Sometimes the shots weren’t even close, and Sturm had to step in and kill the ewe before it crossed Main Street completely.
Sometimes they’d blow the ewe’s head off and the collar would slip through the ruined skull and skitter along the sticky asphalt like a child’s pretend pet. Theo would stop the truck, back up, and Frank and Chuck would have to wrap the collar around part of the carcass, so they could keep dragging it along, and let the shooter continue blasting away at the target.
When this happened, it was really a two-man job. Most of the time, the neck was useless. Once in a while, if the sheep was skinny, they could buckle the collar in the hollow over the spine just in front of the back hips. That didn’t happen often. Instead, Frank usually had to lift the sheep by the front legs, while Chuck hacked away at the tendons and ligaments where those back hips were connected to the spine, slashing his way into the sheep so he could sink the collar deep into the wound, around the hips of the sheep and buckle it securely.
Frank always got nervous during these times, standing out in the street, hoisting the dead target, right in the middle of the shooting range. The shooters were undoubtedly drinking heavily, and you never knew when some drunk sonofabitch might just decide to take a shot at the sheep when Frank had it in the air, just for fun. The sun hammered down like a blunt nail into his eyes. Sometimes, when Frank’s eyes would blink over into seeing negatives, the blood looked like semen.
* * * * *
By noon the pile of sheep was as big as one of the dumpsters back at the sheep pen. By two, at the end of it, the pile nearly covered the street. Theo had to drive up onto the sidewalk, just to get around it. And they worked for hour upon hour in the blood and bullets and live and dead sheep.
Blue smoke rose above the town like smog.
Until finally, the last sheep was pulled slowly across Main Street. Theo must have been on his walkie-talkie, because everyone unloaded on the ewe. It exploded in a bright red mass of blood, bones, wool, innards, and brains. The collar slipped away, caught one of the front legs, and dragged what was left of the carcass away like a half digested bird skeleton through cat vomit.
Theo killed the engine and silence bloomed again. Frank and Chuck sat on the tailgate, staring dully at the pavement. Neither moved. The blood had crusted into a color of crushed red peppers on their clothes and skin, as if they’d been at ground zero inside a slaughterhouse, The flask had been empty for hours.
The hunters stowed their rifles back into the cases and ambled slowly down Main Street, rubbing their shoulders, talking loud over the ringing in their ears, and kicking the spent shell casings, which littered the ground like confetti after a ticker-tape parade.
Everybody was pleased as punch.
* * * * *
“Fine job, boys. Fine, fine job. I’d say our guns are good and sighted in,” Sturm said. Frank didn’t care if he was supposed to say something or not, or even if Sturm was talking to him and Chuck or the hunters or the sheep. All Frank wanted was to get back to the vet office, where he could wash the blood off and crack open a fresh bottle of rum. He practiced his smile amidst all the back slapping and yelling and joking but, really, he just wanted out of his clothes, out of his skin.
“Gentlemen,” Sturm called out. “Lunch is two blocks west. And beer.” He was slurring his words, but Frank didn’t think Sturm was drunk. Not yet anyway. This was different. Frank wondered if the tumor was doing the talking like the day when Sturm faced the lioness.
Frank shook the last guy’s hand and found Sturm waiting for him and Chuck and Theo. “Superb work, gentlemen. Simply goddamn superb.” He speech sounded normal, and Frank wondered if the suddenly dead tongue would come back. “You boys come on back and eat ‘til you bust, got it?” Sturm surprised Frank by tossing a bottle of Jack Daniels at him. Chuck got a bottle too.
“Well then. Get going, you two. You earned it, by God,” Sturm said, eyeing the vast pile of corpses. “Theo. Like a word with you.” Sturm went around the pickup and climbed into the front seat with Theo. Chuck was already halfway down the block, heading for the food.
Frank scratched at the blood and blisters on his head and followed.
* * * * *
The Gloucks arranged tables along Third Street, bordering the east side of the park, in order to catch the afternoon shade. They loaded the tables with sliced meat and long loaves of bread. Steak cut French fries with the skins still on. There was a whole table devoted to BBQ sauces alone, at least forty or fifty of ’em. Giant tubs of mayonnaise and mustard and ketchup, all soaking in ice. They’d raided the grocery stores down in Redding armed with several thousand dollars and damned near cleared the first few out.
It looked to Frank like they were prepared for more people, a lot more.
Everything sat in rapidly melting ice—The family had gone to the local supermarket for only two things during the chicken wire fence construction; the ice machine and horizontal freezer. It had taken the entire family to accomplish this, but now they had the ice machine running nonstop, filling it with water from the garden hose.
Three picnic tables were clustered in the shade down on the south side of the park. A shooting bench had been placed apart a ways, out in the sun; a large locked toolbox sat on top.
The hunters ate like they hadn’t seen food in two or three days.
Frank gave up looking for any kind of soap and simply plunged his hands into the icewater surrounding a bowl of honey mustard to clean them. The water calmed him right down, as if he just slid on his back out across a frozen lake at night. It felt so good that he splashed it back into his face, and more across his scalp. This was met with great enthusiasm and everybody tried it.
Frank got a plate and eyed the meat. Before he got any food, he got a freezing cold can of Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer. Icewater and sweat ran down the cracks in sheep’s blood on his face. The beer tasted so good that he finished it and went for three more. These went into hip pockets. Then he got some French bread slices, took another beer, and drifted through the tables in the shade and made his way around to the north side of the park, and sat in the shade on the running board of the old fire truck, away from the festivities.
“Okay, like your attention please,” Sturm’s voice came floating out across the park. Except for the men, the park was unnaturally still, as if nothing lived in the limp tan grass and brittle leaves. “It’s time to hand out some guns.”
The men cheered. Frank opened another beer, slumped against the wheel well, and listened to Sturm unlock the toolbox. “Have to introduce our referee first. This here’s Wally Glouck and he did a damn fine job keeping score.”
Later, Chuck told Frank that Sturm had gotten all the men to pay for the chance to shoot and win guns, something like five grand apiece. The pistols were handed out according to cost, most of the guns, all of ’em handguns, came in around two to three grand at the most. Girdler took third place and won a German Luger. Asshole #2 beat Girdler, but just barely. He got a nine-millimeter Beretta.
Sturm took first, winning a pair of beautiful Old West Colt .45 bright silver revolvers, like a TV cowboy’s gun. Scrollwork was etched into the barrel and the intricately carved handle. Chuck said that Sturm knew he was going to win; he wanted the twin six-guns from that dealer, and went and bought the guy’s entire collection out, for a low, low price. With that amount of cash and no paperwork, the collector couldn’t refuse. He kept the cash and hired a few guys to burn his house down. The other guns weren’t worth near as much; basically, the clients had paid for Sturm’s guns.
* * * * *
“This very afternoon,” Sturm said, “you all are going to have a chance to hunt that goddamn monkey you all saw on those wanted signs. So don’t go wandering off just yet. Remember, there’s a goddamn twenty grand bounty on its head. I have it on very good authority that he’s gonna make his escape in this very park—and just to make things interesting, he’s gonna be bustin’ loose with all his monkey buddies. That’s right. I promised you some shooting, and it’s shooting you’re gonna be doing, by God.”