“Morning, Dmitriy,” the tall hunter said in greeting.
Popov had to swallow before replying. “Good morning, Foster.”
“What did you think of the riding last night?”
“The Englishman who won the gold medal was marvelous, but so was his horse.”
“They pick good ones,” Hunnicutt observed, heading off to get his breakfast and returning in a few minutes. “So, you were a spy, eh?”
“Intelligence officer. Yes, that was my job for the Soviet Union.”
“Working with terrorists, John tells me.”
“That is also true. I had my assignments, and of course I had to carry them out.”
“No problem with me on that, Dmitriy. Ain’t none of those folks ever bothered me or anybody I know. Hell, I worked in Libya once for Royal Dutch Shell. Found ’em a nice little field, too, and the Libyans I worked with were okay people.” Like Popov, Hunnicutt had piled up eggs and bacon. He needed a lot of food to support his frame, Dmitriy imagined. “So what do you think of Kansas?”
“Like Russia in many ways, the broad horizons, and vast farms though yours are far more efficient. So few people growing so much grain.”
“Yeah, we’re counting on that to keep us in bread,” Hunnicutt agreed, stuffing his face. “We have enough land here to grow plenty, and all the equipment we need. I may be into that myself.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, well, everybody’s going to be assigned Project work to do. Makes sense, we all gotta pull together in the beginning anyway, but I’m really looking forward to getting me some buffalo. I even bought myself a real buffalo gun.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a company in Montana, Shiloh Arms, that makes replicas of the real buffalo rifles. Bought me one a month ago Sharps .40-90-and it shoots like a son of a bitch,” the hunter reported.
“Some of the people here will not approve,” Popov said, thinking of the vegans,clearly the most extreme of the druidic elements.
“Yeah, well, those people, if they think they can live in harmony with nature without guns, they better read up on Lewis and Clark. A grizzly bear don’t know about this friend-of-nature stuff. He just knows what he can kill and eat, and what he can’t. Sometimes you just gotta remind him what he can’t. Same thing with wolves.”
“Oh, come on, Foster,” Killgore said, sitting to join his friends. “There has never been a confirmed case of wolves killing people in America.”
Hunnicutt thought that was especially dumb. “Oh” Well, it’s kinda hard to bitch about something if a wolf shits you out his ass. Dead men tell no tales, Doc. What about Russia, Dmitriy? What about wolves there?”
“The farmers hate them, have always hated them, but the state hunters pursue them with helicopters and machine guns. That is not sporting, as you say, is it?”
“Not hardly,” Hunnicutt agreed. “You treat game with respect. It’s their land, not yours, and you have to play by the rules. That’s how you learn about them, how they live. how they think. That’s why we have the Boone and Crockett rules for big game hunting. That’s why I go in on horseback, and I pack ’em out on horseback. You have to play fair with game. But not with people, of course,” he added with a wink.
“Our vegan friends don’t understand about hunting,’ Killgore told them sadly. “I suppose they think they can eat grass and just take pictures of the life-forms.”
“That’s bullshit,” Hunnicutt told them. “Death is part of the process of life, and we’re the top predator, and the critters out there know it. Besides, ain’t nothing tastes better than elk over an open fire, guys. That’s one taste I’ll never lose, and be damned if I’ll ever give it up. If those extremists want to eat rabbit food, fine, but anybody tells me I can’t eat meat, well, there used to be a fish and-game cop who tried to tell me when I could hunt and when I couldn’t.” Hunnicutt smiled cruelly. “Well, he don’t bother anybody no more. Goddamnit, I know the way the world’s supposed to work.”
You killed a policeman over this business? Popov couldn’t ask. Nekulturny barbarian. He could just as easily have bought his meat in a supermarket. A druid with a gun, surely that was an unusually dangerous sort. He finished his breakfast and walked outside. Soon the others followed, and Hunnicutt pulled a cigar from the saddlebags he was carrying and lit it as they walked to Killgore’s Hummer.
“You have to smoke in the car?” the doctor complained, as soon as he saw the thing.
“I’ll hold it out the fuckin’ window, John. Christ, you a secondhand-smoke Nazi, too?” the hunter demanded. Then he bent to the logic of the moment and lowered the window, holding the cigar outside for the ride to the horse barn. It didn’t take long. Popov saddled the affable Buttermilk, fed her the apple from the cafeteria food line and took her outside, mounted the mare and looked around the green-amber sea that surrounded the facility. Hunnicutt came out on a horse Dmitriy had never seen, a blanket Appaloosa stallion that he took to be the hunter’s own. On a closer look-
“Is that a pistol?” Popov asked.
“It’s an M-1873 Colt’s Single-Action Army Revolver,” Foster replied, lifting it from the equally authentic Three persons holster. “The gun that won the West. Dmitriy. I never go riding without a friend,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
“Forty-five?” the Russian asked. He’d seen them in movies, but never in real life. “No, it’s a .44-40. Caliber forty-four, with forty grains of black powder. Back a hundred years ago, you used the same cartridge in your handgun and your rifle. Cheaper that way,” he explained. “And the bullet’ll kill just about anything you want. Maybe not a buffalo,” he allowed, “but damned sure a deer-”
“Or a man?”
“You bet. This is just about the deadliest cartridge ever made, Dmitriy.” Hunnicutt replaced the revolver in the leather holster. “Now, this holster isn’t authentic, really. It’s called a Three persons, named for Billy Three persons. I think. He was a U.S. Marshal back in the old days-he was a Native American, too, and quite a lawman, so the story goes. Anyway, he invented the holster late in the nineteenth century. Easier to quick-draw out of this one, see?” Foster demonstrated. It impressed Popov to see it in real life after so many movies. The American hunter even wore a wide-brim Western hat. Popov found himself liking the man despite his bombast.
“Come on, Jeremiah,” Hunnicutt said, as the other two entered the corral, and with that he led them off.
“Your horse?” Popov asked.”Oh, yeah, bought him off a Nez Perce Indian pal. Eight years old, just about right for me.” Foster smiled as they walked out the gate, a man fully in his element, Popov thought.
The rides had become somewhat repetitive. Even here there was only so much land to walk and examine, but the simple pleasure of it hadn’t changed. The four men went north this morning, slowly through the prairie-dog town, then close to the interstate highway with its heavy truck traffic.
“Where is the nearest town?” Popov asked.
“That way”-Killgore pointed-“about five miles. Not much of a town.”
“Does it have an airport?”
“Little one for private planes only,” the doctor replied. “You go east about twenty miles, there’s another town with a regional airport for puddle jumpers, so you can get to Kansas City, from there you can fly anywhere.”
“But we’ll be using our own runways for the Gs, right?”
“Yep,” Killgore confirmed. “The new ones can hop all the way to Johannesburg from right here.”
“No shit?” Hunnicutt asked. “You mean, like, we could go hunting in Africa if we want?”
“Yeah, Foster, but packing back the elephant on a horse might be a little tough.” The epidemiologist laughed.
“Well, maybe just the ivory,” the hunter replied, doing the same. “I was thinking lion and leopard, John.”
“Africans like to eat the lion’s gonads. You see, the lion is the most virile of all the animals,” Killgore told them.
“How’s that?”
“Once upon a time, a nature-film crew watched two males servicing a female who was in season. They averaged once every ten minutes for a day and a half between ’em. So, the individual males were going three times an hour for thirty-six hours. Better than I ever did.” There was another laugh that the men all shared. “Anyway, some African tribes still believe that when you eat a body part off something you killed, you inherit the attribute of that part. So, they like to eat lion balls.”
“Does it work?” Maclean asked.
Killgore liked that. “If it did, wouldn’t be many male lions left in the world, Kirk.”
“You got that one right, John!” And there was more general laughter that dawn.Popov wasn’t as amused by this discussion as his companions. He looked off at the highway, and saw a Greyhound bus pass by at about seventy miles per hour but then it slowed and stopped at an odd little square building. “What’s that?” he asked.