A Fine Family Tradition

by Charles C. Cole

An hour after dusk on the 5,000-acre family ranch. Doug Capa loaded the rifles into the backseat of the Jeep.

“Eight Appaloosas. Nine Appaloosas. Ten Appaloosas.” Doug’s tween-aged daughter Suzie paused her counting. “Dad, why can’t I just say ‘pintos’?”

“Because this way is almost exactly a full second as you count,” her father explained. “While ‘pinto’ is a shorter word, so you wouldn’t be giving our ‘guests’ the agreed-upon time to run and hide. It’s the difference between sportsmanship and chaos, between us and animals.”

“But does it matter? We always find them! Pintos or Appaloosas, we know every hidey-hole on the ranch. It’s sad and funny when they use the same spots as the last group and the group before that.”

“That’s because they’re not very smart. They were bred for a gentler life, to be accommodating in a civilized world, not to be survivalists with life-or-death decisions.”

“You mean we can outthink them?”

Doug placed his broad, calming hand on Suzie’s small shoulder. “Can’t help ourselves, can we? It’s in our nature. It’s like a home-field advantage.”

“And with the guns and the Jeep, we have better technology. So, they don’t really have a chance, do they?”

“Maybe a slim one,” offered Suzie’s dad. “Hell, we’ve lost a few over the years. Always figured the coyotes or mountain cats got them, but they might have gotten away or perished to the elements. Today they get to be brave and bold and free, probably for the first time in their lives.

“And, honestly, honey, they just taste better with all that primal optimism running through their veins when we finally catch up to them. Better than their living caged in the barn, dependent on table scraps and waiting for our appetite to overwhelm our better angels. Climb in, and let’s finish the damn count.”

Suzie semi-obeyed, opening the door but not sitting, while her father took a moment to clear his head of his mother’s recent funeral, his brother’s impending divorce and the state of the local economy. “Fifty-nine Appaloosas. Sixty Appaloosas. Go!” Suzie hopped into the passenger seat. “I promised Betty I’d call her at nine,” she said. “She’s having boyfriend issues.”

“We’ll be back long before then,” assured her father. “Have you seen this bunch? Half of them will probably die from exertion: stagger a quarter-mile into the desert, then collapse and wait, staring at the stars in awe, grateful to us for putting them out of their shock and misery.”

“You make it sound like we’re doing them a favor.”

“Aren’t we?” asked her father. “Okay, let’s focus. Where to first? The old quarry, the river’s edge, or your grandfather’s rusted silo?”

“Quarry, silo, then river last. I like the way the moonglow glitters on the wet rocks. It’s almost magical.”

As they neared the unlit quarry, Doug cut the motor and turned off the headlights. He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat.

“What’s wrong?” asked Suzie.

“You see the night-vision goggles back there?” he asked. “I don’t remember packing them.”

Suzie looked, but she knew they were missing; she had loaned them to Betty for a prank on some boys from school. “Well, that sucks,” she said. “But we have flares we could use, and the rifle scopes are tricked out with photomultipliers and phosphor screens.”

“Listen to you! I just wanted to get a lay of the land before we started the hunt,” said Dad. “We’re kind of vulnerable, lying prone on the ground at the quarry’s edge, if one of them were to sneak up behind us.”

“And do what? Throw sand at us?” Suzie laughed. “We got this, Dad.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. But keep your eyes peeled and your ears sharp. Anything happens to you, Grampa’s gonna kill me. If you see a shot, take it.”

Suzie saluted, unfurled her bedroll, aimed her parabolic microphone and took her station beside her father. “This shouldn’t take long,” she said.

“Let’s see if we can flush them out,” said Doug. He cupped his hands around his mouth, made a primitive coyote howl, then joined his daughter on the ground, rifle at the ready.

“Don’t quit your day job,” whispered Suzie. Prolonged silence.

“Maybe they fell asleep,” her father offered. “There’s always at least one.”

“Remember that year a whole family of them huddled together?” said Suzie. “We finished in twenty minutes. It took longer to haul them out of there.”

Something snapped in the desert behind them. “Probably a jackrabbit,” said Doug.

A shadow moved in Suzie’s scope. “Got one! Just behind the right side of the dead tractor. Adult-sized.”

“Creatures of habit,” said her father. “What did I tell you? All instinct with zero reasoning.”

That’s when the large rock came forcefully down against Doug’s skull. Suzie rolled away quickly, finger on her trigger. A wave of dark shapes washed over her, kicking, punching, stabbing. The gun went off once, bullet into the ground.

“Everybody okay?” asked a deep male voice. Grunted assents.

“They were gonna kill us, for what?” asked a woman. “For trespassing? For sport?”

“For food, from what I heard,” said the deep voice. “Different regions, different traditions. I grew up with the county sheriff in the next town over. Now, everybody in the Jeep. Leave their guns; we won’t need them. Hunting season ends tonight.”