David Golemon - Event

"Riley Road is right up here," Wasser said, taking the cruiser up to sixty, flipping on the overhead red-and-blues. "Hell, the only thing up there is Thomas Tahchako's ranch."

"That's what I figure too. There's the road right here." Jerry pointed to the right. "If I remember right, it's all the way down and just below the foothills."

"Right." Wasser swerved the patrol car onto the small sidetrack.

The washboard road played hell with the suspension on the state car. Jerry tightened his seat belt and hung on, using his right hand on the windowsill to brace himself as the bumping became worse. The high beams picked out several jackrabbits dashing not from but toward the car. Dills turned to look behind them in the road, wanting to say something about the bizarre scene, but staying quiet as his partner was concentrating on the rough road. The red taillights and dust made it impossible to see, but Dills thought he saw a few more jackrabbits running across the road after the cruiser had sped past. This time he had to say something. "Did you see that?" he asked, looking at his partner.

"What--oh, shit!" Wasser yelled, as he pulled the wheel to the right and narrowly avoided one of Tahchako's cows as it ran down the middle of the road.

"What in the hell is going on, a rabbit and cattle stampede?" he asked incredulously, straightening out the car and speeding up again.

Suddenly the headlights picked up the form of Thomas Tahchako standing on the side of the dirt road. He had an old Winchester .30-30 at his shoulder and was shooting into the darkness, the muzzle flare lighting up the scrub around him.

"What is he doing?" Jerry asked loudly, as the car skidded to a halt. They quickly opened their doors and ran to the side of the road, where the old Indian continued to fire his weapon.

"Thomas... Thomas!" Wasser screamed.

But the rancher kept ejecting spent shell casings and firing. Finally the state patrolman touched Tahchako on the shoulder and the man spun around. The trooper was quick to grab the barrel of the rifle and push it down until it was pointed at the ground.

"Oh, God, you scared the tiswin out of me!" the older man said, referring to the traditional alcoholic beverage favored by the Apache. The old straw cowboy hat was cocked at an angle on his head, his eyes still wild.

"What in the hell are you shooting at?" the state trooper asked, the gunshots still ringing in his ears.

"Goddammit, something's killing my cows!"

"Thomas, it's too dark to see out there! What in the hell is it you're shooting at?" Wasser asked, squinting into the darkness.

Jerry heard a cow lowing. Then the sound was cut off suddenly with a scream. He drew his nine millimeter out of its holster and flipped the safety off with his thumb. "Goddammit, cows aren't supposed to scream like that! What in the hell is out there with your cattle?"

"I don't know, but it's goddamned big!"

"Thomas, calm down and tell me what's going on here," Wasser said angrily.

"What is it, a mountain lion?" Dills asked, peering into the darkness nervously, pistol aiming first right, then left.

"We can't sit here and talk, man, my cattle are being killed," Thomas said as under control as he could manage, gritting his teeth.

That said, he turned and started walking slowly away from the road. He ejected a spent shell casing and raised the gun to waist level. The two state troopers followed. Wasser clicked the safety to the off position on his sidearm, and Jerry flipped on the large flashlight. He shone the beam in a wide arc as they proceeded away from the light cast by the cruiser's headlights. The red and blue flashers of the cruiser's overheads cast an eerie strobe effect onto the desert scrub. Wasser stumbled and almost fell when his foot came into contact with something big, and the sound it made told him it was wet. Dills heard the squishing sound and first put the powerful beam on Wasser, then on what he had tripped on.

"Good God almighty," Dills said with a sharp intake of air. His partner jumped back when he saw what he had stepped on in the dark. The cow's eyes were open and their whites were predominating in terror of what had killed it. The head looked as if it had been sliced cleanly through. The tongue had lolled out of the mouth and rested on the sand.

As Jerry Dills took this in, he felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck. There had to be more carnage waiting for the beam of his flashlight to illuminate. As he shone the light around, he heard the sharp intake of air by Thomas Tahchako. The bright light picked out the remains of the old Indian's herd. They were scattered here and there in different states of mutilation; for the most part, the bodies were gone.

"What in God's name could have done this?" Jerry asked, squeezing the handle of his nine millimeter tighter.

"Son of bitch, forty head of cattle, my whole western pasture," Thomas mumbled as his rifle slowly dropped from his hands. "Goddamn cattle mutilations! The government's behind this!"

The two troopers watched as the man broke down and started mumbling. Then they looked out into the desert and wondered what was out there. Their eyes met for a moment, sharing the same thought. They didn't believe for one minute the government was out killing this Apache's cattle. Whatever it was, they didn't think they wanted to meet up with it in the dark.

Suddenly the ground erupted skyward and a wave of dirt, sand, and uprooted brush screamed toward the three men. The wave smashed into their feet and tossed the men easily into the air. Tahchako, Wasser, and Dills came down hard and immediately tried to gain their feet. All three were shaking badly as they scanned the darkness, but all that could be seen was the wave dissipating in the distance as their invisible intruder crossed the dirt road and shook the lit cruiser violently before disappearing.

Around them, the desert grew still once again.

With the tire changed and the state troopers gone twenty minutes now, Harold Tracy anxiously climbed the steps into the huge Winnebago. He washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. He walked to the driver's compartment and climbed around the center console. His wife was still reading the road map and shaking her head.

"All set?" she asked without looking up.

Harold looked over at Grace and gave her the bird quickly, while her face was still buried in the accursed map.

"That's not nice, Harold. That's why bad things happen to you." Her face was still hidden in the map.

"That cop told me we have to go the other way on State Eighty-eight to get even remotely close to the interstate." Digging it in the best he could. "You picked wrong again, Grace."

Finally she lowered the large map and carefully folded it. The smile she wore didn't reach her eyes.

"Who was it that wanted to come on this desert outing in the first place, Harold, me? No, it wasn't, it was you, the great adventurer who scoffed so heartily at going to my sister's in Colorado. So if you insist on pointing fingers, point them at yourself."

"Believe me, if I could get this thing to fly, Grace, I would get you there right now and drop you off!" He yelled the last three words as he started the camper.

She was about to tear into him when they were both suddenly thrown from their seats and into the RV's roof. Grace hit so hard she dented the aluminum in the overhead. Then the camper came down, bounced once on its ten wheels, and tilted to the right and slowly rolled onto its side. For a moment, Harold thought they were flying to Denver. The crunching of glass and mirrors drowned out Grace's screams as the huge Winnebago settled on its right side. Then all was quiet. Harold had fallen onto his wife, who was trying to push him off.

"Get off me!" she yelled into his ear.