Hunters Getaway Pt. 01

Hunter's Getaway

The hell of it is, we shouldn't have been anywhere near there. It was our annual hunting/ fishing/ drinking weekend out southwest of San Angelo. My cousin married into money - to be specific, 8,000 acres of land with unsightly pumpjacks, and parents who were independently wealthy as well. His wife was refined, but enjoyed a good time. Moe (Moses) was raised in the wilds of south Texas with us, his unrefined and unruly friends. We played together as kids, played sports together, fought from time to time (especially when drunk), double-dated, and sometimes double-teamed particularly needy girls.

We'd also bled together a few times, but we mostly liked to have fun! Amazingly, Moe's wife Anita thought we were hilarious, and loved hosting us at the family ranch during that sweet fall season when doves, quail, turkey, and deer are legal, and fishing is still good. I don't know if our wives put up with it becoming a calendared, sacrosanct event because they figured Anita would keep us from getting too stupid, or they were glad to get rid of us, or they used our short week to get a little stranger lovin'.

Regardless, Moe and Anita always gave us the date for next year before we left, and nothing else was allowed on that five day block.

Anita trained horses for equestrian events and for barrel racing and Moe was an attorney in San Angelo. They lived on 60 acres near Lake Nasworthy, and had two grown, married daughters who had followed Daddy to the University of Texas in Austin, and married well.

The other members of our free ranging tribe were my other best friends from high school, Rob, Will, and Mick, my brother in law Dan, and my brother Niles. I'm Teagan, but am called Tea (T). Yeah, I know: Niles and Teagan? Thank my father, Nigel O'Neil, who is quite proud of his Irish/Gaelic roots, and our mother, Shannon Shaughnessy O'Neil, for those nods to long-dead ancestors. Long-dead ancestors of wide renown but questionable repute in Niles' case, and famous for leading a rebellion that was harshly quashed by the 'bloody Brits' in my case.

I would call it an unsuccessful rebellion, but Father insists it was a necessary step toward the independence Ireland finally achieved in 1949. Well, achieved for 26 counties; six in Northern Ireland remain in dominion to the United Kingdom.

How does any of that relate to seven Texans in their 40's hunting in West Texas for a four-day weekend? You'll see, soon enough.

*****

"Dude! You definitely do snore like a freight train! Tomorrow night you're sleeping in the bedroom so the rest of us can get some rest!" I wanted to deny it again, but Mick's testimony on top of Moe's, on top of my wife's, was probably enough. It was also probably enough to make me keep the 'sleep test' appointment my wife had set up for me upon my return. Bad snoring, which I couldn't hear, was one piece of evidence; the second and third were that I was tired all the time and that I awoke several times each night gasping for breath, and often slept in my recliner with my head elevated.

Sleep apnea is not something you want to acknowledge, as the 'cure' was sleeping with most of your face encased in a plastic mask attached to a machine that blows air into your nose all night. Still, I probably had it, and it cuts your life span significantly if not treated, so maybe it's time to surrender.

It might also mean I'll never get another piece from my wife, being as how wearing a CPAP mask is about the least sexy thing you can do at night.

Her pussy, previously in frequent need of me, had become extremely difficult to tap over the past half-year, and this contraption was hardly likely to improve that. On the other hand, it was unlikely to make it worse, since 'getting some' involved farming the kids out for the weekend, taking her out to eat, then dancing and drinking, and hoping she hit the sweet spot on drinking - horny, but not puking or passed out.

Ah, the vagaries of 'middle age'!

Speaking of which, yesterday we had gathered from our far-flung destinations, enjoyed a couple of cases of beer, and caught up a bit. Niles and Dan lived in the same small town where we all grew up in, southwest of Houston. Rob, Mick, and I lived in different parts of central Texas - respectively, New Braunfels, Blanco, and Westlake, across Lake Austin from the city. Will was a singer/ songwriter/ guitarist who called Nashville home, but he was all over this country and Europe, touring as part of one band or another. Naturally, he had access to primo drugs, but I asked him to refrain while on our annual respite and he agreed.

We arrived in San Angelo as early as we could Wednesday morning and were greeted by Anita and Moe at their spacious antebellum home. Once everyone had a chance to buy the ammunition/ lures/ fishing gear they needed in the city of 124,000, we traveled twenty miles southwest to Anita's family ranch. There were three nice homes there, one belonging to their parents, another to their (deceased) grandparents, and the other housed the brother who actually ran the ranch most of the time. He wasn't supposed to be around this weekend, but it didn't matter; we were staying at 'The Cabin' a few miles away so we wouldn't be a bother to him anyway.

You have to have money to call a 3500 square foot cedar-sided house with two bedroom and a dorm room that sleeps 14 in bunks, three bathrooms, and a great room composed of living area, kitchen, and dining hall that stretched across the front, 'The Cabin.' We stayed there and slept in the dorm the first night, though I was apparently now banned to a bedroom for snoring.

I felt like Brer Rabitt being tossed into the briar patch - I might snore, but I don't fart all night like some, cough periodically like the smokers, or stink like my drunken brother, who didn't shower but would tomorrow morning, he claimed.

Anyway, the sun is up, and here we are, having a few pitchers of Bloody Mary for breakfast, along with coffee and some of the sausage and egg or chorizo and egg tacos Anita had left in the refrigerator for us. Nuked just right in the microwave, they were almost as good as fresh - assisted by the pitchers of potent Bloody Mary mix.

We weren't deer hunting today; we were dove hunting. The maize fields on the ranch had recently been harvested, and doves were feasting on the grains the combine harvesters spilled. Near sunset, they migrated to the nearby stock tank (small lake) to drink, then to their nests in the brush.

That part of near West Texas (as opposed to Fort Stockton, Van Horn, and El Paso, in far West Texas) is high desert. It's over 2100 feet above sea level, rain is scarce, and in the lower elevations where we were, along Dove Creek. The land around us is a mixture of loamy and gravelly soils, usually rocky, but there were areas with better soil where crops were planted. The Shaughnessy (formerly O'Shaughnessy) Family settled this land generations ago, and eked out a living raising cattle and goats, and planting crops near the creek, which they used for irrigation.

Then large pockets of gas and oil were discovered beneath the ground, wells were drilled, and the next generation wasn't struggling settlers. A few generations later, many more wells, more royalty checks, and the descendants were wealthy professionals married into other wealthy families. Anita's family name was immediately recognized anywhere in the area, and the respect was obvious.

What does geography and genealogy have to do with the story? A lot, so hang in there.

It's early afternoon and we're scattered around the perimeter of the grain field with shotguns and boxes of shells, with folding chairs and ice chests nearby. After all, you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning, and you sure can't stop in the afternoon!

Niles brough the beer from the Lone Star distributorship he owns, so your choice was leaded (Red) or unleaded (Blue) Lone Star Light. I run, lift, and work out a lot, so I can enjoy the full strength ice cold Red without guilt. Niles and Dan drank blue, which has less alcohol, so they drank more, which kind of offsets the whole 'light beer equals fewer calories' purpose. If it has 1/3 fewer calories and you drink 1/3 more beer to get high... see my point?

It was early November, which means a long sleeve, heavy denim shirts over tee shirts was comfortable attire by mid-morning. By early afternoon, though, we were shucking the top shirt for the tee shirt because the sun beat down and the temps rose over 85. A cold front was supposedly coming tonight, which should help ignite the rutting season. As it was right now, bucks weren't coming to feeders due to the amount of browse available, and there were few signs the does were 'coming in' (releasing hormones for mating season).

Therefore, deer hunting was likely going to be poor while we were here, but there were doves and quail in abundance, and the family wanted us to kill all the wild hogs we could. 'Wild hogs' are a combination of feral pigs (Sus scrofa), Eurasian wild boar hybrids, and pure wild boar, and have spread through all 254 Texas counties. Tom Green County had its fair share, and they were tearing things up, including garden crops, water holes, and fences.

We agreed among ourselves to kill an 'eating' pig or two each to take home, and to kill a couple of sows and/or boars to feed the coyotes, cats, and raptors, of which there were plenty in this wide-open, sparsely populated portion of the state. Hawks, (Mexican) eagles, vultures (buzzards), owls, and caracara are birds of prey that would feast on the dead hogs we tossed in the dump pit.

We all shot automatic 12 gauge shotguns with modified or improved chokes. For doves and quail we mostly used 7.5 shot because the field was large and many shots were rather distant. For turkey we carried 4, 5, or even 6 shot, though my bag held 4 shot. Turkey are hard find and to hit, and I want mine to be downed if a few pellets hit it, so I prefer heavier, bigger pellets.

For hog hunting we might change to 20 gauge shotguns, or shoot our 12 gauge bird guns with double aught buckshot - if hunting from the back of pickups roaring through fields or pastures in pursuit of a sounder (family-based social unit of wild hogs). If hunting from blinds, we used our deer rifles. I also carried an open-sights 30-30 with 175 grain bullets in case I get in a bind after wounding one.

By now I hope you get it - our six man hunting party was well armed! In addition to the rifles and shotguns mentioned, we all shot.308, 30-06, 25-06, or.270 deer rifles. Given it was the beginning of the season and it's cheaper to buy more, all of us had cases of ammo - enough to last until Christmas, hopefully.

The ranch trucks were three-quarter ton 4x4s with all-terrain tires, as was my old pickup.

*****

Why am I boring you with all this crap? Because I'm still alive to, and I wouldn't be without it.

It takes a box of shells to get used to the flight of crafty doves over and into the 60 acre field, and a second box to approach limit, if you're a good shot. I am, and I didn't try to drink a beer for every shell wasted like some, so I was still fairly sober when we transitioned to the tank just before dusk. I needed one more to limit, and got it early on with an incoming whitewing.

I checked my game bag and the plastic game bag in my ice chest to make sure I had the allowed limit, then cleaned all, leaving the feathers on one wing in case the game warden dropped by. I doubted one would, but you don't mess with Texas Game Wardens. They don't need all that documentation other law enforcement officers have to have, and they can cut their way through a locked gate if they have reason to believe you are in violation game laws: no search warrant required!

The Sheriff is the king of his/her county in Texas, but they know the game warden has even more power, so wardens are always included in a modern posse (manhunt).

The western sky was a combination of golden and orange shades, with a dark blue line across the northwestern horizon. That's the cold front, and it is arriving earlier than expected, so we had a vote: who wanted to camp out tonight, as planned, and who wanted to go back to The Cabin, since it was likely to be cold when the sun came up, and maybe windy and rainy during the night.

Drunks are tough, so it was unanimous to camp out at our favorite spot, along the western boundary of the ranch on Dove Creek. I thought that was foolish and it looked like Moe did too, but I'd had enough beer to go along with the rest, and apparently he had too.

Drunk or not, we efficiently set the tents up, rebuilt the fire pit with additional limbs and logs, and built a nice sized fire. When the wood burned down we'd heat pork and venison sausage, a pot of beans Anita cooked for us, and homemade flour tortillas, and have a feast while relating tales that grew wilder with every telling.

And then we'd stagger to our tents and sleep it off. We weren't planning to deer hunt tomorrow anyway, so it's likely some will sleep in.

The feast was finished and the fire had burned down, so everyone went to the edge of the clearing to pee. Rod and I had fire duty, so we were on our way to cover it up when the small, two engine, propellor driven plane I'd seen flying north a few minutes ago came roaring back over us, heading south. We saw a small white parachute open in the bright moonlight and tracked its path. The plane continued roaring south, engines maxed out, and we saw another plane that seemed to be in pursuit. It passed over us and continued following the first plane, which seemed to be holding its distance.

Most of the guys were in their tents, but Rod, Mick, and I were outside in the clearing, watching the planes disappear and the parachute drift toward us, and wondering what the hell!

Whatever the payload, it was in a box that landed on our side of the high, deer proof fence, and we heard a thud when it hit the ground.

Rod and Mick looked at me. I shook my head, said I'd be right back, and went to Moe's tent. It was his ranch, he was a lawyer, so he needed to decide what to do next. We all knew the odds were it was some kind of contraband, be it drugs, money, or guns, and it wasn't meant for us. If we were right, there was a good chance the 'owners' would come looking for it, and the owners were likely to be members of a criminal gang of some kind.

Moe was already undressed and ready for bed, and he was reluctant to get dressed again just because we thought we saw something. "Dude, this is possibly serious shit!" I hissed at him. "You need to get your happy ass out here and decide what to do, or agree not to complain if we do something that causes grief!"

He came back out wearing flip flops on his feet, in a pasture full of mesquite thorns and three kinds of cactus, so I knew he didn't want to go look. But I went from buzzed to sober when the cargo landed on our side of the fence, and he saw how serious the three of us were when he joined us. Mick gave him a replay of what he saw, Rod added a few details, and I added a few more, emphasizing that a second plane appeared to be chasing the first, which was headed south, toward Mexico.

"Okay, let's walk over there and take a look," Moe said, and started that way. I told them to wait, and grabbed the 30-30 from my tent. They all frowned, but better safe than sorry, so I followed them on high alert. The box attached to the parachute was metal, a cube measuring roughly 24 inches high, wide, and deep.

Now that we were here, we were stumped. "What the hell is that; what's in it; and who does it belong to?" Mick asked. There was no answer because we had no idea either.

We approached and examined it, and asked the obvious question. "Do we open it or go somewhere to call the law and let them? It's probably contraband of some kind, which means it likely belongs to bad guys, so opening it is not the safer option," Moe declared.

"True, but I'm too curious! Let's open it, and we can call the law if it's something illegal. If we do, though, we'll all be up all night telling the story of how it got here and defending our stories," Rod stated.

He would know, having had more than a couple of run-ins with the law around New Braunfels. He had a well-connected lawyer or he would have a record, but he got him off with community service and got his record expunged.

Yielding to his superior knowledge and the lack of desire to be grilled all night by cops, we started trying to open the metal box, which had a combination lock built in. We, of course, had no idea what the combination is, so we looked into other options.

"It fell on its corner when it landed; that sprung the frame and it was open when we found it," Rod said, after running back to a ranch truck and returning with a five-pound sledgehammer. Mick turned it up, set it on a corner, and Rod hit it a mighty blow with the sledge; it popped open a few inches on one side, and six stacks of $100 bills fell out.

"Holy Shit!" was unanimous! Mick stuck both hands inside the opening, Rod stood on the opposite corner, and Mick gave a mighty growl, like Big John in the mine. The cube opened, and we saw stacks upon stacks of $100 bills.

"The US $100 bill - denomination of international commerce, both legal and illegal," Moe said, using a very concerned tone of voice. "We did training on this recently. Hold the light on this bill," he directed, and I did. "Now shine it on this one; this one; and this one."

Moe sighed and all three of us got nervous. "As I expected, this bill and all those on top are dated 1994, which is two years before the treasury began making the hundred harder to counterfeit. By 2010 it had all the strips, inserts, and colors you see now, and is virtually impossible to reproduce because everything in is in the paper, and the paper is tightly controlled by the treasury.

"So, what we may have here is a counterfeiting ring rather than drug gang or gun runners."

We kind of brightened up, which he quashed with a simple statement. "Not that they aren't all the same people."

At that point, everyone looked at me. "Excuse me - do you have a question?" I asked with a frown.

"Yeah, do we call the law, leave it here, steal it, or what?" Mick asked.

"Oh, I'm all in favor of stealing it! I haven't measured the box, but it looks like at least a lot of millions to me. Even divided by six, that's a potful of dinero. The only problem I see is that the owners are going to come to retrieve it, and I'm afraid they will literally charge an arm and a leg for interest!

"So what do you boys propose?"

"We don't need no cops here tonight!" Rod argued. "Who is to say they won't try to pin it on us? After all, it was parachuted right to us."

"He makes a good point," Mick stated. "How about this? We take the box and parachute a mile or two further south along his fenceline and leave them there. If the criminals come and get them, so much the better, as long as they leave us alone."

After a while, Moe broke the silence of our consideration. "That's as good a plan as any, but I'm afraid we need to move it further than that, and we will have to stand guard all night to make sure no one with bad intentions sneaks into camp. If they know we know..."

"My pickup has a gasoline motor. I'll get it while you guys figure out guard duties."

Ten minutes later the box of money with parachute reattached was lying on its side, sprung open, with a few stacks of bills lying where they fell when it experienced a hard landing. Or so we hoped.

Luckily, I drew the first two-hour shift. If you heard or saw anything suspicious, our plan was to awaken the members of this subgroup first, and then three of us would wake up another and keep them quiet. The shotguns were with the owners; we would get our rifles out of the pickups when we return and stash them in a handy location.

The area around the camp had no place that would serve as a lookout, and certainly no place from which to engage in a gunbattle with the type of men likely coming for the money. Beyond the creek, however, lay a small, craggy hill featuring an array of boulders. We hadn't scouted it, and couldn't without using flashlights and an hour or two of time, but Moe had been there and he was certain it was our best chance.

On the way back I noticed that even with the array of cell-boosting antennas on the pickup, I had no cell service, so calling the law, tonight or tomorrow, would require a drive or maybe a climb to higher ground.

I turned the lights off as I approached the camp, but not before seeing three figures sitting on the log near the firepit. Niles, Will, and Dan were waiting for us. "What's going on?" were the first words spoken when I killed the engine.

Moe, Rod, and Mick jumped down from the bed of the truck, and Rod quickly but quietly informed them of the falling parachute and what was inside the box. Looks of disbelief were followed by looks of confusion, and then questions about why we moved the box. The answer caused us to agree on two sentries, scattered in cover, with all guns with the owner. There were seven of us and we agreed on six hours sleep, so the odd man out on the card draw would be assigned to the predawn/dawn patrol.

Mick and I took the first shift; he settled in behind the log, and I scurried into the brush like a rat. The stars were magnificent after the moon set, leaving us with starlight only. Our shift ended without event, so we woke Niles and Rod.

I slept well, considering, so I guess my tiredness overcame my anxiety. Which, honestly, wasn't very high. This whole thing was so far out of my experiences I didn't know how to react when I went to bed, but my brain must have worked it out overnight, because I arose with a plan in mind.

It was late - almost 7am - when I awoke, but I still had thirty minutes to sleep, according to the schedule. I got dressed, checked my weapons to make sure they were clean, and filled my two ammo belts; one with #2 shotgun shells, the other with bullets for my bolt action 30-06. I then took the plug out of the 12 gauge and added shells until I was at the maximum of seven. I'd have some 'splaining to do if the game warden showed up, but my concern about the 'soldiers' of the counterfeiters overruled that.

I filled the external magazine for my 30-06 (10 bullets), and filled the internal mag of the 30-30 with five bullets, plus one in the chamber. Everyone in the group was doing the equivalent, depending on their weaponry, if they followed directions agreed to last night.

We were well armed and sufficiently staffed, if my time in ROTC, the army, and the reserves counted for anything. The problem was the size of the force we faced, and their armaments. Based on briefings I received in the reserve regarding the danger Mexican cartels pose in Texas, they will use any semi-automatic weapon available, usually converting it to full automatic if it's an AR 15. Uzi and AK 47 are weapons from non-USA manufacturers, and they are almost always full automatic when purchased from arms dealers.

The most frightening, however, is the.50 caliber machine gun that has become a favorite of cartels. That monster can shoot through concrete walls and the steel of armored vehicles. If we're up against that, we need to have a sniper hidden where he can take the shooter out, because there is literally nothing to hide behind!

Moe and Dan arrived back in camp at 7:30, and came directly to my tent. "Will is perched on the highest hill he could climb; it's on the east side of the creek, southwest of us, and overlooks the roadway. He took the mirrors off one of the ranch trucks; he has one and Dan has one so they can signal each other. Neither knows Morse code so they came up with one of their own. It's sufficient for our purposes, basically amounting to 'all is clear'; 'I see dust or something coming'; and 'get ready', if I remember correctly."

"The third is really 'oh fuck, here they come,' but 'get ready' works too," Dan corrected.

"Everyone has fully loaded weapons and ammo belts, right?"

They nodded, but Dan said, "I'm getting Will's other weapons ready. He took his new Ruger 6.5 Creedmoor with enhanced something or other; he's really proud of it, and he has a case of ammo for it. Dude carried the rifle and multiple ammo belts across the creek and up the hill."

Moe added, "That hill is 2500 feet above sea level, and looks down on everything. The only problem is it lacks cover, other than the rocky outcropping he is behind, based on his mirror message a few minutes ago."

"Thick enough to stop a.50 cal?" I asked, and Moe shrugged. "What is?"

"So, now that it's time, after Dan gets Will's shit together, what do we do? Ride up that way to verify it's still there, let someone sneak up there and find out, or just wait?" Niles asked.

"First thing is we break camp and hide our tents and stuff in the brush beside or across the creek. Next, we scatter the fuck out of these trucks, and I'm turning to Moe for how to go about doing that. I know the road we came in on, but nothing else."

"We have a couple of options; let me think on it for a few while we break camp. Whoever dropped the package probably saw trucks and a fire and that's what they will be looking for, so let's make everything go away and then use brush to smooth the dust."

Dan went to fully arm Will; the rest of us broke the tents down and stashed them in the pickups, then moved the pickups 100 yards south on the road, with two armed guards. The rest of us cut brush from farther north along the creek and used it to smooth the dirt, after burying the fire and rolling the log to another location. Assuming the pilot reported he dropped the money by approximate location, using geographic and photographic markers, our intent was to make the area unrecognizable from the air and ground.

Once that was done, we discarded the brush we had used deep in the thicket along the creek, and then moved the pickups to other locations, one being behind the hill Will was on. Niles joined him, giving us more firepower if needed to escape the hill after spotting the enemy. And that is how we began thinking of them - not as the owners of the case, but as the enemy. It was simple logic: if they come after us, they become the enemy, and until we know whether they will retrieve their case and leave, or come hunting witnesses, we have to prepare to fight an enemy.

We parked the second ranch truck by cattle pens with a water tank, as if feeding or checking cattle. The remaining five of us were in my pickup, hidden as much as possible in heavy brush. Someone flying over would see the truck, maybe, but not someone sticking to open ground on our west. Then we sat and waited. And waited. And waited. It was late afternoon, and we were moving to contingency plan two when Mick heard the distant sound of a plane, and soon thereafter Dan, sitting on the roof with his mirror, caught they 'oh fuck' message none of us wanted to receive: someone was coming.

Hoping it's the game warden when you have an unplugged shotgun tells you how desperate we were for news it wasn't some gangster/cartel leader and his well-armed soldados.

Our next message from the hill set off a celebration, and we drove out to meet the pickup, which belonged to the ranch and was driven by Ann's brother, Clay, who ran the cattle raising operation. He had a pickup bed full of sacks of cattle cubes for the feeders. He wasn't as glad to see us as we were him, and after a small celebration he ruined my/our day.

"I came across a strange group of men a few miles back. I don't see them as hunters, but they had a number of what I'll call 'assault rifles' with high capacity magazines in sight when I crested the hill. Those disappeared into the bed of the truck or behind it as I was approaching. I waved but got cold stares in return. Anything going on out here I should know about?"

"Yes," Moe said, "but let's park your truck by the pens and scatter some cubes. I'll ride with you, and we can walk back to our gathering place.

"By the way, why are you here? You are supposed to be in San Antonio?"

"I got started, but about 50 miles out I realized I needed sleep, not a party with my rowdy friends, so I bought a load of cubes, dumped most in the barn, and came out with these. The cattle here get short shrift because it's to damn far, I had time and energy, so here I am."

The small plane we heard earlier was headed southwest, toward Alpine if the line of flight were true. The next buzzing we heard, though, put us in and under the brush. I could see Moe and Clay from my hiding place, and they were calmly scattering cubes in the feeders and dumping hay bales in the pen. They didn't acknowledge the low flying plane at first, but finally looked up and watched it fly over, looking as innocent as possible.

The plane meant Clay's sullen buddies were on their way too, so we scattered and took up our positions while the plane was well past us and beginning to bank.

If they took the case of money and split, we would let them go, and then call the state troopers and FBI in San Angelo. They could bring in the Secret Service, Treasury, and whoever else. We'd get grilled as a group and then individually, most likely, but we all saw the same things happen, so no worries as long as we stuck to the truth.

The other possibility was that they would take the money, and then go hunting the witless witnesses camped up the fenceline. If that happened, anyone in danger had the right to shoot and move to a different spot. We wouldn't open up on them as a group unless they were in a group and we could take them out. Chasing one well-armed man in the brush might not be worth it, but if they knew all of us were here, they wouldn't leave until we were dead... or they were.

People think a weapon with automatic fire, like an AK 47 or M-16, is far superior in a skirmish to a fine hunting rifle with scope, and maybe they are. But pointing and sending a bunch of bullets downrange is only effective if you are pointing at the target; otherwise, it's point and hope. A target in the crosshairs of a modern scope is shot if you pull the trigger, no hoping involved.

Hopefully, the soldiers /soldados on this mission were the third or fourth string and not the all-pro group. All seven of us were crack shots and exceptional brush rats who had stalked hogs and deer, or called deer into the brush. We didn't just sit in blinds and wait for the feed timer to go off to get the 100 yard shot. Likewise, unlike most bird hunters, we could limit on a box of 24 shells, not three boxes.

We were good shots, we were in our element, and we were well armed. If it came to a confrontation, we had a chance, but the soldados would be favored. So, we hid, watched, and waited.

The grey bobtail truck and white pickup kicked up a lot of dust as they made their way toward their prize, and us. It seemed like forever before they made it to the case of funny money, looked it and the area over, and placed it in the back of the pickup, under a canvas tarp.

There was a brief discussion that seemed to get heated between the men in the truck, and then it was clear the instructions had been given. One of the argumentative men drove the pickup, the other climbed into the driver's side of the bobtail. The pickup turned around and started back the way it came. The nine soldiers climbed into the bobtail and it proceeded slowly along the fenceline, obviously looking for something.

Something like us, the men the plane saw around the campfire, and the campfire.

So they were going to clean up the mess, if the mess was still around. Well, hell. Maybe we should have fled early this morning! Sometimes curiosity is a burden.

Too late now, though, so pay attention to the situation. I couldn't see the old campsite, but Will and Niles could, and he had his mirror to signal us. I'd need to stand up in my shallow arroyo to see, but the enemy couldn't see me anyway.

Moe and Clay were still carrying out their bluff, and that became a problem. The plane must have spotted them and radioed to the ground, because they loaded back into the truck, found a road cutting through, and started down it. I strongly doubted the brothers-in-law would survive a meeting with the soldiers, so I ran through the brush onto the road and began signaling to them to hit the brush.

The didn't see me at first, but a low whistle caught their attention. The grabbed Clay's pistol, their rifles, and Moe's shotgun and hit the brush. They were long gone when the truck arrived, but not safe. The soldiers unloaded, the man in the truck gave instructions, and they scattered out in a long skirmish line that worked the brush to the north and east.

The owners knew the ranch better than we did, so I trusted they would get away, and watched El Jefe through my scope. If a single shot was fired in the brush, at 250 yards he was an immediate casualty of my 30-06. I've shot hogs at 600 yards and hit everyone I shot at. He wasn't a problem at 250. He was leaning up against the nose of the truck with his rifle butt on the ground so I would be hard for him to get away or fire quickly. Which was a good thing, because his rifle looked like a.50 caliber.

Of course, if the soldier who entered the brush about 100 yards north of me suddenly appeared, he'd have a damn good shot at me!

Silence is our friend, but also our enemy; waiting in dead silence while maintaining dead silence is hard on a man's patience. I assumed our group had deployed to new positions overlooking the pens, but didn't know that. I also didn't know whether the mirror exchange had taken place; I was focused on the events to our north, not behind me to the west.

I let my eyes swing lazily from north to south and back, letting them scan for movement. It finally came, in the form of Moe and Clay peeping out of the brush and then sprinting across the clearing through which the road ran, about 200 yards south of my position. My scope swung back to the bossman, who was raising his rifle toward Moe and Clay. I let him get set and then shot him in the chest. He was knocked backward, his rifle fell from his hands, and I heard yelling well to the east.

With minimal thought, I sprinted down the road to the truck, grabbed the massive.50 caliber rifle, and ran into the brush west of the truck. Once I felt safely away from the truck, I found slightly higher ground and looked back. Two men were at the truck, and I saw another emerge from the brush near where the shot came from - my old position. He was crouched down, but the guys on the hill had a clear shot and both took it, almost as one retort. He crumpled and they immediately came under fire from the edge of the brush, which drew fire from our guys. I heard a cry and hoped it came from the east, but I was moving to the top of my rise and finding a good place to fire from prone.

I was no more than in place when I spotted an enemy with rifle raised toward the top of the hill. My hurried shot got him, and his rifle fired wildly into the air. Shots were exchanged between men I couldn't see, so I was looking for another site when I spotted a.50 caliber machine gun mounted on the bed of the truck, and a man crawling into the bed from the back.

That was a game changer, and I couldn't let him start spraying the brush on our side with it. So I dropped him with one shot, and made him stop moving with a second. Then I was charging down the hill with my rifle strapped to my left shoulder, the.50 caliber rifle in my left hand, and my shotgun in my right. I'd have to drop the big gun to use the shotgun, but I was a good shot from the hip; one of the tricks I'd show off from time to time with the right crowd.

I didn't have to use it, so I slid it across the bed of the truck, slid the.50 cal rifle behind it, and left my 30.06 in place in case I couldn't operate the machine gun. But I could; it was a make and model I had trained on a summer ago in reserves.

Everything in place and ready, I waited for an enemy to show. When none did after seven minutes, I decided to stir things up a bit and began spraying brush on the east side of the road. After I quit I heard screams and loud voices running away. I fired into the general area where I thought they were, and heard more screams. One more burst, and then I heard a voice yelling "Rendirse!" in Spanish. That roughly translates to "We surrender!" so I yelled at them to show themselves in the road without weapons. In Spanish, of course.

Three did, one of whom was injured. Our men came out of the brush and surrounded them while the snipers on the hill and I kept watch. Our guys had a brief war counsel, and then Moe and Clay were running toward me. "We'll take the pickup and head toward town until we get cell coverage, then call the state troopers. And the best criminal lawyer at my practice; we may need him with all the dead bodies and the captives."

"What if more are on the way and you run into them?" I asked. "If I heard the argument right, the big boss appointed the little boss to lead a killing squad, and he would send more help."

Clay replied, "Then let's take this truck and you can mess up anything headed our way!"

"Alright - move the bodies and let's roll."

We turned onto a dirt lane that ran up a higher hill and stopped on the crown. Clay whooped and I heard him telling someone that armed men had fired on him and Moe, and they needed help immediately because more were coming. Location and directions were given, and other information was exchanged.

While Clay was doing that, Moe was calling his partner. Then they were silent, and then both were excitedly talking, to me and to each other. Once I knew help was on the way, I told them to shut up and get back to our group, because we don't know if the situation has changed.

Niles and Will were off the hill, standing with the others, when we drove up. I yelled at Dan to follow me and sprinted up the hill to the crown. He followed without asking questions, but did when we stopped. He was huffing, but got out "Why are we up here? What's happening?"

"We have help on the way, but it's possible they have help that is closer. We need to keep a lookout until we see the flashing red and blue lights!" I replied, and he looked at the rock formation on the western edge of the crown.

"Let's get among the rocks and use our scopes," he suggested; I nodded and followed him. We rested our rifles on top of a couple of rocks and watched the road coming in. Within a few minutes we saw dust. No flashing lights, so we could hope but needed to prepare. He moved to where he could signal the others with his mirror, and then raced back.

We were praying for something good, but got what emerged into our view was a van full of soldiers.

"I'll shoot the engine with this monster after you shoot the driver." No response. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, but they haven't done anything to prove they are hostile, so killing someone now would put my freedom in jeopardy."

"You want to shoot the.50 and I'll shoot the driver?" I asked, irritated that he would put our safety after our legal situation. And then it sunk in, and I fired a single shot into the engine of the van, which was still 600 or more yards away. It clunked to a stop and armed men jumped out. They couldn't see us or likely tell from whence the shot came, but they started firing at the most likely places. We kept our heads down and waited for a lull.

"Shooting the bastards before they jumped out and started shooting at us seems like a good idea now," Dan proclaimed quietly, "and I'm sorry I didn't."

"Water under bridge" I answered, "so let's shoot some now. Ready?"

He was, and a few of our group helped us by getting into a place with a view of the van and opening fire on whoever they could see. From the heights we could see more, and with them distracted, we downed three before they could turn back to us.

Foolishly, they gathered to talk on the far side of the van, which was no cover at all from the.50. I fired as fast as I could and saw some go down before the rest scattered. One was slow, though, and went down from fire down the hillside.

Dan warned, "Look south - sure that isn't more of them, is it?"

"No light show, so I don't know, but if it is more of them, I'll stop the lead vehicle and you will..."

"I know; kill the driver and any passengers I can see."

"Alrighty, then. See anyone else we can shoot right now?" I asked, as his scope was trained downhill.

"Not really. They seem to be laying low in the densest brush down there."

"Then I'm going to leave the hill to you and go get the truck. No brush, no matter how dense, is cover from the.50."

"If I signal with two quick flashes, the oncoming vehicles are friendly; one long flash they are enemy. Tell anyone you can. And T, our next group purchases are some high quality walkie-talkies with earpieces, and a satellite phone!"

I chuckled, agreed, and hustled down the east side of the hill and down the road to the truck. I then called for a driver, and got Clay, who was hiding near the truck with a tactical shotgun. "Where the hell did you get that?" I asked.

"At a gun show, after a run in with a coyote. I turn a blind eye to workers headed for cities, but he was beating a woman when I saw him, so I had to intervene. He wasn't afraid of my pistol because he had an assault rifle of some kind, but I didn't talk, I just fired, and winged him. His charges scattered, and he sprayed the truck with his automatic. I stayed hidden, waited for him to show himself, and shot him again, this time in the shoulder.

"When the sheriff saw how erratic I am with a pistol, he directed me to a gun show and this particular shotgun. I paid a good price, but believe me, it will take down whoever it is pointed at! There are 77 three-quarter inch pieces of steel in each #1 shot."

"Keep it out the window and be ready to use it on anyone you see while you drive me far enough along the main road to spray the brush with the machine gun," I ordered him. I wasn't his boss, but this was common sense so he did as instructed.

We got in place, I hoisted the big gun on its swivel, and prepared to open fire. Just before I did, I heard a shout and saw the mirror flashing the sunshine twice, then a break, then twice again. I had to think for a moment before remembering that meant the vehicles were friendly!

I leaned in and told Clay, and told him to back up. I also told him to stay alert because the enemy didn't know more help was coming for us, and capturing the truck and machine gun would turn the battle their way. He was about 300 yards back when a shot hit the steel panel of the truck bed. I saw the flash, turned the big gun, and opened up on whoever had the audacity to shoot at me.

He screamed and fell out of the brush, and that was that. Until I began to get lightheaded, grabbed the nearest wall of the bed, and saw blood all over my right side, from just below the shoulder, across my chest and ribs. Then the pain hit and I sat down rather suddenly.

I don't remember much else, until I awoke in a hospital with machines on both sides and a catheter down my pee hole. My hand went looking for the call button and pressed it, though rather weakly. I tried to sit up and discovered I had the strength of a popcorn fart and too little pain tolerance to do that, so I sunk back into my bed and pillows.

"Welcome back!" my pretty little nurse proclaimed when she arrived in response to my call. I was asking where I was and why I hurt so badly when a doctor arrived. He overheard me and answered. "You are in Shannon Medical Center in San Angelo, and you are here due to the shrapnel in your chest. We got most of it out on the first try, but we will be putting you under again this afternoon and retrieving the pieces we found using an MRI."

I couldn't really think of anything to ask or say about that, so I asked if my wife had been contacted. Nurse Sabrina spoke up then. "Yes, we called her several times the day you were brought in, and again yesterday. I don't know about today, but she didn't pick up or return our calls the previous days."

That sounded strange - she's supposed to be at home with the kids. But a team came in and started prepping me for the next surgery, so that captured my full attention.

The operating room was bright and cold; they covered me with a hot blanket while I waited, and then knocked me out with something that made time stand still. When I was awakened in the recovery room I asked when they were doing the surgery, and learned it was over.

The drugs I was on were good shit; I might or might not be hurting, but I didn't give a damn either way. After everything - blood pressure, pulse rate, oxygen saturation - met standards, I was moved back to my room. The nurse handed me this handy little cylinder with a pump button on top and smilingly informed me that I controlled my own pain relief; just push the button on top.

I liked the hell out of that, but quickly learned it wouldn't let me overdose: it only allowed so much in so much time. Oh well - it seemed sufficient to keep me mellow.

Still nothing from my darling bride, who is supposed to be at home but hasn't been. In fact, I'm supposed to be back home already, and yet there is no wife and no kids at home.

The posse showed up en masse on day five, and after deciding I'd live, regaled me with stories of the arrival of four state troopers, two FBI agents, a Texas Ranger, the county sheriff with two deputies, and an ambulance, and the efforts to drive the soldiers out of the brush, which ended with Rod threatening them with the.50 caliber machine gun. He told them in Spanish that I was injured and might die, so he would have no problem chewing up the brush with them in it.

He gave them a brief demonstration and they came out of the brush with hands up.

The FBI wanted to discuss our decision-making, and why we didn't call the law as soon as the case of money landed. Moe suggested they use their cell phones to call 911, and when they had no service, challenged them to drive back down the only road out of the ranch in the dark, knowing there was a good chance the money owners were headed toward us on that road with a load of cartel soldiers alerted by the pilot who would likely shoot and ask questions later.

Niles then asked if they really thought we wanted to stay and have a gun battle with trained cartel soldiers who might come in dozens or scores. The local and state boys seemed amused enough that the G-Men, who happened to be originally from the east coast, were frustrated by the plethora of weapons we had, and by the lack of fear of the participants. At one point, it was offered that we might be a local militia trained to fight immigrants and drug runners.

The belly laughs were punctuated by the location at which we each lived, and by questions about how they thought we might achieve those goals in Tom Green County when we lived hundreds of miles away. Finally, the Feds agreed to allow local and state law enforcement handle us, and they would join the Secret Service and Treasury in investigation of the 'invaders,' as we called them.

It was all supposed to be kept secret, for our safety. I mean, who wants their names listed as having thwarted the efforts of a counterfeiting ring based somewhere south of Texas, like Mexico. Or maybe Central or South America, since the alphabet agencies seemed to be looking that far away.

But a bunch of drunken good ol' boys outshooting a well-armed group of cartel (or something) soldiers was just too good a story for the various law enforcement and first responders to keep secret. Once out, it captured the mind of Texans, and suddenly I was surrounded by cameras and politicians wanting to take pictures with me in my hospital bed.

After allowing one, the challenger to a representative that long ago stopped representing constituents in favor of party and donors, I became very selective. The incumbent wanted to rant and rave about the dangers of open borders allowed by the previous administration, but when I reminded him in front of cameras that this just happened, and it happened under his party's administration, he and other incumbents steered clear.

I got a few pictures with independent candidates and candidates of the party who were seeking to unseat incumbents, and my 15 minutes of fame lasted more than 15 minutes. It passed pretty quickly after a few days, and I moved to rehab without an escort of caring politicos. Or a caring wife.

I hired a PI as soon as I woke up and learned no one could find her, although she was supposed to be at home taking care of our kids. He didn't have an answer yet, but 'was hot on her trail.'

I wondered if he was just draining my funds, but he still sounded trustworthy and hopeful. And then he found her, my son and daughter. They were ensconced in the Gulfside home of one (An)Drew McMillan, a relatively wealthy socialite who earned his money the old fashioned way - he inherited it!

Jill always had a taste for things that shine, and I guess our upper-middle class standing wasn't up to Drew's. It hurt my pride as much as my heart, but she and I had made a lot of good memories, especially when we were young and everyone we knew was broke. The problem with being an upwardly-mobile business owner is that you and yours frequently rub elbows with the true upper classes, and envy is a deadly disease.

There is a reason the Bible consistently condemns envy as a sin, warning that it is destructive to the heart, relationships, and spiritual life, and it is explicitly forbidden in both the Old and New Testaments. As much as she loved to tout her Christian beliefs, you'd think my wife would have been aware, but like I said, envy is a deadly disease.

Oh well. She could go, but Aoife (EE-fe) and Rónán O'Neil would be living with their father soon enough! My attorney was hard at work on that, gathering evidence through my PI and his PI to document her unfitness as a mother for the custody hearing, which would happen soon after my divorce papers were filed.

I told the arrogant bastard to serve her and then gather evidence so she couldn't file first, but, no, he just had to fuck around, and now I'm dodging her server until we can serve her! I'm currently at a lodge in the Canadian Rockies on a business trip, and she's appearing at all the top sites in Miami Beach, so I'm confident the odds of being served are on my side.

It's true that my doctor does not approve of my little 2000 mile adventure. But there are doctors and a first class medical facility nearby, and sitting around a table negotiating is hardly exhausting when the table is one hundred steps from your door.

It is a bit chillier here in mid-November than in Texas, and putting on the necessary gear to go out to eat with the delegation is the most strenuous thing I do.

Somehow, word of our exploits near San Angelo has reached British Columbia, and they have been happy to accommodate my physical restrictions. Over our first lunch I was grilled about the events, and the four men expressed their admiration for my part in the massacre/ carnage/ capture of the armed miscreants. The two women, not so much. In fact, the more gorgeous one focused on how my wounds could have been fatal, and asked if there wasn't a safer route we could have taken.

I recited a brief part of the conclusions of the official law enforcement report, which agreed that our options were limited, and hiding in the thick brush was likely the best way to stay safe. Clay's weekly cattle feeding was not anticipated, and had that not occurred, there is a good chance the battle(s) would not have occurred.

Since they did and we won, however, all members of our group were nominated for the Governor's Medal of Courage, which only increased the hoopla and interviews.

Lying in a hospital bed I had been an easy target, as compared to my unrestrained and more nimble partners. My availability was made more so by a hospital that enjoyed having its name stated in every interview conducted in my room.

As a result of my facetime, I was suddenly the face of gun lovers and the NRA, even though I favor stringent controls over which adults, children, and under 21 youngsters can own what kinds of guns and what capacity of magazines. I do not believe high-powered rifles with oversized magazines should ever be in the hands of children not under the direct supervision of their parents or other trained adults - or anyone under 21, for that matter. I also believe every gun owner should have to take a gun safety course, and keep their guns in a safe, restricted place so they can't be accessed by anyone else.

So, no, the NRA doesn't love me after all, but they do love that a well-armed group of hunters held off a well-armed gang, and that without our guns we'd be dead. That's likely untrue - without guns we'd have fled, no matter how many tires we ruined - but it's a logical conclusion, so it's being drawn.

Personally, I have no problem with the 1990s ban on the rifles styled 'assault weapons' that were designed to kill humans: the kind carried by our opponents! The.223 Remington/5.56 NATO high velocity bullets tend to 'tumble and fragment' when they encounter soft tissue, causing such deadly shock it will kill a human even if not hit in a vital area. The automatic and semi-automatic types of the AR 15, the AK 47, and other versions made by individuals and other countries are favored by criminal organizations. In fact, the ATF and DEA say that AR 15s bought in the United States, most often in Texas, are the most common weapon used by Mexican cartels.

The fact that they traffic in drugs, sex, and humans, ought to make Americans wonder how we can make our AR-style rifles and high-capacity magazines secure, but our politicians don't want to face the wrath of the gun lobby and gun owners screaming about constitutional carry, like we have in Texas, so good sense goes out the window. Until one is used in a school shooting or mass shooting, and then there is a lot of bluster that results in nothing much happening beyond 'prayers being offered.'

Most AR style rifles are virtually useless if hunting for meat, as they tear up too great an area of the muscle at impact, and the fragments tear up even more. Texas requires a minimum 60 grain bullet for hunting big game, including deer, but other states have more restrictions on the various kinds of ARs, including the many assembled by gun shops and gun owners.

Other barrels are available in.308 caliber and.450 Bushmaster, but as with the smaller caliber, shorter barrels of uncertain rifling shoot bullets that twist and increase yaw with distance, which can affect your aim and the result, if the bullets tumble upon striking the game... or a human.

I personally own 17 firearms, three of which are antiques: a ten-gauge double barrel shot gun made of Damascus steel that can only be fired with black powder ammo; a pre-WWII.219 zipper you have to make the bullets for; and an early 1900s octogen barrel.22 pump. My three handguns (.22 revolver; 9mm semi-automatic; and a.45 revolver my grandfather used when he was a sheriff); four shotguns (a.410 single shot; a.20 gauge double barrel; a.16 gauge Long Tom full choke that shoots a small pattern a long ways, and my 12 gauge automatic); and ten rifles (ranging from two editions of open sights.22 and two open sights.30-30 level action saddle guns; to scoped rifles that include calibers of 30-06,.308, 6.5 Creedmoor,.243;.25.06, and a.257 Weatherby Magnum.

Because they are relatively cheap and can be fun to shoot at varmints, I may someday buy an AR 15; but if I do, it will be kept in my built-in and biometrically unlocked gun closet because they are so commonly stolen and resold to the highest bidders, and you can guess who that is. Note: I do the same with my pistols, the most commonly stolen weapon in Texas.

And a final point: if we were armed with AR 15.223 rifles, we would not have been able to effectively snipe - shoot at long distance - the majority of the criminals we killed. Accuracy is far better with the kind of large caliber bolt action rifles we used.

Anyway, that's enough of my off subject rant, which will likely cause more comment than anything, but I'm not afraid to admit I'm a gun lover who believes we don't have to accept mass murders within a crowd (like at Las Vegas), targeted mass murders (like the Sutherland Springs Baptist Church), or school shootings (like have happened in Texas and multiple other states). There are sensible restrictions that need to be put in place immediately to stem the flow of guns south to murderous cartels, to the mentally unstable, and of certain pistols, rifles, ammo, suppressors, and magazines to people under 21.

I find it fascinating that we are so het up about keeping illegal immigrants out, but are so loose about allowing deadly weapons from going south! Let's be serious about which is more dangerous.

(End of Teagen's expression of personal privilege. T's opinions do not necessarily match those of the network, the station, or this chronicler.)

*****

So - here I am in Canada, still recovering from my wounds, both physical and emotional, dodging divorce service and worrying about my children. I'll pick my story up in the next chapter.