Pterodactyls
“What ya figure, Earl,” said Bobby, his face beaming button-popping pride as the darkly tinted window retreated silently into the door. “Is this a nice truck or what?”
That familiar new-car smell—a mixture of gassed-off plastics, solvents and adhesives—drifted from the open window. “Oh yeah, she’s sweet, Bobby,” said Earl unable to hide his look of disbelief. He ran his hand along the freshly buffed finish as his eyebrows pulled into a frown. “How can your old man afford something like this?”
Bobby tightened his lips and tugged the brim of his hat down over his forehead to lend himself an air of cowboy poise. “He can’t exactly,” he said, shaking his head. “But that don’t bother him none. Everbody’s got credit nowadays. Hell, he figured he wasn’t never gonna get him a new vehicle unless he got one now. You know how bad things is gettin’, Earl.” Earl bobbed his head in agreement. “At least he’ll have it for a time, and maybe some miracle will turn things around and we’ll be able to keep ‘er.”
Bobby thumbed the power button to unlock the passenger door. “Don’t just stand there, Earl,” he said. “Hop in. Let’s go for a ride.”
Earl tugged open the door of the new Dodge four-by-four pickup and hoisted himself into the seat.
“Hope you brought some ‘bacca,” said Bobby as the engine rumbled to life.
Earl looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. “’Course I got some,” he said in a low whisper. Don’t leave home without it!”
They rolled down Earl’s long, rutted driveway and onto Highway thirteen—a rundown, two-lane tar-top cracked by incessant sun and glued back together by glossy black ribbons of thick petroleum sludge; a once grand highway that pitches and rolls across the desolate and dehydrated southeast corner of the state from the edge, right into the middle of nowhere.
The day was young, traffic was light and the sun bright and searing. They headed east, the engine of the Dodge thrumming while the stereo blared out the latest Rikki Phife, Rock-a-billy tune, Squeeze Me Till It Hurts. Bobby bopped his head to the music as Earl twisted up the homegrown tobacco into a couple of cigarettes.
Up ahead a low, wide military-type vehicle barreled toward them, its red cherry-light flashing atop the cab. Just before it passed them Bobby said, “Hey Earl, is that who I think it is?”
“Huh?” Earl looked up and caught a quick glimpse of the driver as he flew by, an intense looking, rat-faced individual with a scrawny moustache and scrunched up nose. Two front teeth gleamed from the center of his dark face. Gold aviator glasses covered his eyes and a Smoky-the-bear hat topped his head. The snap-shot view stuck in Earls head and he sprayed some spittle stifling a laugh. “Sure is. Perciville Wilcox.”
“You mean Ranger Wilcox,” said Bobby sarcastically.
“Oh yeah, Ranger Wilcox. Wonder what he’s doing out here? Must be on lizard patrol.”
“I ain’t seen him for months, not since Sally Farnsworth ran off.”
Earl handed Bobby the tiny cigar. “Whatever happened with that? Did they ever find out where Sally went?”
Bobby took the cigarette and hung it off his lower lip. “I dunno, Earl. Last I heard they figured she got pregnant and ran off to Ridgeway.”
“Pregnant? She was only thirteen.”
“Thirteen goin’ on thirty I figure,” said Bobby. Cops talked to Tony Robles and he admitted that he was pokin’ her pretty regular.
‘Tony Robles the third grade teacher?” Earl pushed his hat forward and scratched the back of his head. “What’s this world comin’ to Bobby?”
“Seems they found her bicycle about four miles up the pass toward Ridgeway, right along side the road. They figured she just dumped it there and hitched on into town.”
Bobby watched the flashing red light of the Hummer recede in his side, rear-view mirror until it disappeared over a rise.
Earl looked up, grabbed at the steering wheel. “Look out, Bobby,” he yelled
“Oh shit!” Bobby tapped the brake and pulled hard on the wheel. Only the quick reactions of youth allowed him to avert disaster as they narrowly skirted a greasy heap of green and white manure steaming in the center of their lane. Bobby whistled through his teeth. “That was a close one.” He pushed his Stetson back off his forehead as he wiped his forearm across his brow. “God, I hate them things.”
“Me too.” Hands shaking, Earl returned to his rolling. “I think one got Rachel’s dog a couple days ago.”
“No way!” Bobby shook his head. “They’ve gone overboard protecting them things. They’re gettin’ to be real pests—eating everything that moves hereabouts.”
Earl pulled a match from his shirt pocket flicked it to life with his thumb and shoved it front of Bobby’s face. Bobby puffed until the end of the tiny cigar caught fire. “You got that right,” said Earl as he lit up his own nail, “But them slicks from the city think lizards is cute. And the damn environmentalists keep sayin’ they’re almost extinct.”
A shadow crossed the Dodge. Bobby powered down both windows and looked up through the picket of short pines that lined the highway but saw nothing but blue sky. “Extinct my ass. I ain’t never seen so many as there is now. I wish they was extinct.” Agitated, Bobby hit the accelerator and sped up a bit. “Them things ain’t nothin’ but a drain on the economy as far as I’m concerned. We lost twelve calves last year.” Bobby squinted one eye as he calculated. “That’s almost ten thousand dollars. Ten G’s!”
Earl took two puffs and let the smoke roll out his nose. He put both hands behind his head, kicked back and enjoyed the sensation for a moment. He smiled sideways at his friend. “You know the government paid your daddy for them cattle, and you know damn well that one of them’s in your freezer right now.”
“You’re missing the point, Earl.” Another shadow crossed the Dodge. “The only ranchers that can make it now-a-days are the ones that put all their cows in a big feed lot under sonic domes. You gotta be a multimillionaire or a big corporation to protect your herd that way. A man’s got a right to make a livin’ don’t he, Earl? It just ain’t right.”
“I hear them lizard repellers drive you crazy after awhile,” said Earl.
“Probably give you cancer too.” Bobby smiled at Earl and took a big drag on his cigarette. They both burst out laughing.
Bobby spied something up ahead in the middle of the highway. “Look-a there, Earl. There’s a couple ‘o them dinosaurs now.” As they approached, they could see two pterodactyls, wings flailing, jaws snapping at each other in a pecking-order battle as they ripped apart a carcass. Bobby blasted the horn and the two reptiles flew off. He pulled off the road next to the remains. They got out of the truck to inspect it.
“Pretty fresh kill, Earl.” Bobby kicked at what was left of the head.
“Yeah, look-a there.” Earl pointed to the brand on a flap of hide. “Looks like one of old man McCormick’s cows.”
Two hundred feet overhead the two pterodactyls circled the kill, waiting for the cowboys to leave. One of them let out a screech of protest: a thousand fingernails scraping across a blackboard.
“We better go tell the old man so he can get the paperwork started,” Earl said. “It takes about three months before the government pays—that’s if you get the paperwork done right the first time.”
One of the pterodactyls let go. Bobby heard something wet splat behind him. Earl grimaced and shut his eyes. Bobby turned and ran for his truck.
“No friggin’ way. Those goddam flyin’ lizards.” Bobby picked up a rock and threw it at the circling predators. The rock arced harmlessly eighty feet below them.
The hood and part of the windshield of the Dodge glistened with pea-soup-colored slime swimming with gelatinous chunks of white and black. A blast of stench enveloped the area as the whole mess slowly ran down the left fender.
Bobby kicked the ground into a cloud of dust. “Why me, fer chrissakes. My old man’s gonna flip out.”
“You gotta get that shit off ‘fore it eats through the paint,” said Earl. “McCormick’s road is just ahead. Jack will let you hose it off there, down by his barn.”
“You’re right, let’s move.”
Bobby hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the greasy door handle. After wiping his hand on his jeans, he hopped in and turned on the wipers, which just smeared the mess. The windshield washer fluid thinned it a little, and with Earl navigating, they managed to reach McCormick’s place in under ten minutes.
“Looks like you been chasin’ lizards, boys,” Jack McCormick said as he met them at the barn. A mixture of disgust and amusement dressed his wrinkled face. “Just make sure you hose that into the dirt real good. The missus gets real upset by lizard crap.”
“Thanks Jack,” Bobby said, cursing under his breath as he picked up the hose and began to squirt off the truck.
Earl told Jack about the incident and the dead cow. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Jack lamented. “That makes twenty cows this year alone. Government buys them all now-a-days. Can’t really complain about that.” He grimaced and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He cocked his head to Earl and they headed towards the corral, fifty feet upwind. “But I’m running out of breeders so fast that I’ll be out of business in a couple years.”
Jack looked out across his ranch toward the horizon. “The McCormick’s been runnin’ cows on this land since my granddaddy homesteaded here over a century ago. I Don’t know anything else. Don’t want to sell out neither, though A.R.M. has made me a pretty good offer for the land.” Earl leaned back and hung his arm over the top rail of the corral quietly listening while Jack absentmindedly rubbed a gnarled finger over a scabby liver spot on his leathery forearm. His rheumy eyes searched Earl’s face for a reaction. “Kids’re all gone to the city—got no interest in ranching. Cyril’s wears a suit for Amalgamated—in middle management I think, and Julie’s a lawyer down in Ridgeway. Hell, the grandkids is bein’ raised in a daycare center and my own daughter won’t let the missus mind them ‘cause I don’t have satellite—can’t watch the Terry Dactyl cartoon show.” Jack’s shoulders drooped a bit. “Probably just as well.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the dry, gritty ground. “Ain’t no future in ranchin’ no more, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I ain’t leavin’ for the city, Jack,” Bobby yelled as he scrubbed. “There ain’t enough money in the world to make me live in a hellhole like Ridgeway.” Bobby kinked the hose, inspected the truck, gave it one more shot then shut off the water. “Think I could trouble you for a towel, Jack? I’ll wash it and bring it back. I’d just as soon daddy didn’t know what happened today.”
“No problemo, Bobby.” Jack headed back into the house.
“I think we oughtta start marketing lizard meat, Earl,” said Bobby once Jack was out of earshot.
“Oh yeah, big market for that, Bobby,” Earl said, thinking Bobby was kidding.
“No, I mean it. The Indians down on the Res eat it all the time. Suppose to taste something like chicken.”
“More like buzzard, I’d imagine.
“No, really. I bet we could sell it to restaurants, tell ‘um it was wild turkey or somthin’. They could put it in tacos. Who the hell’d know?”
“You’re serious?” Earl was shaking his head. “You’re losin’ it, Bobby.”
Bobby smiled. “Hell, I just wanna kill one of them things. I don’t even care if the meat’s good or not. I’m sick of their stink. I’m tired of seein’ them perched on top of the barn, just waiting for a calf to get too far from its momma, and I’m done sitting back and lettin’ some desk jockey in Washington tell me how I can live my life. Ain’t you tired of havin’ them lizards be more important than us ranchers, Earl?”
“Can’t do much about it, Bobby. What’re you gonna do, kill one with a rock?”
“Here’s the towel, boys,” said Jack as he walked toward them. He tossed the towel to Bobby.
Bobby began to buff the truck, was pleased to see that the paint was not damaged. As he polished he said, “Ya think I could borrow your shotgun, Jack?”
Jack looked stunned. “W-what are you talking about Bobby? I ain’t got no shotgun. I ain’t got no weapons at all. You know they took all that stuff away years ago.”
“C’mon Jack. I’ve known you since I was a kid. You an’ my ol’ man go back all the way to kindergarten. He’s told me how wild you an’ him was in the old days, drinkin’ and smokin’ and poachin’ deer an’ turkeys. I know they didn’t take all your guns. You just ain’t the kind of guy that’d let that happen.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Bobby.” Jack was visibly shaken and he tapped his shirt pocket nervously, looking for a pack of smokes, even though he’d been forced to quit smoking a dozen years ago. “I did try to hide a pistol, but somehow the cops found out. They scared me real good, they did. Tol’ me that I’d get ten to fifteen if they ever caught me with a weapon again. I believe ‘em.”
“Even if I got caught with it, and I won’t, I wouldn’t tell ‘em where I got it, Jack.” Bobby looked at Earl who immediately broke eye contact.
“You know that if I had one I’d for sure let you use it,” Jack said. “Thing is, I ain’t got no more guns.”
“OK, Jack,” said Bobby, taking one last swipe at the truck with the towel. “It’s just that one night, down at Carmen’s Cantina, Pablo was kinda tuned bit and was a runnin’ off at the mouth to me an’ Earl about the twelve-gauge you got locked in the cellar. I know it ain’t none of my business.” Bobby crossed his arms and leaned back against the front of the pickup. “I was just hopin’ to bag me one of them lizards—maybe barbecue him up and have a party.”
Jack was shaking his head. “That Pablo never could hold his liquor. He’s been a blabbermouth since we was kids.” Jack paused for a moment and looked over at Earl, sizing up the situation to see if he should continue. “Aw hell. Yeah, I got me a shotgun. It was my daddy’s, and I just couldn’t let the Feds have it. It ain’t like I’m gonna rob a bank, or start a revolution. It’s just got a lot of sentimental value, that’s all.”
Earl jumped in. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me an’ Bobby. We knows you’re good folk. What the hell, if’n you want to have a gun, then by God you should have a gun. Me ‘n Bobby ain’t gonna tell nobody you got it, that’s a fact.
Bobby added, “Pablo’s always so full of shit, I never believe what he says anyway. Nobody does. I’m kinda surprised he was telling the truth this time.”
Jack looked old and tired, sorry that his secret was out. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “You bring me a leg o’ one of them critters, and I’ll let you use the gun. But I’m only gonna give you two shells. If’n you don’t bag one, you two work for me for a week. And I don’t want to hear no braggin’ about it neither, or it’s your ass.”
“You got it.” Bobby grabbed the air and made a fist and yanked it down to his side. “Whoohaaa!”
On the road again, the Remington wrapped in a blanket and tucked safely behind the seat back, Earl asked, “So where do you think would be a safe enough place to take a lizard without getting caught, Bobby?”
“I was thinking out toward the county line. Maybe up the Ferguson Truck Trail. They ain’t many people out there ‘cept maybe some Res Indians, and I figure they sure don’t care if we’re huntin’ flyin’ lizards.”
“Yeah,” Earl came back. “I hear they nest up in the crags out there.” He squinted out the windshield toward the jagged horizon. “’Course we’ll have to hide the truck and hoof it up on foot. It’ll be a bitch when we have to pack out all the meat.”
“We only need to bring back one drumstick for Jack.” Billy pushed the accelerator to the mat, now that he knew where they were headed. “We’ll just cook it up right up there in the mountains, eat what we want and leave the rest.” He rolled down the side window and flicked out the butt of his cigarette. “Them dinosaurs is cannibals anyway. They’ll clean up after us and no one will even know we was there.”
“It’s gonna take all day, Bobby,” Earl said. “Won’t your daddy get pissed at you if you don’t bring the truck back soon?”
“Naah, Pops took the old beater down to Carmen’s. He’ll stay there late, then probably hook up with Sandy and go over to her place to spend the night.” Bobby stuck a finger in his mouth and pulled it out with a pop. Earl smiled and nodded.
Ferguson Truck Trail, was a disused scratch in the desert riddled with gullies, potholes and boulders, but the Dodge pounded up it with eight-cylinder ease, pumping out clouds of dirt as the road wound its way into the pile of rocks known as the Sierra Gigante. The sacred grounds of the Pocutche Indians, these rainless, rocky reaches were the only open lands left of the vast expanse their ancestors once freely roamed.
Bobby pulled the pickup into a low, flinty arroyo and hid the truck behind some scrub pines. “Good enough,” he said.
They climbed out of the truck and were at once struck by the quiet, eerie moaning of the wind as it sifted through the pines, squeezing its way through crevices and rents in the mountain cliffs. “Kind of creepy up here,” mentioned Earl as he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his neck. Though the temperature sat in the mid seventies, the dry wind cut like shards of glass.
“Ain’t you never been up here before, Earl?” said Bobby antagonistically, trying to bolster himself against his own sense of foreboding.
“Sure, I been here before. Long time ago with my dad—back before all the restrictions. ‘Course we never hiked onto the Res.” Earl pulled his hat down tight to keep it from blowing off in the wind. “The ol’ man said these Indians ain’t too friendly. Said they’d beat the crap outta anyone who trespassed onto their lands.”
“Maybe that was true a few years back. Now they’re just a bunch of alkies.” Bobby hocked up a lump from his throat and spat it onto the sand. “Since they turned down the casino deal, they just hang around their dumpy plywood shacks and drink. Hell, they get a welfare check just for sittin’ on their asses. I’d probably get shitfaced every day too.” Bobby pulled out the twelve-gauge from behind the seat, and turned toward Earl. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I s’pose.” Earl was already off the subject, staring into the distance toward the top of the ridge. “Looka way up there Bobby.” Earl pointed high and to the left of a tall, Bigcone pine. Small black specs dotted the sky slowly circling like fruit flies over a rotting apple. “Holy mother of God. Are those what I think they are?”
Bobby squinted. “How many you figure there are? Fifty? Sixty?”
“Maybe more,” said Earl. “There’s a pile, that’s for sure.”
Bobby plugged the two shells into the Remington. “If’n we can’t bring one of those lizards down with two loads of double-ought buck,” he sighted down the barrel toward the thermaling pterodactyls, “then. . . Pkssssh,” Bobby made the sound of a shot with his mouth and jerked the gun back against his shoulder, “I guess we should both move to Ridgeway and open up a ballet school.” That shattered the tension. They both snickered then broke into all out-laughter.
It took them the better part of the afternoon to work their way up the ridge to where they figured the pterodactyls were. They soon left the trees as they approached the shoulder of the mountain. Farther up, loose rock slid with every advancing step while the blustery wind kept them off balance. Salty, dried sweat pulled their faces taught and stung their eyes but the anticipation of the hunt gave them more than enough energy for the task. They topped a rise then dropped into a narrow ravine. Around a bend the ravine widened. They stopped abruptly. Before them the ground lay strewn with glistening white shards—the remains of dozens, if not hundreds of animals. The air felt thick and close, fetid with the oily smell of decay. Earl bent forward and picked up one of the fragments of bone. “What ya figure, Bobby?” Earl held it up for Bobby’s inspection.
“Looks like cow bone to me, Earl.” Bobby chambered a shell, making sure the safety was on. “Might be deer too.”
They walked cautiously onward, their boots crunching in the riprap of bone. Bobby kicked a piece of skull. “That’s cow for sure.” He pointed with the rifle. “And that looks like goat or maybe deer.” They kicked their way through the pile, identifying fragments piece by piece.
“Deer.”
“Dog or maybe coyote,” said Earl.
“Another cow. Big one.”
“What’s this one, Bobby?” Earl bent down and picked up a piece that was glistening white, with a large round hole and smooth bone that curved away in a regular arc. Earl laughed, held the bone fragment up to his face looking at Bobby through the hole. He saw Bobby’s face pale. Earl looked at the bone again then suddenly dropped it and jumped back. “Naa, couldn’t be. Could it?”
“I dunno Earl, but it wouldn’t surprise me none neither,” Bobby said.
A shrill prehistoric shriek ended the conversation. While surveying the bones at their feet, neither of them had noticed that only sixty feet above their heads perched a large, blue-bellied pterodactyl staring intently at them, its golden, soulless, reptilian eyes taking turns inspecting them as it turned its head right, then left, then right again. The beast spread its leathery wings and leaned forward like a swimmer beginning a dive. Bobby swung the shotgun around, took aim and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The pterodactyl continued to lean and began a gentle downward glide from the cliff directly at them. Bobby panicked, chambered another shell, which ejected the first round onto the killing field, then remembering the safety, had to look for it, and disengage it. When he looked up again, all he could see was a gaping maw ringed in red.”
Earl couldn’t tell if the recoil from the shotgun had knocked Bobby down, or if it had been the plummeting reptilian carcass that now lay across his chest. “Jesus H. Ke-rist, Bobby,” Earl yelled. “You OK?” Earl ran over, and tried to jerk the limp body off his friend. Like a loose sack of beans, the dead weight of the beast seemed to absorb Earl’s efforts to dislodge it. On a count of three, Earl managed to help Bobby free himself. Unhurt but juiced on adrenaline Bobby jumped to his feet, grabbed the other shell, reinserted it into the gun, chambered it, put the gun to his shoulder and panned the ridge and surrounding terrain, fully expecting another attack. No other pterodactyls were in sight.
“Come on you maggot suckin’ lizards,” Bobby yelled. “Whoooeee, what a rush! Come get some more lead, you goddam murdering bastards.” Juiced on adrenaline, Bobby grabbed the shotgun in the middle and thrust it over his head, whooped some more, and danced Indian style, twice on the right foot, twice on the left foot, around and around the dead protobird, old bones crunching beneath his feet.
“You scared ‘em all off, Bobby.” Earl began to laugh off his own tension. “Shit, I thought he had you there for a second.”
“You worry too much good buddy,” Bobby said, finally coming to a rest out of breath. “No stinkin’ lizard’s gonna take out Bobby Garcia, no way, no how.”
The two friends bent forward to inspect their prize. The shotgun blast had taken off the top portion of the pterodactyl’s head, leaving a flapping lower jaw rimmed with wicked needle sharp teeth. A thick, dark red pool of blood had quickly formed around the body, but no more was exiting the wound.
“In a way, it’s kind of pretty, don’t ya think Bobby?” Earl held out one of the twelve foot, scale covered wings. It was predominantly cobalt blue beneath, with flecks of yellow and red toward the tips.
“Yeah, pretty like a rattlesnake. Pretty like a vampire bat.” Bobby’s pulled off his hat, peeled the blood soaked shirt over his head and tossed it onto the ground. Spatters of blood flecked his face.
“Got yer knife, Earl?”
“Sure, Bobby.” Earl unsnapped the long stainless Buck knife from its scabbard and handed it to him.
A shadow blocked the sun for a moment. The cowboys looked up. Already two pterodactyls circled high above, waiting for their chance.
“Let’s, carve off a hunk of breast meat, cut Jack his drumstick and get the Hell outta here.” Bobby shivered for a second. “They probably just want to eat their brother here. . .” Bobby searched the ground until he saw the piece of bone that Earl had found just before the attack. “But now I ain’t so sure. I ain’t never been ascared of no lizard before, but we’re on their home turf now. They might just be a little more dangerous than we thought.”
“I’m with you, Bobby,” said Earl. “I ain’t into hangin’ around to find out neither.” Bobby grabbed one of the legs and stretched it out, tossing the knife back to Earl. “Get cuttin’, pardner. If we hurry, we can get back to the truck before dark.”
It only took ten minutes to finish the task at hand, but in that time five more pterodactyls had joined the other two, and all of them now circled only a couple hundred feet overhead.
Bobby wrapped the meat in his shirt and the two of them quickly headed down the mountain toward the truck, slipping on the gravelly escarpment, landing on their butts more than once. The pterodactyls did not follow.
By the time they reached the truck, the sun perched on the far side of the sierras, promising only a half-hour more of light before giving way to the night.
“That was a kick, wasn’t it?” said Earl. Neither of them had said a word since they left the scene. Bobby plopped the meat into the back of the truck and turned to face him.
“Y’know, Earl, I think I could get to like huntin’ lizards. That was a real hoot.”
“I don’t think you’re going to be killing any more endangered species, Roberto,” a baritone voice informed from behind them. “Drop the weapon, Earl.”
Earl raised his head and saw the short barrel of an Uzi aimed at his face. The man holding it wore a desert camouflage uniform of crisp gabardine, leutenant bars glistening on his epaulets. He wore the polished silver and gold seven-pointed star bearing the insignia of the EPA Rangers, a double-headed pterodactyl holding an olive branch in its claws. “Aw, fuck,” said Earl. He bent forward and put the shotgun on the ground.
Bobby slowly turned to face the ranger. He could scarcely see the camouflaged Hummer parked on the other side of the pines, not twenty feet from the Dodge. It too bore the EPA insignia and tax exempt-plates. “Well, well, well. Little Pussy Wilcox.”
“Ranger Wilcox now, Roberto.” He pointed the Uzi at Bobby for emphasis.
“You always was a little prick, Perciville. I might ‘a known you’d become a lizard lover.” Bobby stood up to his full five foot eight inch height and puffed out his chest. “Why don’t you put down that pea shooter and we can duke it out like we use ta’ back in high school.”
The ranger’s upper lip twitched into a smile. Bobby couldn’t see the ranger’s eyes, but instead, saw his own reflection in the mirrored lenses of the gold tint aviator glasses. They added to the ranger’s unassailable image, masking any trepidation he otherwise might have shown. “Well, boys, it looks like you’ve bought yourself some prison time. First offense for pterodactyl poaching should get you about five years in Club Fed. And the weapons charge—that’ll get you another five.”
“You can’t be serious, Percy,” said Earl. He folded his arms across his chest. “We was lucky to get back down here with our lives. Them damn things is man-eaters.”
“Don’t try that one on me, Earl.” The ranger motioned with his free hand. “Step back from the gun.” Earl did as requested.
“The fact is,” the ranger began, “pterodactyls are beautiful, gentle creatures, maligned and feared by man since the beginning of time.” Earl looked at Bobby for his reaction. Bobby just shrugged and shook his head in disbelief. “Pterodactyls were nearly extinct by the late nineteen thirties, because of attitudes like yours: overhunting by the Indians, and ignorant ranchers like you killing them off indiscriminately.” Percy let the Uzi’s muzzle drop a bit. “There has never been a documented incident of them attacking a human. And the old Pocutche legend—pure mythology.”
“One sure as hell attacked me, Bobby said. And we saw bones—human bones—up there on the reservation.”
“Trespassing on an Indian reserve. There’s another year for you two. Probably don’t have an off-road permit either.” The ranger stuck his nose up and sniffed the air. “I bet I wouldn’t have to search too hard to find tobacco.”
“This is ridiculous, Percy,” Earl said, throwing a hand up and taking a step forward. It was becoming clear that the ranger was not interested in their story. “Just follow us and we can show you what we’re talking about. Bring that Uzi along. You’re gonna need it.”
“You better hold it right there, Earl,” said the ranger, grabbing the gun with his both hands, ready. “We aren’t going anywhere, except to Ridgeway—and to jail.” The ranger unhooked the walkie-talkie from his belt and called for back-up.
“What about my truck?”
“That’s the state’s truck now, Roberto.” The ranger’s sneer was full on. “You forfeited it the minute you put that illegal game into it.”
“Listen to reason, Percy,” said Bobby. He walked out from behind the pickup.
“No you listen, Roberto.” The ranger leveled the Uzi at Bobby. Bobby looked down at his chest and saw the red dot of a laser scope over his heart. “You broke the law, and you’re going to pay for it.”
“I don’t get it,” said Earl. “We tell you we have proof that these things kill people, and you still won’t listen—won’t even take a look? Let us prove what we are saying.”
“I’m not interested in your pitiful attempt at justification.” Percy flicked off the Uzi’s safety with his thumb. “Fact is, society won’t tolerate poachers like you any longer. You shit-kickers think you’re above the law. Well, you’re not. Losers like you are nothing but a drain on society.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about Percy,” said Bobby. His hands began to sweat.
Percy went on. “This part of the state used to be one of the most depressed in the nation, most of the people on public assistance, the rest trying to eek a living out of the desert. Now big subdivisions with shopping malls and burger mills are popping up like mushrooms.” The ranger licked his lips. “And do you know why?” His voice swelled with righteous certitude.” Because our government realized how rare and wonderful these endangered creatures are and moved to protect them. Now tourists from all over the world, pockets stuffed with cash come here for a chance to see a pterodactyl. Ridgeway is booming. Everyone’s working.” A ladybug landed on the ranger’s lapel. He cocked his middle finger and coolly dispatched it. Earl toyed with the idea of going for the shotgun, then gave it up.
“There hasn’t been an unbooked room in one of the motels for over six months. Restaurant chains are scrambling to open in Ridgeway, pushing up property values, and Pioneer Town has more day-glow, plastic pterodactyl action-figures than you can count.”
“But what about us,” Earl responded. “What about the folks who live out here—people whose grandparents pioneered this land—people who’ve been here for generations: us ranchers? Those lizards are destroying our lives. Don’t we have nothin’ to say about it? Don’t we count for anything?”
The ranger shook his head. “Not much. You hicks are living in the past. Amalgamated Resource Management runs things around here now. Half the people in Ridgeway work for them or one of their subsidiaries.” Beads of sweat dotted Percy’s forehead. “They’re the future. Prosperity for all,” he said, parroting their corporate slogan.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and patted his brow wishing that duty rotation hadn’t forced him out of his clean, climate-controlled office. “There’s no need to range cattle any more. It’s much more efficient to raise cattle in feedlots and truck in food for them.” He stuffed the hankie in his back pocket. “Cowboys are an anachronism. You’re dinosaurs, as outdated and pointless as the Pocutche, sitting out there on their reservation.”
Bobby looked puzzled. “But ain’t you part Pocutche?” He didn’t like the way the ranger’s mouth twisted when he spoke, with those little puddles of spittle at the corners, or the way his finger fidgeted from the trigger guard to the trigger and back. “Don’t you feel any loyalty to them?” Bobby tried to move to one side, but Percy kept the bead right on his chest.
“Yeah, I hate to admit it. My grandmother was Pocutche. I figure that’s why my father was so lazy and never wanted to work. He couldn’t hold down a job for more than a couple of months at a time—just wanted to go fishing, get drunk and chase women. Never took responsibility for his own failings. Blamed it all on the white man.” The ranger began to slowly walk around the Dodge. “That was a legacy I vowed to overcome.”
Inadvertently, Earl took a nervous step toward the shotgun. Percy opened fire, sending a three round burst of bullets across the ground in front of him, shattering the stock of the Remington. One of the bullets ricocheted up and through Earl’s pant cuff, grazing his boot, but missing his flesh. “What the hell you doin’, Percy. Shit, man, you’re crazy.”
Bobby started to move, but a swing of the Uzi’s muzzle froze him in place. Defiantly, he glared at the ranger, “You gonna kill us now, Percy?”
“I don’t want to, I really don’t.” The ranger’s finger twitched. “But I will if I have to. I have the authority.” Percy circled around the two cowboys. “Now I want you over there,” he motioned with the gun, “with your hands on the truck where I can see them—pronto.”
Bobby and Earl did as he requested. Ranger Wilcox moved around behind them, reaching for the handcuffs laced through his belt.
Hands planted on the hood of the Dodge, Earl turned toward Bobby. Their eyes met and relayed the sort of unspoken communication that only happens between close friends.
Bobby spun around and caught the Uzi with the outside of his boot. The gun protested with another three rounds burst and then, for a pregnant moment, only the sound of gritty scuffling.
Echoes of war resounded off the crags as the Uzi fulfilled its three-bullets-per-second design potential, emptying the thirty-round banana clip, punctuated by a shotgun blast.
The dry wind whistled through the pines and moaned sorrowfully around cornices of stone. The sun dove behind the mountain silhouette, smearing blood along the horizon. Overhead, a dozen circling shadows descended lower into the silence. Far away, a mournful wail pierced the air—the sound of an approaching siren—or perhaps the ancient call of a pterodactyl.
That familiar new-car smell—a mixture of gassed-off plastics, solvents and adhesives—drifted from the open window. “Oh yeah, she’s sweet, Bobby,” said Earl unable to hide his look of disbelief. He ran his hand along the freshly buffed finish as his eyebrows pulled into a frown. “How can your old man afford something like this?”
Bobby tightened his lips and tugged the brim of his hat down over his forehead to lend himself an air of cowboy poise. “He can’t exactly,” he said, shaking his head. “But that don’t bother him none. Everbody’s got credit nowadays. Hell, he figured he wasn’t never gonna get him a new vehicle unless he got one now. You know how bad things is gettin’, Earl.” Earl bobbed his head in agreement. “At least he’ll have it for a time, and maybe some miracle will turn things around and we’ll be able to keep ‘er.”
Bobby thumbed the power button to unlock the passenger door. “Don’t just stand there, Earl,” he said. “Hop in. Let’s go for a ride.”
Earl tugged open the door of the new Dodge four-by-four pickup and hoisted himself into the seat.
“Hope you brought some ‘bacca,” said Bobby as the engine rumbled to life.
Earl looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. “’Course I got some,” he said in a low whisper. Don’t leave home without it!”
They rolled down Earl’s long, rutted driveway and onto Highway thirteen—a rundown, two-lane tar-top cracked by incessant sun and glued back together by glossy black ribbons of thick petroleum sludge; a once grand highway that pitches and rolls across the desolate and dehydrated southeast corner of the state from the edge, right into the middle of nowhere.
The day was young, traffic was light and the sun bright and searing. They headed east, the engine of the Dodge thrumming while the stereo blared out the latest Rikki Phife, Rock-a-billy tune, Squeeze Me Till It Hurts. Bobby bopped his head to the music as Earl twisted up the homegrown tobacco into a couple of cigarettes.
Up ahead a low, wide military-type vehicle barreled toward them, its red cherry-light flashing atop the cab. Just before it passed them Bobby said, “Hey Earl, is that who I think it is?”
“Huh?” Earl looked up and caught a quick glimpse of the driver as he flew by, an intense looking, rat-faced individual with a scrawny moustache and scrunched up nose. Two front teeth gleamed from the center of his dark face. Gold aviator glasses covered his eyes and a Smoky-the-bear hat topped his head. The snap-shot view stuck in Earls head and he sprayed some spittle stifling a laugh. “Sure is. Perciville Wilcox.”
“You mean Ranger Wilcox,” said Bobby sarcastically.
“Oh yeah, Ranger Wilcox. Wonder what he’s doing out here? Must be on lizard patrol.”
“I ain’t seen him for months, not since Sally Farnsworth ran off.”
Earl handed Bobby the tiny cigar. “Whatever happened with that? Did they ever find out where Sally went?”
Bobby took the cigarette and hung it off his lower lip. “I dunno, Earl. Last I heard they figured she got pregnant and ran off to Ridgeway.”
“Pregnant? She was only thirteen.”
“Thirteen goin’ on thirty I figure,” said Bobby. Cops talked to Tony Robles and he admitted that he was pokin’ her pretty regular.
‘Tony Robles the third grade teacher?” Earl pushed his hat forward and scratched the back of his head. “What’s this world comin’ to Bobby?”
“Seems they found her bicycle about four miles up the pass toward Ridgeway, right along side the road. They figured she just dumped it there and hitched on into town.”
Bobby watched the flashing red light of the Hummer recede in his side, rear-view mirror until it disappeared over a rise.
Earl looked up, grabbed at the steering wheel. “Look out, Bobby,” he yelled
“Oh shit!” Bobby tapped the brake and pulled hard on the wheel. Only the quick reactions of youth allowed him to avert disaster as they narrowly skirted a greasy heap of green and white manure steaming in the center of their lane. Bobby whistled through his teeth. “That was a close one.” He pushed his Stetson back off his forehead as he wiped his forearm across his brow. “God, I hate them things.”
“Me too.” Hands shaking, Earl returned to his rolling. “I think one got Rachel’s dog a couple days ago.”
“No way!” Bobby shook his head. “They’ve gone overboard protecting them things. They’re gettin’ to be real pests—eating everything that moves hereabouts.”
Earl pulled a match from his shirt pocket flicked it to life with his thumb and shoved it front of Bobby’s face. Bobby puffed until the end of the tiny cigar caught fire. “You got that right,” said Earl as he lit up his own nail, “But them slicks from the city think lizards is cute. And the damn environmentalists keep sayin’ they’re almost extinct.”
A shadow crossed the Dodge. Bobby powered down both windows and looked up through the picket of short pines that lined the highway but saw nothing but blue sky. “Extinct my ass. I ain’t never seen so many as there is now. I wish they was extinct.” Agitated, Bobby hit the accelerator and sped up a bit. “Them things ain’t nothin’ but a drain on the economy as far as I’m concerned. We lost twelve calves last year.” Bobby squinted one eye as he calculated. “That’s almost ten thousand dollars. Ten G’s!”
Earl took two puffs and let the smoke roll out his nose. He put both hands behind his head, kicked back and enjoyed the sensation for a moment. He smiled sideways at his friend. “You know the government paid your daddy for them cattle, and you know damn well that one of them’s in your freezer right now.”
“You’re missing the point, Earl.” Another shadow crossed the Dodge. “The only ranchers that can make it now-a-days are the ones that put all their cows in a big feed lot under sonic domes. You gotta be a multimillionaire or a big corporation to protect your herd that way. A man’s got a right to make a livin’ don’t he, Earl? It just ain’t right.”
“I hear them lizard repellers drive you crazy after awhile,” said Earl.
“Probably give you cancer too.” Bobby smiled at Earl and took a big drag on his cigarette. They both burst out laughing.
Bobby spied something up ahead in the middle of the highway. “Look-a there, Earl. There’s a couple ‘o them dinosaurs now.” As they approached, they could see two pterodactyls, wings flailing, jaws snapping at each other in a pecking-order battle as they ripped apart a carcass. Bobby blasted the horn and the two reptiles flew off. He pulled off the road next to the remains. They got out of the truck to inspect it.
“Pretty fresh kill, Earl.” Bobby kicked at what was left of the head.
“Yeah, look-a there.” Earl pointed to the brand on a flap of hide. “Looks like one of old man McCormick’s cows.”
Two hundred feet overhead the two pterodactyls circled the kill, waiting for the cowboys to leave. One of them let out a screech of protest: a thousand fingernails scraping across a blackboard.
“We better go tell the old man so he can get the paperwork started,” Earl said. “It takes about three months before the government pays—that’s if you get the paperwork done right the first time.”
One of the pterodactyls let go. Bobby heard something wet splat behind him. Earl grimaced and shut his eyes. Bobby turned and ran for his truck.
“No friggin’ way. Those goddam flyin’ lizards.” Bobby picked up a rock and threw it at the circling predators. The rock arced harmlessly eighty feet below them.
The hood and part of the windshield of the Dodge glistened with pea-soup-colored slime swimming with gelatinous chunks of white and black. A blast of stench enveloped the area as the whole mess slowly ran down the left fender.
Bobby kicked the ground into a cloud of dust. “Why me, fer chrissakes. My old man’s gonna flip out.”
“You gotta get that shit off ‘fore it eats through the paint,” said Earl. “McCormick’s road is just ahead. Jack will let you hose it off there, down by his barn.”
“You’re right, let’s move.”
Bobby hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the greasy door handle. After wiping his hand on his jeans, he hopped in and turned on the wipers, which just smeared the mess. The windshield washer fluid thinned it a little, and with Earl navigating, they managed to reach McCormick’s place in under ten minutes.
“Looks like you been chasin’ lizards, boys,” Jack McCormick said as he met them at the barn. A mixture of disgust and amusement dressed his wrinkled face. “Just make sure you hose that into the dirt real good. The missus gets real upset by lizard crap.”
“Thanks Jack,” Bobby said, cursing under his breath as he picked up the hose and began to squirt off the truck.
Earl told Jack about the incident and the dead cow. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Jack lamented. “That makes twenty cows this year alone. Government buys them all now-a-days. Can’t really complain about that.” He grimaced and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He cocked his head to Earl and they headed towards the corral, fifty feet upwind. “But I’m running out of breeders so fast that I’ll be out of business in a couple years.”
Jack looked out across his ranch toward the horizon. “The McCormick’s been runnin’ cows on this land since my granddaddy homesteaded here over a century ago. I Don’t know anything else. Don’t want to sell out neither, though A.R.M. has made me a pretty good offer for the land.” Earl leaned back and hung his arm over the top rail of the corral quietly listening while Jack absentmindedly rubbed a gnarled finger over a scabby liver spot on his leathery forearm. His rheumy eyes searched Earl’s face for a reaction. “Kids’re all gone to the city—got no interest in ranching. Cyril’s wears a suit for Amalgamated—in middle management I think, and Julie’s a lawyer down in Ridgeway. Hell, the grandkids is bein’ raised in a daycare center and my own daughter won’t let the missus mind them ‘cause I don’t have satellite—can’t watch the Terry Dactyl cartoon show.” Jack’s shoulders drooped a bit. “Probably just as well.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the dry, gritty ground. “Ain’t no future in ranchin’ no more, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I ain’t leavin’ for the city, Jack,” Bobby yelled as he scrubbed. “There ain’t enough money in the world to make me live in a hellhole like Ridgeway.” Bobby kinked the hose, inspected the truck, gave it one more shot then shut off the water. “Think I could trouble you for a towel, Jack? I’ll wash it and bring it back. I’d just as soon daddy didn’t know what happened today.”
“No problemo, Bobby.” Jack headed back into the house.
“I think we oughtta start marketing lizard meat, Earl,” said Bobby once Jack was out of earshot.
“Oh yeah, big market for that, Bobby,” Earl said, thinking Bobby was kidding.
“No, I mean it. The Indians down on the Res eat it all the time. Suppose to taste something like chicken.”
“More like buzzard, I’d imagine.
“No, really. I bet we could sell it to restaurants, tell ‘um it was wild turkey or somthin’. They could put it in tacos. Who the hell’d know?”
“You’re serious?” Earl was shaking his head. “You’re losin’ it, Bobby.”
Bobby smiled. “Hell, I just wanna kill one of them things. I don’t even care if the meat’s good or not. I’m sick of their stink. I’m tired of seein’ them perched on top of the barn, just waiting for a calf to get too far from its momma, and I’m done sitting back and lettin’ some desk jockey in Washington tell me how I can live my life. Ain’t you tired of havin’ them lizards be more important than us ranchers, Earl?”
“Can’t do much about it, Bobby. What’re you gonna do, kill one with a rock?”
“Here’s the towel, boys,” said Jack as he walked toward them. He tossed the towel to Bobby.
Bobby began to buff the truck, was pleased to see that the paint was not damaged. As he polished he said, “Ya think I could borrow your shotgun, Jack?”
Jack looked stunned. “W-what are you talking about Bobby? I ain’t got no shotgun. I ain’t got no weapons at all. You know they took all that stuff away years ago.”
“C’mon Jack. I’ve known you since I was a kid. You an’ my ol’ man go back all the way to kindergarten. He’s told me how wild you an’ him was in the old days, drinkin’ and smokin’ and poachin’ deer an’ turkeys. I know they didn’t take all your guns. You just ain’t the kind of guy that’d let that happen.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Bobby.” Jack was visibly shaken and he tapped his shirt pocket nervously, looking for a pack of smokes, even though he’d been forced to quit smoking a dozen years ago. “I did try to hide a pistol, but somehow the cops found out. They scared me real good, they did. Tol’ me that I’d get ten to fifteen if they ever caught me with a weapon again. I believe ‘em.”
“Even if I got caught with it, and I won’t, I wouldn’t tell ‘em where I got it, Jack.” Bobby looked at Earl who immediately broke eye contact.
“You know that if I had one I’d for sure let you use it,” Jack said. “Thing is, I ain’t got no more guns.”
“OK, Jack,” said Bobby, taking one last swipe at the truck with the towel. “It’s just that one night, down at Carmen’s Cantina, Pablo was kinda tuned bit and was a runnin’ off at the mouth to me an’ Earl about the twelve-gauge you got locked in the cellar. I know it ain’t none of my business.” Bobby crossed his arms and leaned back against the front of the pickup. “I was just hopin’ to bag me one of them lizards—maybe barbecue him up and have a party.”
Jack was shaking his head. “That Pablo never could hold his liquor. He’s been a blabbermouth since we was kids.” Jack paused for a moment and looked over at Earl, sizing up the situation to see if he should continue. “Aw hell. Yeah, I got me a shotgun. It was my daddy’s, and I just couldn’t let the Feds have it. It ain’t like I’m gonna rob a bank, or start a revolution. It’s just got a lot of sentimental value, that’s all.”
Earl jumped in. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me an’ Bobby. We knows you’re good folk. What the hell, if’n you want to have a gun, then by God you should have a gun. Me ‘n Bobby ain’t gonna tell nobody you got it, that’s a fact.
Bobby added, “Pablo’s always so full of shit, I never believe what he says anyway. Nobody does. I’m kinda surprised he was telling the truth this time.”
Jack looked old and tired, sorry that his secret was out. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “You bring me a leg o’ one of them critters, and I’ll let you use the gun. But I’m only gonna give you two shells. If’n you don’t bag one, you two work for me for a week. And I don’t want to hear no braggin’ about it neither, or it’s your ass.”
“You got it.” Bobby grabbed the air and made a fist and yanked it down to his side. “Whoohaaa!”
On the road again, the Remington wrapped in a blanket and tucked safely behind the seat back, Earl asked, “So where do you think would be a safe enough place to take a lizard without getting caught, Bobby?”
“I was thinking out toward the county line. Maybe up the Ferguson Truck Trail. They ain’t many people out there ‘cept maybe some Res Indians, and I figure they sure don’t care if we’re huntin’ flyin’ lizards.”
“Yeah,” Earl came back. “I hear they nest up in the crags out there.” He squinted out the windshield toward the jagged horizon. “’Course we’ll have to hide the truck and hoof it up on foot. It’ll be a bitch when we have to pack out all the meat.”
“We only need to bring back one drumstick for Jack.” Billy pushed the accelerator to the mat, now that he knew where they were headed. “We’ll just cook it up right up there in the mountains, eat what we want and leave the rest.” He rolled down the side window and flicked out the butt of his cigarette. “Them dinosaurs is cannibals anyway. They’ll clean up after us and no one will even know we was there.”
“It’s gonna take all day, Bobby,” Earl said. “Won’t your daddy get pissed at you if you don’t bring the truck back soon?”
“Naah, Pops took the old beater down to Carmen’s. He’ll stay there late, then probably hook up with Sandy and go over to her place to spend the night.” Bobby stuck a finger in his mouth and pulled it out with a pop. Earl smiled and nodded.
Ferguson Truck Trail, was a disused scratch in the desert riddled with gullies, potholes and boulders, but the Dodge pounded up it with eight-cylinder ease, pumping out clouds of dirt as the road wound its way into the pile of rocks known as the Sierra Gigante. The sacred grounds of the Pocutche Indians, these rainless, rocky reaches were the only open lands left of the vast expanse their ancestors once freely roamed.
Bobby pulled the pickup into a low, flinty arroyo and hid the truck behind some scrub pines. “Good enough,” he said.
They climbed out of the truck and were at once struck by the quiet, eerie moaning of the wind as it sifted through the pines, squeezing its way through crevices and rents in the mountain cliffs. “Kind of creepy up here,” mentioned Earl as he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his neck. Though the temperature sat in the mid seventies, the dry wind cut like shards of glass.
“Ain’t you never been up here before, Earl?” said Bobby antagonistically, trying to bolster himself against his own sense of foreboding.
“Sure, I been here before. Long time ago with my dad—back before all the restrictions. ‘Course we never hiked onto the Res.” Earl pulled his hat down tight to keep it from blowing off in the wind. “The ol’ man said these Indians ain’t too friendly. Said they’d beat the crap outta anyone who trespassed onto their lands.”
“Maybe that was true a few years back. Now they’re just a bunch of alkies.” Bobby hocked up a lump from his throat and spat it onto the sand. “Since they turned down the casino deal, they just hang around their dumpy plywood shacks and drink. Hell, they get a welfare check just for sittin’ on their asses. I’d probably get shitfaced every day too.” Bobby pulled out the twelve-gauge from behind the seat, and turned toward Earl. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I s’pose.” Earl was already off the subject, staring into the distance toward the top of the ridge. “Looka way up there Bobby.” Earl pointed high and to the left of a tall, Bigcone pine. Small black specs dotted the sky slowly circling like fruit flies over a rotting apple. “Holy mother of God. Are those what I think they are?”
Bobby squinted. “How many you figure there are? Fifty? Sixty?”
“Maybe more,” said Earl. “There’s a pile, that’s for sure.”
Bobby plugged the two shells into the Remington. “If’n we can’t bring one of those lizards down with two loads of double-ought buck,” he sighted down the barrel toward the thermaling pterodactyls, “then. . . Pkssssh,” Bobby made the sound of a shot with his mouth and jerked the gun back against his shoulder, “I guess we should both move to Ridgeway and open up a ballet school.” That shattered the tension. They both snickered then broke into all out-laughter.
It took them the better part of the afternoon to work their way up the ridge to where they figured the pterodactyls were. They soon left the trees as they approached the shoulder of the mountain. Farther up, loose rock slid with every advancing step while the blustery wind kept them off balance. Salty, dried sweat pulled their faces taught and stung their eyes but the anticipation of the hunt gave them more than enough energy for the task. They topped a rise then dropped into a narrow ravine. Around a bend the ravine widened. They stopped abruptly. Before them the ground lay strewn with glistening white shards—the remains of dozens, if not hundreds of animals. The air felt thick and close, fetid with the oily smell of decay. Earl bent forward and picked up one of the fragments of bone. “What ya figure, Bobby?” Earl held it up for Bobby’s inspection.
“Looks like cow bone to me, Earl.” Bobby chambered a shell, making sure the safety was on. “Might be deer too.”
They walked cautiously onward, their boots crunching in the riprap of bone. Bobby kicked a piece of skull. “That’s cow for sure.” He pointed with the rifle. “And that looks like goat or maybe deer.” They kicked their way through the pile, identifying fragments piece by piece.
“Deer.”
“Dog or maybe coyote,” said Earl.
“Another cow. Big one.”
“What’s this one, Bobby?” Earl bent down and picked up a piece that was glistening white, with a large round hole and smooth bone that curved away in a regular arc. Earl laughed, held the bone fragment up to his face looking at Bobby through the hole. He saw Bobby’s face pale. Earl looked at the bone again then suddenly dropped it and jumped back. “Naa, couldn’t be. Could it?”
“I dunno Earl, but it wouldn’t surprise me none neither,” Bobby said.
A shrill prehistoric shriek ended the conversation. While surveying the bones at their feet, neither of them had noticed that only sixty feet above their heads perched a large, blue-bellied pterodactyl staring intently at them, its golden, soulless, reptilian eyes taking turns inspecting them as it turned its head right, then left, then right again. The beast spread its leathery wings and leaned forward like a swimmer beginning a dive. Bobby swung the shotgun around, took aim and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The pterodactyl continued to lean and began a gentle downward glide from the cliff directly at them. Bobby panicked, chambered another shell, which ejected the first round onto the killing field, then remembering the safety, had to look for it, and disengage it. When he looked up again, all he could see was a gaping maw ringed in red.”
Earl couldn’t tell if the recoil from the shotgun had knocked Bobby down, or if it had been the plummeting reptilian carcass that now lay across his chest. “Jesus H. Ke-rist, Bobby,” Earl yelled. “You OK?” Earl ran over, and tried to jerk the limp body off his friend. Like a loose sack of beans, the dead weight of the beast seemed to absorb Earl’s efforts to dislodge it. On a count of three, Earl managed to help Bobby free himself. Unhurt but juiced on adrenaline Bobby jumped to his feet, grabbed the other shell, reinserted it into the gun, chambered it, put the gun to his shoulder and panned the ridge and surrounding terrain, fully expecting another attack. No other pterodactyls were in sight.
“Come on you maggot suckin’ lizards,” Bobby yelled. “Whoooeee, what a rush! Come get some more lead, you goddam murdering bastards.” Juiced on adrenaline, Bobby grabbed the shotgun in the middle and thrust it over his head, whooped some more, and danced Indian style, twice on the right foot, twice on the left foot, around and around the dead protobird, old bones crunching beneath his feet.
“You scared ‘em all off, Bobby.” Earl began to laugh off his own tension. “Shit, I thought he had you there for a second.”
“You worry too much good buddy,” Bobby said, finally coming to a rest out of breath. “No stinkin’ lizard’s gonna take out Bobby Garcia, no way, no how.”
The two friends bent forward to inspect their prize. The shotgun blast had taken off the top portion of the pterodactyl’s head, leaving a flapping lower jaw rimmed with wicked needle sharp teeth. A thick, dark red pool of blood had quickly formed around the body, but no more was exiting the wound.
“In a way, it’s kind of pretty, don’t ya think Bobby?” Earl held out one of the twelve foot, scale covered wings. It was predominantly cobalt blue beneath, with flecks of yellow and red toward the tips.
“Yeah, pretty like a rattlesnake. Pretty like a vampire bat.” Bobby’s pulled off his hat, peeled the blood soaked shirt over his head and tossed it onto the ground. Spatters of blood flecked his face.
“Got yer knife, Earl?”
“Sure, Bobby.” Earl unsnapped the long stainless Buck knife from its scabbard and handed it to him.
A shadow blocked the sun for a moment. The cowboys looked up. Already two pterodactyls circled high above, waiting for their chance.
“Let’s, carve off a hunk of breast meat, cut Jack his drumstick and get the Hell outta here.” Bobby shivered for a second. “They probably just want to eat their brother here. . .” Bobby searched the ground until he saw the piece of bone that Earl had found just before the attack. “But now I ain’t so sure. I ain’t never been ascared of no lizard before, but we’re on their home turf now. They might just be a little more dangerous than we thought.”
“I’m with you, Bobby,” said Earl. “I ain’t into hangin’ around to find out neither.” Bobby grabbed one of the legs and stretched it out, tossing the knife back to Earl. “Get cuttin’, pardner. If we hurry, we can get back to the truck before dark.”
It only took ten minutes to finish the task at hand, but in that time five more pterodactyls had joined the other two, and all of them now circled only a couple hundred feet overhead.
Bobby wrapped the meat in his shirt and the two of them quickly headed down the mountain toward the truck, slipping on the gravelly escarpment, landing on their butts more than once. The pterodactyls did not follow.
By the time they reached the truck, the sun perched on the far side of the sierras, promising only a half-hour more of light before giving way to the night.
“That was a kick, wasn’t it?” said Earl. Neither of them had said a word since they left the scene. Bobby plopped the meat into the back of the truck and turned to face him.
“Y’know, Earl, I think I could get to like huntin’ lizards. That was a real hoot.”
“I don’t think you’re going to be killing any more endangered species, Roberto,” a baritone voice informed from behind them. “Drop the weapon, Earl.”
Earl raised his head and saw the short barrel of an Uzi aimed at his face. The man holding it wore a desert camouflage uniform of crisp gabardine, leutenant bars glistening on his epaulets. He wore the polished silver and gold seven-pointed star bearing the insignia of the EPA Rangers, a double-headed pterodactyl holding an olive branch in its claws. “Aw, fuck,” said Earl. He bent forward and put the shotgun on the ground.
Bobby slowly turned to face the ranger. He could scarcely see the camouflaged Hummer parked on the other side of the pines, not twenty feet from the Dodge. It too bore the EPA insignia and tax exempt-plates. “Well, well, well. Little Pussy Wilcox.”
“Ranger Wilcox now, Roberto.” He pointed the Uzi at Bobby for emphasis.
“You always was a little prick, Perciville. I might ‘a known you’d become a lizard lover.” Bobby stood up to his full five foot eight inch height and puffed out his chest. “Why don’t you put down that pea shooter and we can duke it out like we use ta’ back in high school.”
The ranger’s upper lip twitched into a smile. Bobby couldn’t see the ranger’s eyes, but instead, saw his own reflection in the mirrored lenses of the gold tint aviator glasses. They added to the ranger’s unassailable image, masking any trepidation he otherwise might have shown. “Well, boys, it looks like you’ve bought yourself some prison time. First offense for pterodactyl poaching should get you about five years in Club Fed. And the weapons charge—that’ll get you another five.”
“You can’t be serious, Percy,” said Earl. He folded his arms across his chest. “We was lucky to get back down here with our lives. Them damn things is man-eaters.”
“Don’t try that one on me, Earl.” The ranger motioned with his free hand. “Step back from the gun.” Earl did as requested.
“The fact is,” the ranger began, “pterodactyls are beautiful, gentle creatures, maligned and feared by man since the beginning of time.” Earl looked at Bobby for his reaction. Bobby just shrugged and shook his head in disbelief. “Pterodactyls were nearly extinct by the late nineteen thirties, because of attitudes like yours: overhunting by the Indians, and ignorant ranchers like you killing them off indiscriminately.” Percy let the Uzi’s muzzle drop a bit. “There has never been a documented incident of them attacking a human. And the old Pocutche legend—pure mythology.”
“One sure as hell attacked me, Bobby said. And we saw bones—human bones—up there on the reservation.”
“Trespassing on an Indian reserve. There’s another year for you two. Probably don’t have an off-road permit either.” The ranger stuck his nose up and sniffed the air. “I bet I wouldn’t have to search too hard to find tobacco.”
“This is ridiculous, Percy,” Earl said, throwing a hand up and taking a step forward. It was becoming clear that the ranger was not interested in their story. “Just follow us and we can show you what we’re talking about. Bring that Uzi along. You’re gonna need it.”
“You better hold it right there, Earl,” said the ranger, grabbing the gun with his both hands, ready. “We aren’t going anywhere, except to Ridgeway—and to jail.” The ranger unhooked the walkie-talkie from his belt and called for back-up.
“What about my truck?”
“That’s the state’s truck now, Roberto.” The ranger’s sneer was full on. “You forfeited it the minute you put that illegal game into it.”
“Listen to reason, Percy,” said Bobby. He walked out from behind the pickup.
“No you listen, Roberto.” The ranger leveled the Uzi at Bobby. Bobby looked down at his chest and saw the red dot of a laser scope over his heart. “You broke the law, and you’re going to pay for it.”
“I don’t get it,” said Earl. “We tell you we have proof that these things kill people, and you still won’t listen—won’t even take a look? Let us prove what we are saying.”
“I’m not interested in your pitiful attempt at justification.” Percy flicked off the Uzi’s safety with his thumb. “Fact is, society won’t tolerate poachers like you any longer. You shit-kickers think you’re above the law. Well, you’re not. Losers like you are nothing but a drain on society.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about Percy,” said Bobby. His hands began to sweat.
Percy went on. “This part of the state used to be one of the most depressed in the nation, most of the people on public assistance, the rest trying to eek a living out of the desert. Now big subdivisions with shopping malls and burger mills are popping up like mushrooms.” The ranger licked his lips. “And do you know why?” His voice swelled with righteous certitude.” Because our government realized how rare and wonderful these endangered creatures are and moved to protect them. Now tourists from all over the world, pockets stuffed with cash come here for a chance to see a pterodactyl. Ridgeway is booming. Everyone’s working.” A ladybug landed on the ranger’s lapel. He cocked his middle finger and coolly dispatched it. Earl toyed with the idea of going for the shotgun, then gave it up.
“There hasn’t been an unbooked room in one of the motels for over six months. Restaurant chains are scrambling to open in Ridgeway, pushing up property values, and Pioneer Town has more day-glow, plastic pterodactyl action-figures than you can count.”
“But what about us,” Earl responded. “What about the folks who live out here—people whose grandparents pioneered this land—people who’ve been here for generations: us ranchers? Those lizards are destroying our lives. Don’t we have nothin’ to say about it? Don’t we count for anything?”
The ranger shook his head. “Not much. You hicks are living in the past. Amalgamated Resource Management runs things around here now. Half the people in Ridgeway work for them or one of their subsidiaries.” Beads of sweat dotted Percy’s forehead. “They’re the future. Prosperity for all,” he said, parroting their corporate slogan.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and patted his brow wishing that duty rotation hadn’t forced him out of his clean, climate-controlled office. “There’s no need to range cattle any more. It’s much more efficient to raise cattle in feedlots and truck in food for them.” He stuffed the hankie in his back pocket. “Cowboys are an anachronism. You’re dinosaurs, as outdated and pointless as the Pocutche, sitting out there on their reservation.”
Bobby looked puzzled. “But ain’t you part Pocutche?” He didn’t like the way the ranger’s mouth twisted when he spoke, with those little puddles of spittle at the corners, or the way his finger fidgeted from the trigger guard to the trigger and back. “Don’t you feel any loyalty to them?” Bobby tried to move to one side, but Percy kept the bead right on his chest.
“Yeah, I hate to admit it. My grandmother was Pocutche. I figure that’s why my father was so lazy and never wanted to work. He couldn’t hold down a job for more than a couple of months at a time—just wanted to go fishing, get drunk and chase women. Never took responsibility for his own failings. Blamed it all on the white man.” The ranger began to slowly walk around the Dodge. “That was a legacy I vowed to overcome.”
Inadvertently, Earl took a nervous step toward the shotgun. Percy opened fire, sending a three round burst of bullets across the ground in front of him, shattering the stock of the Remington. One of the bullets ricocheted up and through Earl’s pant cuff, grazing his boot, but missing his flesh. “What the hell you doin’, Percy. Shit, man, you’re crazy.”
Bobby started to move, but a swing of the Uzi’s muzzle froze him in place. Defiantly, he glared at the ranger, “You gonna kill us now, Percy?”
“I don’t want to, I really don’t.” The ranger’s finger twitched. “But I will if I have to. I have the authority.” Percy circled around the two cowboys. “Now I want you over there,” he motioned with the gun, “with your hands on the truck where I can see them—pronto.”
Bobby and Earl did as he requested. Ranger Wilcox moved around behind them, reaching for the handcuffs laced through his belt.
Hands planted on the hood of the Dodge, Earl turned toward Bobby. Their eyes met and relayed the sort of unspoken communication that only happens between close friends.
Bobby spun around and caught the Uzi with the outside of his boot. The gun protested with another three rounds burst and then, for a pregnant moment, only the sound of gritty scuffling.
Echoes of war resounded off the crags as the Uzi fulfilled its three-bullets-per-second design potential, emptying the thirty-round banana clip, punctuated by a shotgun blast.
The dry wind whistled through the pines and moaned sorrowfully around cornices of stone. The sun dove behind the mountain silhouette, smearing blood along the horizon. Overhead, a dozen circling shadows descended lower into the silence. Far away, a mournful wail pierced the air—the sound of an approaching siren—or perhaps the ancient call of a pterodactyl.