His eyes traveled along the near ridge of the Inyos, where granite monoliths were stacked along the skyline. One protruded above the others, Winnedumah, the frozen guardian warrior. In the old story, the outnumbered Paiutes had been defeated for possession of their valley by their traditional enemies from the great valley on the other side of the mountains. The Paiute medicine man, Winnedumah, fled into the Inyo mountains pursued by the victorious Waucobas, eager to exact a terrible revenge. When Winnedumah reached the crest of the mountains, he could go no farther. He turned and raised his hands to the sky and awaited his death, but Coyote, the creator of the Paiute world, appeared in flashes of lightning and turned Winnedumah into a stone giant. The Waucobas fled over the mountains to the great valley by the ocean, never to return. Winnedumah stands above the land of the Paiutes and watches his people and waits for the gods to return and free him from his stone prison.
Frank loved the story and its many variants. He found he took as much solace in the presence of the stone monolith as in the stained glass that filtered the light into colored patterns on the nave of the church where he had attended mass with his mother.
Before the Department of Water and Power had diverted the waters of the Owens River into the aqueduct destined for Los Angeles, the valley had been a series of meadows and wetlands, a virtual paradise. No wonder his ancestors had fought so fiercely for it, beating back competing tribes, only to lose to the white tribe, his father’s tribe, who now possessed its lands and took its water. Now the lower valley had become part of the desert. “Dry as a popcorn fart,” he heard Bill Jerome mutter in his guttural bass voice. Well, there was this. The valley had been saved from development. No endless tracts of houses, no strip malls, no traffic jams—except at the beginning of trout season, deer season, and the film festival. Okay, there were periodic traffic jams along Highway 395, but then the tourists went home.
He glanced down at his watch. Nine forty. He would hit the gates at five to ten and be at the ranch at ten sharp. He pulled the big SUV back on the road and headed across the valley. He thought he could feel the eyes of the stone giant watching his progress across the valley floor from the Inyo Mountains, the dwelling place of the Great Spirit.
12
•
A sign so new it had no bullet holes was bolted to a heavy metal gate blocking the old Circle Cross ranch road:
SAND CANYON GAME RESERVE
MEMBERS ONLY
FOR INFORMATION CALL (760) 555-HUNT
Frank got out of the BLM vehicle and entered the four-digit code he had been given into the keypad next to the gate that would permit him entry. The gate swung silently open, pushed by an invisible hand. He was by himself, but the movement of the gate was somehow unsettling. He pulled over the cattle guard and the gate swung shut, latching behind him with a clank. Close Sesame! He had entered the magic kingdom of money, where the sorcery of big bucks summoned sinister gatekeepers. He glanced up at the ridgeline where Winnedumah kept watch. Wonder what he thinks about the white man’s magic?
Alfalfa lay browning out in the fall sun. Perfect for hunting upland game: pheasants, quail, chukar, and wild turkey. Must be cottontail heaven.
He was surprised to find another gate blocking the road at the mouth of Sand Canyon, complete with guard hut and visible gatekeeper. Frank pulled up in front of the dropped arm and handed the khaki uniformed attendant Dave Meecham’s invitation.
“Are you Chief District Ranger David Meecham?” the guard inquired, scanning the invitation and Frank through dark sunglasses. He had an accent Frank couldn’t place. The gate guard was dressed for his duties in a safari shirt belted at the waist and a khaki safari hat, the brim snapped onto the left side of the crown, sporting a red, white, and blue logo. He wore an expression of detached authority. Bwana man! Frank thought.
“No, I’m standing in for him. I’m Frank Flynn with the Bureau of Land Management.”
“Just a moment, sir.” The guard stepped back, keeping an unsmiling face on Frank, and picked up a radio. Frank waited while he checked to see if Frank was on the okay list.
“Go ahead, sir.” He waved Frank forward as the barrier lifted.
What next? Frank thought. Perhaps a phalanx of Zulu warriors to round out the African theme. Frank’s inner coyote was clearly restless.
The narrow mouth of Sand Canyon opened into a series of small meadows; the first seven or eight acres were mixed grassland and scrub, surrounding a seasonal stream lined with cottonwoods. The old ranch house and outbuildings lay tucked against the western ridge of hills, facing eastward, where they could warm in the morning sun and escape the high heat of late afternoon. The corrals out front were empty. Horses and cattle were no longer a major part of the operation. Just as well, Frank thought. Some jackass would take the cattle for “slow elk.” Frank had a low opinion of most modern hunters, who had a tendency to shoot first and ask afterward. Sorta like modern politics, he thought. Quiet, coyote. We meet the white chief.
Another khaki-clad safari guide waved him over to a parking place in front of the ranch house. He had been headed for the larger paved parking area behind a series of low buildings fronting the canyon from the southeast. They were apparently shooters’ blinds, each low building topped with a camouflage-covered framework, closed at the back. Frank guessed the upper blinds would be for bird shooting, the lower part enclosed for rifle fire. Two large towers flanking the blinds were probably for bird releases, so the hunters could take them on the wing—or as they dropped to the ground. Hey, they could toss them out already cleaned and plucked. Save time. Quiet, coyote.
He glanced up at the veranda surrounding the old ranch house as another figure in safari dress stepped through the door. He was followed by a shorter man in carefully fitted starched camouflage fatigues and polished jump boots, looking every bit the commanding officer, except for missing unit patches and badges of rank. Another civilian affecting warrior garb. Sunshine soldiers were the latest fashion.
The shorter man radiated ownership. The taller man, tan, lean, and at ease, appeared to be the real thing. His khakis were faded and worn, and the boots had mileage. He caught Frank’s eye and nudged the man in camo and pointed at Frank. The shorter man extended a hand as Frank mounted the steps to the porch.
“I’m Duane Marshall, the new owner.”
“Frank Flynn.” Marshall clasped Frank’s smallish hand in a viselike grip. “You must be from the Bureau of Land Management.” His smile appeared genuine, but then, so did Ted Bundy’s.
“This is Ewan Campbell, the operations manager of Sand Canyon. Ewan is from South Africa.” That helped to explain the safari theme.
“Mr. Campbell,” Frank said as they shook hands. Campbell’s grip was firm, no more, but it was a large hand at the end of a muscular arm.
“Come on into the ranch house,” Marshall suggested. “We can have some coffee, and I’ll show you a map of the layout. Then we can look over the grounds.” He paused. “I assume you’ll want to do that before making any decisions.”
“Sure, I’m here to see the place,” Frank replied. He caught his host’s eye. “I’m also here to check out abandoned mining operations, take a few pictures of the petroglyphs up in Dead Indian Wash, and report back to the chief district ranger concerning safety issues. He makes the recommendations.” He gave a slight smile. “When it’s in his bailiwick. We’re not policy makers at Ridgecrest, but I’m sure you know that.”
Marshall nodded. “You are the boots on the ground, though, and if your superiors have any sense, they listen to you. So let me put it this way. We want you and the chief district ranger to be satisfied that we’re doing things right.”
Frank nodded. He was aware that Ewan Campbell was following every word.
Marshall led the way into the old ranch house. Old from the outside, but all leather and polished wood inside, a silk purse hiding in a sow’s ear. The pine floor had been stripped, sealed, and waxed. It glowed with a deep richness that only comes from old wo
od.
Marshall noticed Frank admiring it. “We kept the original floor—and the walls.” He gestured with a wave of his hand. “Had to take down most of the walls for refitting and reinstalling, but ninety percent of it is original. As you can see, that wood was milled when the trees were bigger around than a fence post.”
Frank looked around the room. There were the heads of wildebeest, impala, eland, kudu, and other exotic animals Frank couldn’t identify on the far wall surrounding the fieldstone fireplace. A leopard in full snarl crouched on the mantelpiece.
At the other end of the room, the ceiling had been opened up to accommodate a mountain lion crouched in the bare branches of a manzanita tree. One of our own, Frank thought. The deep maroon of the manzanita’s trunk and branches set off the lion’s tawny yellow coat. Frank looked into the lifeless glass eyes. He didn’t feel like prey. He felt a sense of loss.
The low-ceilinged area in front of the fireplace was furnished with leather chairs and couch. The couch flanked a large slab of redwood cut and polished to serve as a coffee table, which rested on a zebra skin.
Frank gave a low whistle. “First cabin, Mr. Marshall.”
“Thanks, Mr. . . . Flynn.” Frank didn’t fill in with Make it Frank or Frank will do. Hell, he didn’t know Marshall well enough for easy familiarity and wasn’t sure he wanted to. If Marshall wanted to be cozy, it would be up to him.
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate the place,” Marshall pushed on. “We went to a lot of expense to restore it.”
Well, not exactly restore, Frank thought, taking in the African theme. “I can imagine it set you back a bit,” he said.
“Tell me about these petroglyphs. I didn’t know we had any petroglyphs,” Marshall said, sensing his guest’s lack of enthusiasm.
“You do. Not far from here. The ancestors of the Paiute and Shoshone lived here for thousands of years. They hunted, too—for food.”
A shadow passed over Marshall’s face. “I take it you don’t approve of hunting for sport.”
“I used to hire out as a guide, a lot of years ago, but it’s not my call.”
Campbell’s interest was piqued. “What was the game?”
“Mostly bighorn sheep. California bighorn sheep in the Sierras. Once in a while, desert bighorn, when someone hit the lottery. That was before they started flying hunters in. We walked.” He met Campbell’s gaze.
“I didn’t know hunting desert bighorn was legal.”
“It’s not, with the exception of those few, maybe fifteen, who hit the lottery or win the bidding for the auctioned permits.”
“I’d like to know more.”
Duane Marshall cleared his throat.
“Maybe later, Flynn,” the South African said.
“Anytime, Campbell.”
The South African’s face registered surprise, and then a small smile creased the tanned features.
“Let’s use one of the dining tables, and we can spread out a map of our operation,” Duane Marshall said, reasserting himself. “The private land is enclosed by the solid blue line. The dotted blue line indicates the boundaries of our operation.”
“BLM land.”
“That’s right, Mr. Flynn.” He paused, catching Frank’s eye. “Mr. Flynn doesn’t sound right. What do I call you? What’s your rank? Lieutenant? Sergeant?”
Frank grinned. He’d let Marshall fumble long enough. “Make it Frank.”
“Right. Okay, Frank. Call me Duane.” He studied the ranger in reappraisal. “How do you want to do this? Take the tour, or are there some things you particularly want to see?”
“Both,” Frank said. “Let’s start with the tour.”
•
They crossed the grounds to the recently constructed blinds, Campbell leading the way. “The feeders and water sources are out there at about two hundred yards.” Campbell extended an arm. “From this site, all shooting will take place in a northeasterly direction. That means missed shots and spent rounds will end up in the canyon wall.”
“That’s right,” Marshall added. “Safety is a major consideration. Of course, the shotgunners will have greater latitude. That’s why the bird blinds are on the roof. As you know, number six shot is pretty much spent at fifty yards, so we’re okay there.”
“What about the exotics? How do you plan to keep them in?”
“This area is completely fenced. So if an animal is wounded or makes a break for it, it’s contained.”
“That’s one of the things I’m here for,” Campbell interjected. “Sometimes the big cats are tethered,” he added, his voice flat.
“Tethered?” Frank asked. He could sense Campbell’s distaste.
“No loose lions or leopards running around. That wouldn’t sit well with the valley residents, or the BLM, would it?” Marshall said.
Frank didn’t respond. “Where are they kept?”
“Pens and cages are located behind the ranch house, where the corrals used to be. Plenty of shade in the afternoon.” Duane Marshall glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you’d like to see the zebras that just arrived?”
“You shoot zebras?”
“They’re an accepted game animal in Africa,” Marshall said. Campbell made a face.
Frank wondered why someone would shoot a zebra. He didn’t want to see them. “I’ll skip the holding pens.”
Marshall forged ahead. “The cages are transported to the field on trailers pulled by ATVs. The latches can be released by remote.”
Frank thought of the automatic gate out in the middle of nowhere. He nodded. “Okay, let’s take a look at the mine sites and Deceased Native American Wash.”
Marshall’s face creased in puzzlement. “What?”
Campbell laughed. “Dead Indian Wash, right?”
“Yup.” He considered the big South African. Campbell might be someone he could like.
“Before we head up the canyon, I want you to see the blind we have set up for the disabled.” Marshall led them through a sliding glass door to a shooter’s stand set up in one of the blockhouse blinds. A rifle rested on a tripod bolted onto a shooting bench. A coaxial cable ran from a telescopic sighting mechanism mounted on the rifle to some sort of electronic device. The stock was attached to a bracket that was mounted onto a tracking arm.
“That’s a digital camera attached to the back of the scope, which feeds into a computer station at the ranch. The rifle can be raised or lowered—see, here’s the motorized turn screw—and windage can be adjusted by a second motor on the tracking arm.” He beamed enthusiastically. “Simple as an erector set. The trigger mechanism can be released by the touch of a key on the computer.”
“You online with this?” Frank inquired.
“Sad to say, online hunting is illegal in California, depriving the physically challenged of the opportunity to hunt. However, we’re operating on a closed circuit.” He turned to Frank. “You’ll see it in action opening day. Our first official hunt will be kicked off by one of our members who is wheelchair bound. He used to be a hunter until a tragic accident injured his spine.”
“What happened?” Frank inquired.
“A careless mistake on the part of a hunting companion on a game ranch in Texas. The brush was thick, and in the excitement of following a pheasant, the man discharged his shotgun without knowing precisely where his companions were.” Marshall shook his head with regret. “The man is a quadriplegic.”
The cloud of sorrow lifted, replaced by a sunny smile. “But now, thanks to our automated shooting station here at Sand Canyon, he’s once again a hunter. He’ll be using a touch wand in his mouth to sight in and fire the weapon. It only requires five keys, left and right for windage, up and down for elevation, and bang!” He grinned with enthusiasm. “Sand Canyon has provided the physically disadvantaged with the means to hunt. I think we’re ahead of our time here.”
Marshall turned to Ewan Campbell. “If anything goes wrong, we have Ewan to take care of it.” The South African’s face remained impassive.
> Frank would’ve bet money that they were originally set up for Internet hunting and Marshall had decided to put the best face on the legal prohibition against computer room sportsmen.
•
Frank found that the mine sites had been covered with thick steel cable netting, in the recommended way. It kept things from falling in, and if there were bats, they wouldn’t be trapped.
The petroglyphs in Dead Indian Wash were pristine. Too high up for the average vandal to bother with and easy to overlook. There were some early figures—bighorn sheep with differentiated hooves, two shaman figures, and a hunter grasping an atlatl and dart, unusual. Frank briefly explained how the atlatl was used, but after a few minutes, Marshall lost interest.
So Frank returned to the concerns of the BLM. “If your guests are interested in the petroglyphs, they can come up and take a look from the floor of the wash, but I’d discourage climbing up. Eventually, someone will get hurt or accidentally deface the petroglyphs.”
Marshall’s face read so what.
The South African seemed interested. “You mean they could take bighorn sheep with a throwing stick and a spear?”
“It wasn’t really a spear. The dart itself was more akin to a large arrow and very limber. It bent during the throw. The stored energy in the bent shaft added to the velocity. They even added balance weights to the throwing stick. The weights transferred more energy to the dart, and thus more speed. They were powerful, but limited in range.”
Shadows of Death Page 8