And then it was all over, except for the picture taking.

* * * * *

They arranged the tiger in the middle of Main street, laid along the middle of the street, facing east as if following the double yellow lines, rifles crossed over the striped orange and black back in an X of firepower. Sturm kneeled on one side, hand on the tiger’s head between the ears, Theo on the other side. The clowns stood behind them, with more rifles resting on hips and shoulders, post office and bank off to the right, and the park off to the left.

Frank volunteered to take the picture, but Sturm insisted Frank needed to be right up front. “Hell, wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be here.”

They got the taxidermist to take the picture. He’d walked out of his storefront, arms already loaded with supplies. Apparently, he’d been watching the final moments of the hunt. He was an old guy, with long white hair, wearing clean overalls and a starched white shirt so stiff he probably just propped it in a corner at night. It was buttoned straight up to the top button at the neck, heat be damned. He had a beard and if anything, it was whiter than the shirt, just so wiry and twisted you’d think it was pubic hair.

First he propped a wedge of Styrofoam under the tiger’s chin, lifting the head so it looked as if the tiger was looking into the camera lens. Then he slid a few wooden matchsticks into the mouth, opening it slightly. A couple balls of sticky tar anchored the lips above the canines in a listless snarl.

“Say cheese,” he said, his voice high and quivering, like the sound a handsaw makes when you hit it with a hammer. Everybody put on their best hunting face, as if they wanted to smile, but the business at hand was just too goddamn serious. The taxidermist snapped off three quick pictures and said, “Congratulations.”

“Outstanding,” Sturm said.

Chuck and Pine went to fetch Chuck’s truck, parked at the fairgrounds.

Sturm stood over the tiger, cowboy hat throwing his face into shadow. He said to the taxidermist, “Let’s butcher this old boy, I’m looking forward to tiger steaks, all right. But let’s save the hide, them teeth too. Hell, I want the whole skull intact, if possible.”

“Would you like the head preserved, so it can be hung upon a wall?” The taxidermist inquired politely, as if he was asking how Sturm wanted his shirts ironed. “Or I can leave the head connected…make a mighty fine rug.”

Sturm shook his head. “No. I want the hide preserved, yes. But what I really want is just the skull, with the teeth intact, mind you, so I can keep it on my desk. No hide, no nothing. Just teeth and bone.”

The taxidermist nodded and Frank was afraid that the beard might create sparks when it hit the starched shirt. The man said, “Of course. The teeth shall remain within the skull. I’ll wire the jaw shut, and yes, you will have a very nice desk ornament.”

Frank and Sturm dragged the tiger over to the Jeep. It took all four of them, Frank, Sturm, Theo, and the taxidermist to manage to lift the cat up onto the back of the Jeep. They tied a rope to the back legs and anchored them to the roll bar, so the animal was nearly upside down, with the head and neck draped over the side. Sturm let Theo slit the animal’s throat. Frank was glad they were taking care of the tiger right away; he didn’t want Theo getting at this one out back behind the barn.

The blood was collected in a five-gallon bucket. When the blood slowed to a couple of drips a minute, Sturm lifted the nearly full bucket with difficulty, and spilled some over the side as he dragged it back from under the tiger’s head. Using a rubber mallet, he pounded a plastic lid onto the bucket, and lifted it into the Jeep.

The taxidermist went to work. He pulled out a two-inch folding knife and slit the tiger’s skin, from the direct center of the gaping throat wound down between the back legs to the anus without spilling any of the intestines. Some blood got into the fur, but not much, Frank noted with professional interest. Everything was still held inside, inside a wet sack wrapped in white webbing. The taxidermist gracefully sliced around the tiger’s penis and lifted the bottom half of the entire sagging sack out of the animal. After another couple of drags of the knife up inside, he eased the whole sack out and dumped it into another bucket. Sturm knocked a lid on that one too.

Frank couldn’t get used to the fact that here they were, butchering an actual tiger in the middle of Main Street, in the center of town, and they hadn’t seen anyone else. Just the taxidermist. No one driving through town. No one pushing a stroller along the sidewalk. Nobody even poking their head out to see what the shooting was about. The town must have been emptier than he had first thought, and suddenly realized that he could be standing in the middle of a genuine western ghost town.

But then Pine and Chuck came back with an ice chest full of beer and Frank stopped worrying about the rest of the town. Beer was passed out and the hunt was retold, over and over. Whenever Sturm tilted his head back to laugh, Frank couldn’t help but notice how his open, curling mouth matched the scar on the back of his skull.

“Christ,” Sturm snapped his fingers. “Damn near forgot. “Chuck, you and Frank better go collect Bob. Won’t be long before the buzzards and coyotes are all over him. Think you can find him again?”

* * * * *

Chuck followed the tiger’s trail, back through town, past the Glouck’s and the gas station, back through the ranch. From there, he kept the tires in the two parallel lines mashed down through the field where the Jeep had come before. Chuck drove easily, left elbow cocked on the open window frame, steering with his fingertips, beer bottle in his right fist. He’d wedge the bottle in his crotch whenever he had to shift; this was a smooth, effortless motion, as if he’d practiced it a thousand times.

“Where you from again? Thought I heard Pine say Chicago,” Chuck said.

“Not exactly Chicago. Born in Texas, then moved up to just south of the city.”

“And now you’re in California. Hell, you been all over. Me? I been out of the county once,” Chuck said. He sounded proud, like he was thirteen and champion of the fights. Frank thought he had said country, until Chuck explained, “Went down to San Francisco once, on a field trip. What a goddamn shithole. Never had any urge to go back.”

When they passed through Sturm’s back yard, Fairfax was sitting on a pile of dirt, dangling his feet in the hole, staring at the corpse of the dog in the lawn. His face and bald spot was the color of a ripe tomato. He didn’t look up or wave as they passed.

They came upon Pine’s truck and the reinforced horse trailer. “Can we make it all the way back there through the creek?”

“I don’t think so. Gets pretty tight in spots.”

“Then we’ll have to pull him out the hard way.” Chuck steered out of the creek bed and kept following the Jeep tracks. “So. You never said. What did you think of Annie?” He grinned, but the muscles behind the smile didn’t have much of a handle on all that slack skin, so it was like two midgets trying to pull back a heavy felt theater curtain.

Frank shrugged, managed a small “Yeah,” trying to make it sound casual. His jaw was clenched and his neck felt tight. “It was nothing,” he added, letting his eyes go blank and dead.

“Nah. That girl ain’t nothing,” Chuck insisted. “She’s something, all right. I spent more than I care to remember on that mouth. Boy oh boy. She’ll—“

“There.” Frank pointed, and down below was the dead pine.

* * * * *

Vultures were already circling overhead. Bronson’s body looked like someone had gone after him for a long time with a dull axe. “Least he’s in one piece,” Chuck said. First, they tried to drag him back up the tree, but the sagging, heavy body, already slick with blood, kept rolling off the log whenever they had to go around a branch. Next, they tried dragging him up the sandy cliff, but the corpse was simply too heavy and the soil too loose.