I wasn’t sure if Thanksgiving break would provide adequate time for me to get up to Denver and sort my shit out or not, but that was the original plan. Turns out plans make themselves, as I ended up leavin’ a lot sooner than intended, and stayin’ far longer than I wanted. Shit; You shoot a boy one time, ONE TIME, by accident no less, and suddenly people start actin’ like you’ve gone too far…even when they know damn well you were doin’ the right thing all along. Buncha fair weather assholes, I tell you.
Our boys were 8-1 this season, only losing to Ignacio during an away game where them locals managed to distract our place kicker by blowin’ up the porta-potty with a propane tank, just as he was about to send the game winner between the posts from an easy twenty yards out. Good thing Uncle Dave and I weren’t there, as retaliation would have been swift and harsh. But we weren’t there and that ain’t where I shot that boy. That was a week later, back at home. RE-6 District Championship game against Bayfield. Ignacio beat us, but we still had a better season and were on our way to state for sure, provided we sent Bayfield home with a loss. But they were 7-2 and had a pretty tough squad, per usual. It weren’t gonna be no walk in the park for us.
Uncle Dave backed the truck into our spot and we settled in. It was a cold November Friday night. Every one of those metal halide bulbs was crowned with its own vapor halo. Crows had come and gone already, and we hadn’t seen Hagerty since Elijah came through. I guess the message was delivered, and either I made it up to Denver to finish the riddle or them crows were gonna haunt me the rest of my days. I was still plannin’ my trip at this point in time. Hadn’t said nothin’ to the Wife yet.
Bayfield came out strong, returned our kick for nearly 60 yards and then tore our defense up for an easy touchdown after another three plays. We came back hard and heavy though, tied things up before the end of the quarter thanks to some damn good blocking from our offensive line. Things got out of hand before the half though, and Bayfield was up by 10 when everyone went to the locker room. Coach Gidds was right pissed. Boys were gonna get a talkin’ to, you could tell.
But they come back out and took that kick right back over Bayfield’s goal line, then Hal Copenhafer made a beautiful pick on defense, settin’ us up to go ahead with the third quarter winding down. Then the coyotes showed up.
I’d never seen so many all in one place. They invaded the field and were dartin’ around so quick I couldn’t keep an accurate count, but there must’ve been a dozen at least. Boys were all on the line of scrimmage, ready to take the snap when them coyotes materialized outta our endzone. Bayfield’s defensive backs and outside linebackers could obviously see them coming. Everyone on their side takin’ a stance couldn’t, and our side got completely ambushed from behind. Every single one of our boys had one or two of them sumbitches goin’ after them, latching on to their calves, their forearms, their jerseys. Bayfield’s side ran for it. The coyotes paid them no mind whatsoever. Seemed like this was personal.
“What in the sam hell’s all this then?” Uncle Dave screamed. Then, “Ollie; SHOOT ‘EM!”
I jumped out of the truck bed and grabbed the .243 from the cab. I kept a box of shells under the front seat and pocketed them until I got set up by the inch thick braided steel cable that ran the whole perimeter of the field. Then I spilled the whole box tryin’ to open it, picked up four shells off the ground and filled the magazine. I took a knee and lay that stock on top of the cable to get a nice steady stance. This was gonna require a safe-cracker’s touch, and our boys were gettin’ torn to pieces out there.
One had our fullback’s forearm in his jaws. Boy had him lifted off the ground and was punchin’ him straight in the nose with no effect. I had a good profile view and popped that bastard right through the ribcage. His mouth opened wide and he fell to the ground, leavin’ Eddy Dorfer with ten nice puncture wounds that were pumpin’ out a lotta blood.
I turned towards Bayfield’s endzone to see Lloyd McNiel’s boy, our quarterback, on the ground and twistin’ like an auger with two of them shithounds goin’ to work on both his ankles. I levered the second shell into the chamber and tried to draw a bead on that spiked and pulsating electric ball of fur and teeth. Folks in the stands were just screamin’ and waving their arms. Didn’t see how that was gonna help. Where were the cops? They shoulda been out there with their sidearms takin’ care of this business at close range. I know Clyde and Asa were there. Cruiser had been parked right by the concession stand all evening with the motor running.
I didn’t feel good about takin’ the shot, but it was either that or our quarterback was gonna lose a limb, and we were gonna lose the district championship. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again and let half of it out then held my breath. Old steadyin’ trick Owen had shown me way back when. Right elbow parallel to the ground, a nice even squeeze with all four fingers, and one coyote got flipped ass over snout. Lloyd McNiel’s boy started screamin’. Slug had gone through that shithound and into his left foot. Looked like we were gonna lose this game after all.
That second shot startled the rest of the pack though, and they went tearin’ outta there just as quick as they had shown up, minus two. All eleven of our boys out there were bleeding pretty bad. Some more than others. Lloyd McNiel’s boy was rolling around with both hands grippin’ his left foot as hard as he could, and you could see the blood all the way from the bleachers. This was a right fuckin’ mess. We were still three points down and were gonna have to field our entire second string.
EMTs and our team’s manager got everyone patched up, and they put Lloyd’s boy into the ambulance and sent him off to Cortez. Six others got stitches at the clinic in town. Everyone got tetanus boosters first thing Saturday morning. Clyde and Asa finally showed up out there, pistols drawn, wavin’ ‘em around like they was directing traffic while everyone else was workin’ away.
No one even bothered to come over and say thank you to your’s truly. Like I said before; Buncha fair weather assholes.