I decide to drive to the Lazy K. For the duration of my stay, Mary has loaned me Keller’s truck. I walk the length of the hotel parking lot, get in the cab, and start the engine. The air-conditioning vents blast hot air in my face, and I wait for the cool to kick in. I throw the truck in gear, back out of the parking slot, and roar toward the highway.

On Saturday, we drove past the ranch access road. I have no trouble finding it—a wide, open gate. “Lazy K” worked in wrought iron across the top.

I turn onto the dirt road and race toward the ranch house. The truck throws up a plume of dust, visible in the rearview mirror. On either side of the road lie brown, rolling hills covered with mesquite and creosote. The terrain looks earthier than the rocky land fifteen miles south. The mesquite grows taller.

Movement atop a hill catches my eye. A pack of wild dogs are fighting over something. I take my foot off the gas, and the speedometer drops to twenty miles an hour.

The dogs are worrying an object. Like a soccer ball, their plaything rolls this way and that.

I allow the truck to roll to a stop. Pop open the glove compartment and fish out Keller’s sixteen-power binoculars. I twist in my seat and raise the optics to my eyes. Looking through the side window, I focus and adjust the diopter. Survey the strange competition.

The dogs snarl and snap at each other. The animals are frothing at the mouth. My stomach flutters.

I lay the binoculars on the seat next to me and take a five-shot stripper clip from the glove compartment. I get out of the truck and reach for Keller’s Mauser. I unlock the Ernst Apel and swing the scope ninety degrees. Lift the handle and draw back the bolt. I squeeze five rounds into the magazine, pocket the stripper clip, and lock the scope in place. In the heat, the smell of gun oil floods my nose. In my hands, the rifle feels heavy and familiar. I close the bolt, chamber a round, and turn to the hill.

The horizontal distance is two hundred yards. Keller zeroed his scope at four hundred and calculated tables of hold-overs. The reticle in the 3.5-10x variable-power scope is graduated in minutes-of-angle. One can either dial adjustments into one of the scope turrets, or hold-over using the reticle. I don’t want to kill the dogs, so an eyeball estimate will do.

Whether one shoots uphill or downhill, one always shoots high. The horizontal distance to a target is always shorter than the line-of-sight distance. Gravity has less time to work on the flight of a bullet. One uses the minute-of-angle adjustment appropriate to the shorter range.

I raise the Mauser to my shoulder and aim slightly below the animals. Through the scope, the dogs look feral. The Mauser has a two-stage military trigger with four pounds of pull. I take up the slack and break the shot.

Crack.

The rifle slams into my shoulder. A foot from the dogs, the bullet kicks up a puff of dust. I work the bolt and fire a second time. The shot ricochets off a rock and nicks one of the animals. In a flash, the dogs disappear from view.

I eject the spent shell casing, chamber another round, and safety the weapon. I pick up the two empty shell casings and put them in my pocket with the stripper clip. Rifle low-ready, I climb the hill. In the stifling heat, I pace myself. I walk with a measured step and measured breath.

At the top, I cautiously approach the object. It’s spherical, covered with blond hair, matted with earth and blood. The dirt, wet with the dogs’ saliva, has turned to a muddy paste. The dogs have torn much of the skin from the object, denuding one cheekbone and the mandible.

I stare at Mary Keller’s head.

 

 

About the Author: Cameron Curtis

Cameron Curtis comes from a military family. His grandfather was a colonel of artillery, his uncle a colonel of infantry. Cameron grew up reading FMs from the age of eight. He read everything he could get his hands on, but grew up on war novels, thrillers, and murder mysteries. His taste in movies paralleled his taste in books.

With a Bachelor of Science degree, Cameron spent thirty years on trade floors as a trader and risk manager. He was on the trade floor when Saddam’s tanks rolled into Kuwait, when the air wars opened over Baghdad (both times) and Belgrade, and when the Twin Towers went down. He was there when the financial crisis swallowed the world.

Cameron wrote fiction as a child, because he has an active imagination and always makes up stories. He is the author of the Breed action thriller series.