They shot more cats. Another wolf. The mountain lion.
Most of the cash went to whatever hunter won, and sometimes, Sturm just flat-out couldn’t take losing and would have to step forward and shoot and win the bet fair and square. But most of the time, he stepped aside to let the hunters to gamble among themselves, but even then, ten percent always, always went into leather saddlebags that Theo hung over his shoulder.
* * * * *
Each night, when the hunts were over, Sturm would collect Frank from either the auction yard or the fields, and take him back to the vet office to get cleaned up for dinner. Theo sat in the middle, saddlebags between him and his dad. Frank would give his report on the remaining animals, and Sturm would toss him a bottle. Then, after a shower, Frank would drive himself out to the ranch for dinner.
Once, they stopped at the house for a fast change of clothes; a lioness had sprayed urine all over Sturm’s thighs. “Get that cash settled before anybody shows up for dinner,” Sturm told Theo in the driveway. “Frank’ll help you.”
Theo looked like he didn’t want Frank’s help, but he didn’t say anything. Frank followed him to the barn. They passed stall after stall of ammo, camping supplies, and beer kegs. A dusty tarp covered what appeared to be a pile of junk in the last stall. Theo jerked the tarp back, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the still air, and revealed an upturned dining room table, a jumble of rusted garden tools, some kind of primitive bicycle exercise machine, and a massive, horizontal freezer. An ancient air conditioner rested on top of the freezer.
It pained Theo to speak. “Grab that end,” he said, indicating with his chin the air conditioner. Frank helped him lift it off the freezer. They set it down next to the exercise machine. Theo opened the freezer’s lid, and inside, nestled tight, was a gunsafe. It was color of wet concrete, almost three feet wide, and nearly five feet long. You could only spin the combination wheel if you unlocked it with a key, which Theo produced from the saddlebags. “Turn around,” he said. “This ain’t none of your goddamn business.”
Frank turned and almost flinched as he found Sturm standing silently behind him. Sturm didn’t say anything, just put a finger to his lips. The meaning was clear as the sky outside. This is a privilege. You don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Frank nodded, and let his eyes drift up to the lioness hide still tacked to the roof.
Behind him, Theo dumped the cash into the gun safe and slammed it shut. He spun the combination, twisted the key, and closed the freezer lid. Frank took his end of the air conditioner and they put it back on the freezer. Then it was just a matter of dragging the tarp back over all the rest of the junk. As a final touch, Theo took a coffee can, scooped up some of the dirt in the aisle, and sifted it carefully over the tarp. When he was finished, Frank honestly couldn’t tell that the tarp had been moved at all.
“Let’s go get some dinner,” Sturm said.
DAY THIRTY
The Gloucks found two new long tables at the fairgrounds to accommodate all the new hunters. Frank, Theo, and Chuck still sat at the rickety card table at the end of the head table. Tonight, dinner was fairly basic, nothing fancy. Frank wondered if Edie and Alice were running out of recipes. The waiters brought out chilled goblets of shrimp cocktail, followed by lioness steaks, sautéed zucchini and garlic, baked potatoes stuffed with sweet onions, butter, and sour cream. Frank found out later that Sturm had forbade any kind of rice, especially wild rice, to be included in the meals.
The original hunters, Girdler and the Assholes mostly, seemed to have adopted Wally Glouck as their personal mascot ever since he had served as a referee for the sheep hunt. They’d call him over, joke with him, give him sips of their highballs, and slip him bills when they thought the mothers weren’t looking. He’d usually be quite drunk by the end of the night. Edie and Alice never said anything, but they went through his pockets before they sent him home.
One hunter, Asshole #1, in particular, was awful fond of pulling Wally close and slipping a twenty-dollar bill into the front pocket of Wally’s black jeans. He’d give Wally his glass, letting the fourteen year old take a sip. Sometimes, Asshole #1 would even tip the glass further, forcing more of the amber liquid into Wally’s mouth. The hunters would laugh, Asshole #1 laughing the hardest, as Wally coughed and grinned at the attention. Asshole #1 would pat Wally’s lower back and send him on his way to refill his drink.
Sturm watched all this but never paused, never hesitated in telling a story or a joke.
But this night, something was off. Whether Sturm was irritated at missing hitting the front left tire of a Toyota at four hundred yards in early morning fog or he’d finally had enough of Asshole #1’s behavior, no one knew. He watched Asshole #1 pour his drink down Wally’s throat, watched as Asshole #1 whispered something in Wally’s ear as he slipped a bill into the boy’s front pocket, maybe letting his hand linger a bit too long.
Sturm finished his joke, nodding at the laughter, and stood quickly, letting his hands fall to the handles of his new cowboy revolvers. He never went anywhere without them anymore. He strode the length of the table as the laughter died and jerked one of the revolvers out and shoved the barrel into Asshole #1’s right eye. He pushed hard enough that Asshole #1’s head cranked back until the entire chair toppled over. Sturm rode him all the way down, keeping that barrel sunk deep into the guy’s eye socket.
All conversation and laughter died.
Asshole #1’s head slammed into the ground and didn’t bounce. Sturm clicked the hammer back. Still standing, but bent nearly double at the waist, forcing Asshole #1’s head into the bone dry soil, he said quietly, “I been watching you. Been watching how you touch that little boy. I think you’re a sick goddamn fuck. You’re lower than a fucking worm. The only thing stopping me from putting a bullet through that fucking twisted mind of yours is the sliver of chance that I might be wrong, that you’re just drunk, that you’re just a big, dumb, friendly sonofabitch. I don’t think I’m wrong, but here’s what’s gonna happen. You are gonna get up and get your shit and drive like hell and hope to hell I don’t come looking for you. You got that?”
Asshole #1 was too afraid to nod, too afraid to blink.
Sturm drove the gun barrel deeper. An involuntary grunt escaped Assholes #1’s lips. “I said, do you understand what I’m sayin’?” Sturm asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes. Yes,” Asshole #1 said thickly.
Sturm abruptly pulled his revolver back and stepped off Asshole #1.
Asshole #1 scooted towards the house and stood up, stumbling backwards towards his tent. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as he blinked rapidly and tried to wipe the dust off the back of his head. Thick tears seeped out of his right eye. “…completely wrong…” was the only thing he said before ducking around the side of the house.
Sturm’s voice cut into the still air. “I am truly sorry, gentlemen, that something like that…I can’t call that twisted little evil shit a person, let alone a human being.”
“I ain’t never seen him do anything like that before,” Asshole #3 shouted, a little too shrill. “Hell, just met that fucker, really. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him myself.”
Asshole #2 was too busy looking at his plate and shaking his head to say anything one way or the other.