If the ewe had been torn off the tree, Frank would drag it back to the trailer and use the meat to feed the rest of the cats. If it was still hanging there, they’d leave it for the next cat. They’d take a few pictures of the hunter and his dead cat, careful to frame the landscape so that if the hunter wanted, he could claim he shot the cat in Africa. The taxidermist would twist a thin wire around the neck of the animal and have the hunter sign the affixed tag. Then, they’d load it into the taxidermist’s pickup and he’d take it back to his shop.

Chuck would drive back and they’d pick up the next cat and it would start all over again.

* * * * *

The Gloucks set up a thriving business selling sandwiches, burgers, sausages, deep fried burritos stuffed with eggs and meat, all remnants of the hunts, from a little stand in their front yard. The family got any leftovers from the dinners and such that Sturm served his hunters. He provided the dinner, and sometimes breakfast for the clients, but for the rest of the day, the hunters were left to fend for themselves. Girdler took to cooking lion steaks on a campfire beside his Winnebago. Sometimes, Frank saw hunters barbequing meat on their own little portable gas grills.

Four new men shot eight more lions, several hyenas, and a wolf.

Trash and animal bones littered the highway and the streets of Whitewood. Sturm sent Chuck around to all of the barns in the valley to collect any three and four wheelers left behind. Chuck found fifteen. Sturm gave all of them to the Glouck boys, and had them drive around carting two or three trashcans and keep the town clean. After that, every once in a while, Frank would see a flock of young boys tearing through the fields or the town, like a juvenile gang of Hell’s Angels Garbage Men.

And through it all, Frank saw cash slapped down onto hoods and tailgates. They gambled over everything. Mostly shooting accuracy. And they’d shoot at anything. That was a big part of the fun, shooting at whatever they felt like in town. Ever since Sturm had unloaded on the bank sign, everyone wanted to shoot up the place. They’d shoot at business signs, windows, telephone poles, street signs, mailboxes, bones in the road, anything. Sturm even arranged a ride through town in the school bus. The hunters stuck their rifles out of windows, shooting at anything and everything that caught their attention. The abandoned vehicles drew the most fire. Everybody was trying to hit the gas tank, but nobody could make a car actually explode.

They shot more cats. Another wolf. The mountain lion.

Most of the cash went to whatever hunter won, and sometimes, Sturm just flat-out couldn’t take losing and would have to step forward and shoot and win the bet fair and square. But most of the time, he stepped aside to let the hunters to gamble among themselves, but even then, ten percent always, always went into leather saddlebags that Theo hung over his shoulder.

* * * * *

Each night, when the hunts were over, Sturm would collect Frank from either the auction yard or the fields, and take him back to the vet office to get cleaned up for dinner. Theo sat in the middle, saddlebags between him and his dad. Frank would give his report on the remaining animals, and Sturm would toss him a bottle. Then, after a shower, Frank would drive himself out to the ranch for dinner.

Once, they stopped at the house for a fast change of clothes; a lioness had sprayed urine all over Sturm’s thighs. “Get that cash settled before anybody shows up for dinner,” Sturm told Theo in the driveway. “Frank’ll help you.”

Theo looked like he didn’t want Frank’s help, but he didn’t say anything. Frank followed him to the barn. They passed stall after stall of ammo, camping supplies, and beer kegs. A dusty tarp covered what appeared to be a pile of junk in the last stall. Theo jerked the tarp back, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the still air, and revealed an upturned dining room table, a jumble of rusted garden tools, some kind of primitive bicycle exercise machine, and a massive, horizontal freezer. An ancient air conditioner rested on top of the freezer.

It pained Theo to speak. “Grab that end,” he said, indicating with his chin the air conditioner. Frank helped him lift it off the freezer. They set it down next to the exercise machine. Theo opened the freezer’s lid, and inside, nestled tight, was a gunsafe. It was color of wet concrete, almost three feet wide, and nearly five feet long. You could only spin the combination wheel if you unlocked it with a key, which Theo produced from the saddlebags. “Turn around,” he said. “This ain’t none of your goddamn business.”

Frank turned and almost flinched as he found Sturm standing silently behind him. Sturm didn’t say anything, just put a finger to his lips. The meaning was clear as the sky outside. This is a privilege. You don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Frank nodded, and let his eyes drift up to the lioness hide still tacked to the roof.

Behind him, Theo dumped the cash into the gun safe and slammed it shut. He spun the combination, twisted the key, and closed the freezer lid. Frank took his end of the air conditioner and they put it back on the freezer. Then it was just a matter of dragging the tarp back over all the rest of the junk. As a final touch, Theo took a coffee can, scooped up some of the dirt in the aisle, and sifted it carefully over the tarp. When he was finished, Frank honestly couldn’t tell that the tarp had been moved at all.

“Let’s go get some dinner,” Sturm said.

DAY THIRTY

The Gloucks found two new long tables at the fairgrounds to accommodate all the new hunters. Frank, Theo, and Chuck still sat at the rickety card table at the end of the head table. Tonight, dinner was fairly basic, nothing fancy. Frank wondered if Edie and Alice were running out of recipes. The waiters brought out chilled goblets of shrimp cocktail, followed by lioness steaks, sautéed zucchini and garlic, baked potatoes stuffed with sweet onions, butter, and sour cream. Frank found out later that Sturm had forbade any kind of rice, especially wild rice, to be included in the meals.

The original hunters, Girdler and the Assholes mostly, seemed to have adopted Wally Glouck as their personal mascot ever since he had served as a referee for the sheep hunt. They’d call him over, joke with him, give him sips of their highballs, and slip him bills when they thought the mothers weren’t looking. He’d usually be quite drunk by the end of the night. Edie and Alice never said anything, but they went through his pockets before they sent him home.

One hunter, Asshole #1, in particular, was awful fond of pulling Wally close and slipping a twenty-dollar bill into the front pocket of Wally’s black jeans. He’d give Wally his glass, letting the fourteen year old take a sip. Sometimes, Asshole #1 would even tip the glass further, forcing more of the amber liquid into Wally’s mouth. The hunters would laugh, Asshole #1 laughing the hardest, as Wally coughed and grinned at the attention. Asshole #1 would pat Wally’s lower back and send him on his way to refill his drink.

Sturm watched all this but never paused, never hesitated in telling a story or a joke.

But this night, something was off. Whether Sturm was irritated at missing hitting the front left tire of a Toyota at four hundred yards in early morning fog or he’d finally had enough of Asshole #1’s behavior, no one knew. He watched Asshole #1 pour his drink down Wally’s throat, watched as Asshole #1 whispered something in Wally’s ear as he slipped a bill into the boy’s front pocket, maybe letting his hand linger a bit too long.

Sturm finished his joke, nodding at the laughter, and stood quickly, letting his hands fall to the handles of his new cowboy revolvers. He never went anywhere without them anymore. He strode the length of the table as the laughter died and jerked one of the revolvers out and shoved the barrel into Asshole #1’s right eye. He pushed hard enough that Asshole #1’s head cranked back until the entire chair toppled over. Sturm rode him all the way down, keeping that barrel sunk deep into the guy’s eye socket.