he grabbed Ranny by the left arm and hauled him out of the
seat, slamming him roughly against the truck. He held the moaning man there with one hand
while he fished the handguns out of the pockets of Ranny’s long black duster. He stuck his own
.357 magnum in his belt and slid the .38 across the seat to Laura.
“Laura, can you come around here and give me a hand?” he asked.
Laura was barely able to keep her voice steady as she answered, “Sure, Monty, but you’ll
have to untie my hands first”.
She unlocked the truck, opened the door, and got out carefully, worried that with her
hands tied she might not be able to catch herself if she fell getting down from the high truck
seat. But she made it, and by the time she got around to Monty her legs had stopped shaking.
Monty quickly united her hands, then pulled off Ranny’s coat. He used the same rope to tie
Ranny’s left arm to his side. His right arm hung down uselessly from his torn-up shoulder.
Monty then lowered the wounded man down onto the grass at the shoulder of the road, and
said “I guess we’d better try to stop the bleeding. Not that I’d care if he bled to death, but we’d
probably be in trouble if we let that happen”. He used his strength, and his anger at the
situation this man had put them in, to rip one of the sleeves off the coat to use as a tourniquet.
“Laura, can you check the coat pockets and see if you can find the cell phone he took from
you? There might be a signal out here, and you could call 911” Monty requested.
With an expression of distaste at handling anything belonging to that man, Laura dug
through the many pockets and found her small cell phone. Showing the initiative Monty had
admired before, she scrambled up the embankment to be on higher ground, and tried the call.
The signal was very faint but at least it was present, and to her relief someone answered her
call. She reported that there had been a shooting and someone was hurt, and they needed
police and an ambulance. She turned and called down to Monty, “Monty, where are we located
here? They want to know”.
“Just tell them we’re where Peachtree Valley Road meets the main highway – they’ll know
where that is”, replied Monty.
Laura finished her call and slid down the bank to join Monty where he was doing a crude
bandaging job on the man he’d shot.
“They said they should be here in about 20 minutes. Now, tell me – how in the world did
you get here to save me?”, Laura exclaimed to Monty.
CHAPTER 26.
Monty had finished the temporary doctoring of Ranny’s wound. “There’s your answer to
how I got here, right over there” he laughed, pointing to Buck standing patiently in the corner
of the pasture, across the road behind the fence. At the noise of the shooting and the crash of
the truck when it hit the embankment, Buck had snorted and thrown his head, but he was
standing right where Monty had left him.
Laura looked through the hazy moonlight at the big buckskin horse standing where Monty
pointed, and she understood. “But how did you get ahead of us? We never saw you anywhere”.
“We cut across the hills and fields. Almost in a straight line, while you were driving that
twisty road along on the far side of the hills. But it’s all due to Buck”, Monty praised. “He’s
never in his life had to run that fast, that far, and he really came through when it counted. I’m
so glad we got here in time”.
“You’re so glad?” Laura exclaimed. “I thought I’d die when he called you to look at a map,
and you’d disappeared into the attic. I knew you didn’t have time to make it to the barn when
he took me to the truck, and I didn’t know how you could help except by calling the police. I
thought I was on the way to Mexico with him”.
“I just made it to the big oak tree when you came out on the porch, and I had to hide
behind it. You passed within about 15 feet of me, but with his gun at your head, I couldn’t do
anything, which just killed me,” Monty explained, “and my delaying tactic with the trailer hitch
didn’t help any, either. But the moment he moved the truck so the lights weren’t on me, I got
to the barn, saddled Buck, and he got me here on time, thank god”.
“Well, I owe both you and Buck a tremendous deal of thanks for that heroic ride, and
what you did here. When that shot shattered the windshield, my first thought was that his gun
had gone off inside the truck, but I saw the flame from your gun and saw him knocked back, so I
knew he’d been shot”, Laura said. “I couldn’t imagine who had shot him, and when you jumped
down and pulled him out of the truck, I could hardly believe my eyes. I had no idea you could
possibly get here so fast – I thought you’d still be back at the ranch, phoning the police”.
“I’m sure glad your cell phone worked here, otherwise I’d have had to ride Buck back to
the ranch to call this in”, Monty said. “And it sounds like they got your message, because if you
listen carefully, you can hear the sirens already. They have quite a piece to come, but this kind
of excitement happens so rarely out here that I’m sure they’ll be driving as fast as they can on
these roads. If you want to hold a gun on this guy, I’ll go up the road a little way to flag them
down since the truck is blocking the road and they may be really flying”.
“He doesn’t look like he’s up to doing much” Laura said, looking at the pale face of the
man on the ground,, shivering from shock. “But I’ve never handled a gun, Monty, so it’s better if
you keep an eye on him and I’ll go flag them down.”
“Okay, just stand well clear of the roadway so they don’t run you down”, Monty advised.
“I know some of those boys, and they’re wild drivers when they have an excuse”.
So Laura went down the road about 40 yards, on the side towards town, and before too
long the sirens grew louder and louder, and she could see the reflection of red and blue flashing
lights in the night sky. Then they appeared, two sheriffs’ cruisers first, then an ambulance, and
Laura waved her arms frantically to slow them down before they reached the intersection.
When they had passed, braking to a stop, she trotted back too to be where the action was.
“Hi, Monty. Your truck looks like it was in an accident, but the woman who called said
there’d been a shooting. So what have we got here?” asked the sheriff, who had been driving
the first car.
“What you’ve got is the man responsible for the shooting at the Cow Palace earlier
tonight, if you’ve heard about that” replied Monty, shaking the sheriff’s hand.
“Heard about it?” exclaimed the sheriff. “There’s been nothing else on the radio all night.
There’s a huge manhunt on right now all over the state, because they think they’ve identified
the man who did it. And you say this is that man?”
“I guess we’re supposed to say “allegedly” this is the man, but we were right in the
building at the Cow Palace when he rushed out and forced us to take him out in the front
compartment of my stock trailer, and he held a gun on us until we brought him here” Monty
explained.
“So how come he’s shot?” the sheriff questioned.
“Well, that’s a long story” Monty said. “First, let me make the introductions. Sheriff, this is
Laura, out here from Montreal on a business trip and getting more excitement than she’d
planned on. Laura, meet Sheriff Williams, the man who keeps things lawful out here in the
country”.
“Pleased to meet you, Laura” said the sheriff, shaking her hand and tipping his Stetson.
“This must be a pretty good story. Why don’t you give me the highlights?”
Laura laughed. “It’s a pretty amazing story. Like Monty said, he held a gun on us all the
way down here, then locked us in a room in the house. Monty got out through the attic to get
his rifle from the barn, but this guy found he’d gone so he took me as hostage in the truck. I
thought I was on my way to Mexico when we reached the highway here, but Monty showed up
ahead of us on his horse, and shot this murderer to stop him.” She paused. “But is Monty going
to be in trouble for shooting him?” Laura asked anxiously.
The sheriff laughed. “If he’d done this in San Francisco, maybe, but out here, he’ll get a
medal instead of getting in trouble. There will have to be a hearing, but I’d bet anything that
the judge will be giving him a commendation, not any penalty. If Monty gets in trouble over
this, I’ll eat my hat”.
Monty turned to Laura and chuckled, “If you knew how much the sheriff loves that big
white Stetson of his, you’d know that’s a solid bet”.
The sheriff turned serious. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go ride herd on my deputies
and see that we do everything by the book – we sure don’t want this guy getting off because
some defense lawyer claims we screwed up. But I do need you both to come into town to give a
complete statement. Looks like your truck is out of commission, Monty, so I can give you two a
lift to town when I get things cleaned up here”.
“Well, I need to get my horse back home” Monty said. “I can ride him there, and maybe
you can bring Laura over to the place and pick me up when you’re done here”.
“Sounds good”, agreed the sheriff. “It will probably take another half hour to wrap things
up here, so that gives you lots of time to ride back to your place. Sorry you had your visit to
California spoiled by something like this, Laura, but I’m glad you had Monty on your side –he’s a
good man. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back sometime in the next year or so for this murder
trial, because you were pretty involved, but I hope that trip won’t be as eventful. Now I’ve
really got to go check on things if we’re to get out of here before morning”.
The sheriff left, and the young couple stood together for a few minutes just watching all
the activity. Paramedics had strapped Ranny to a stretcher and were loading him into the
ambulance. A deputy stood nearby, ready to accompany the prisoner to the hospital. Another
deputy had donned plastic gloves and was securing the M-16 and .38. Still another was busy
photographing the scene, shooting the truck exterior and interior from different angles. Two
black and white California Highway Patrol cars had rolled up, and those officers were directing a
tow truck driver to tow Monty’s truck into town, once the photographer was satisfied. The
sheriff was checking on everything, seeing that proper procedures were followed and trying to
get everything done as quickly as possible so the roadway could be cleared.
Monty turned to Laura. “Well, Laura, the sheriff said it – you really got a lot more out of
this trip than you’d bargained for”.
Laura sighed, “Yes, I could never have imagined that my business trip to San Francisco
would have turned out this way. But since you made it have a happy ending, although a very
stressful and exciting ending, I’m actually finding that I rather enjoyed it, now that it’s over. And
don’t feel that you dragged me into it – I just loved the rodeo, and getting to learn so much
about a lifestyle I was totally unfamiliar with. You were a great guide, Monty – I couldn’t have
asked for better”.
Monty was feeling nervous again, but he was pumped up from the experience of facing
such a dangerous situation and pulling off the rescue so successfully. He said hesitantly, “I
really, really enjoyed getting to know you too, Laura. You are a wonderful woman, and life is
going to seem awfully dull and lonely here when you’re gone. It may be years until you have to
come back for the trial, the way the legal system moves here”.
Laura, in her turn, was also nervous with what she was about to say, but the same
dangerous experience she’d just gone through also gave her courage. “I don’t know if you feel
the same way about this as I do, Monty, but even though we only met about 30 hours ago, with
all we’ve been through and all the talking we did, I feel as if I’ve known you for years. I don’t
want to wait for such a long time to see you again. I have a couple of weeks vacation coming
this year. It will take me a couple of weeks to clear things up at work. Then, if it’s all right with
you, I’d like to come back out here and spend more time and see if we still feel the same about
each other”.
“Of course it’s all right with me, Laura!” Monty exclaimed his face changing from the
somber expression it had worn when he thought about her leaving, to one of unbridled joy. ”I’d
just love having you back here and showing you life on the ranch. Based on how you handled
moving and loading those bulls last night, you’ll do just fine”.
Then he plunged in. “And I feel like I’ve known you for years, too, Laura. It’s probably too
much to hope for, but I’d like to think that if you find you like the ranch life when you come
back, just maybe you’ll consider spending the rest of your life here as my wife”.
Laura didn’t bother with words for an answer. She flung her arms around his neck and
kissed him, long and passionately. Monty wrapped his arms around her, and returned the kiss.
It was the second kiss of the evening, and the second since they had met.
The End