EVANGELINA
by JD Clapp
Colter Wall writes songs that conjure images of cowboys, the old west, and simpler times. His song Evangelina tells the tale of a failed cross-border romance between a beautiful woman from Puerto Peñasco, Baja Mexico, and a suiter from the states. The song has an Old West feel to it, suggesting men on horseback. This ‘cover’ is a retelling of that same story in a modern context.
San Quintín, Baja, Mexico, March 2019.
Evangelina admired the handsome gringo as he walked into the bar at Don Pedro’s Fish Camp. He was tall, tanned, a few years older than her. Since most gringos, men from southern California, drank too much then assumed she was the camp’s whore, Evangelina figured he’d be no different. The handsome ones are usually the worst.
Rusty sat at the mostly empty bar, took off his flat-billed Padres cap and Dixies flannel work shirt, set them on an empty stool next to him, and ran his hand through his disheveled sandy blonde hair. His feet were sore from standing 9 hours; he wished he had taken the time to swap his XTRA Tuff boots for flip flops, but right then he wanted a beer more than comfort.
Evangelina approached him from behind the bar and asked what he’d like to drink. She admired the colorful tattoo of a mermaid on his cut bicep, his shoulders broad from labor, his strong callused hands fresh with fishing line cuts.
Beat to hell from nine hours fishing in big seas on a small panga, Rusty hadn’t noticed her before she was standing two feet from him across the bar. Good god, she is…stunning.
“What can I get you?”
“How about a Modelo?”
She reached into the well, pulled out a cold Modelo, popped the cap, and placed it on the coaster in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a swig and sighing.
“Is the kitchen open yet?”
“I can fix you something in a minute. You and those drunks back there are the only people in camp, so I’m the cook, waitress, and bartender,” Evangelina began to explain, when a voice bellowed, “Senorita, another round por favor!” followed by some muted mention of “bonita chee chees” and salacious laughter. Evangelina grabbed Rusty some chips and salsa before she made her way to the drunk’s table.
Rusty looked back at the group of five gringos at a corner table covered in empty bottles and shot glasses. Rusty glared. Rude assholes. The two older men and three guys in their early 20s, perhaps their grown sons, looked like they stepped out of a high-end marlin fishing catalog. Probably rich douchebags from Orange County. Rusty shook his head, knowing he was too whipped for a five-on-one dust up.
Rusty drank a few more Modelos but held off from ordering food until the drunks in back finally wandered off to bed. He had spent countless hours in the Cantina. The thatched roof, raw beams, and decaying fish mounts screamed Baja. He loved that Don Pedro built it himself and that not a single joint was true.
“Thanks for being patient. I appreciate it. Now, what can I fix you?” she asked with a tired smile.
“Whatever is easiest. Looks like those pendejos kept you running.”
She chuckled and headed to the kitchen. Eventually she returned with a whole fried calico bass, rice, beans, and fresh handmade tortillas.
“You probably haven’t eaten yet. Please join me, have a seat,” Rusty said, moving his hat and shirt from the stool next to him. She gave him a tired smile, came around the bar, and sat next to him.
***
The next morning, Rusty’s phone alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. Between gusts of wind he could hear the obnoxious group from the bar loading their Range Rover and Jeep out front. Blown out today. Shit. He stepped out of his small cinder block room onto the dirt parking lot. Sand blasted his face with a gust. His breath merged into foggy salt-tainted mist. He looked up and could make out a sliver of moon flashing between fast-moving storm clouds. No fishing today. Maybe no fishing for a few days. Shit.
Before breakfast, Rusty went to visit his amigo, Pedro Jr. Now both in their early thirties, they had met seventeen years ago on Rusty’s first visit to the camp with his father. The two had fished together numerous times over the years. Rusty went into the little office next to the camp’s bar and kitchen without knocking. He found Pedro Jr. smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee, and yelling at someone over the phone. Pedro Jr. smiled, rolled his eyes, and motioned for him to sit down while continuing his rant. Having grown up in San Diego and spending hundreds of hours fishing and off-roading Baja’s network of desolate dirt trails and beaches, Rusty had a solid grasp of Spanish. Pedro Jr. was yelling at his father about some fire that had burned up the kitchen in the Don Pedro’s house up in Ensenada.
“Sorry about that, Russ. My old man is going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop trying to cook. Stubborn old mule is too cheap to hire help. Now I got to go up there and deal with that shit.”
After catching up a bit, they pulled up the marine forecast on Pedro’s laptop—the only thing that had any signal in the Camp—and determined the next fishing window was at least 36 hours away.
“You mind if I extend my stay a few days? I’ll fish Friday and Saturday and head home Sunday.”
“The camp is yours my friend. We have nobody booked for the next two weeks. Not many gringos willing to fish in these early spring swells. I probably won’t get back here before Saturday. You and Julio can work out when to fish. Evangelina will be here to cook for you. She’s living in number seven if you need anything.”
“What’s her story?” Rusty asked.
Pedro Jr. grinned.
“Those girls from Puerto Peñasco…” he shook his head, smiled, and chuckled, “muy bonita, muy peligroso. Be careful, my friend. She breaks hearts…”
***
Rusty and Evangelina spent the next two days talking, cooking, and watching the storm waves build in the back bay. The chemistry between them built. She found him almost perfect— respectful, handsome, resourceful. He understood and seemed to love Baja and the culture. But…he lived in el norte.
In turn, Rusty found her beautiful, sexy in a quiet way. He admired her confidence and intelligence. She was more assertive than most women he’d met in Baja, but not brash like many of the entitled women he’d grown tired of dating in San Diego. If we lived in the same place, she could be the one…
They waited until the third night to have sex. Neither had fucked that long, with such passion before. After a brief sleep, Evangelina woke Rusty, handed him a water bottle, and asked what he wanted for breakfast. He looked at her naked body backlit from the dim gray sky coming through the thin window shade. He slugged the water and pulled her naked body back into bed. “You,” he answered. They stayed in bed until late afternoon.
The weather finally allowed Rusty to fish on Friday. In the gray light, Julio bumped the Panga to the pier and Rusty jumped down into the bow. It was dead calm after the storm.
“Hola, amigo! You all rested and ready to pull on some black seabass?” Julio asked.
“I’m ready to pull on some blacks, but I spent the last couple days with that firecracker bar maid of yours. I’m hardly rested.”
Julio laughed.
On Friday, Rusty returned from fishing and found Evangelina in a heated argument with a young man at the bar. He was Mexican, good looking, and based on his business suit, Rusty guessed upper class. Rusty sat at the far end of the bar. After a few minutes, the man left, muttering to himself.
“Everything ok? Rusty asked.
“Yeah. He is my old boyfriend. He wanted the bracelet he bought me last Christmas back. Cheap bastard.”
Rusty got the rundown on Evangelina’s former boyfriend, Juan “Chuy” Chavez: son of the local police chief, politically connected, a lawyer working and living in Ensenada, full of himself. But no immediate threat to her safety…
April 2019 through COVID-19 Border Closures
Rusty returned to Don Pedro’s Fish Camp seven times over the next few months. On the days she worked, Rusty fished then sat in the bar and chatted with Evangelina until she got off. On her days off they’d visit the wine country below Ensenada or eat birria at their favorite roadside stand, then drive into Ensenada to shop and have a few drinks. That September, she took Rusty to meet her parents in Puerto Peñasco.
Rusty investigated buying a place in the hills above San Quintín and moving his small boat restoration business south. Baja had a gold mine of classic fishing boats moldering away in storage yards, waiting for a set of skilled hands to give them a second life. Life would be cheaper. We could live together. It could work.
COVID-19 Lockdown
Like the rest of the world, Evangelina and Rusty slowly adapted to pandemic life. In the early months of the shutdown, they texted several times a day. The internet and wireless service in San Quintín precluded much else. After a few sexting sessions, they grew bored with it and stopped.
With the U.S./Mexico border closed, they had few options to stay connected. They did their best to keep things fresh, but for them, like the rest of the world, every day was the same. Time dragged on.
Around a year into the pandemic, Rusty noticed a change. Evangelina’s texts grew terse, less frequent. She became slow to respond.
Fearing she had fallen into a depression, Rusty tried to visit her twice, using business as his excuse to cross into Mexico. Both times, he was turned back.
Then one morning he woke to a text that broke him: I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stand being alone any longer. I tried. I held out as long as I could, but this might not ever end. I can’t be alone. I moved in with Chuy. I will always love you, but this is goodbye.
He tried calling her. The number was no longer in service.
San Diego to San Quintín, Baja, 2021
Rusty spent months wondering, depressed, and angry. He drank too much for a bit. Eventually, he adopted the practice he had used through the entire pandemic; he accepted the breakup as an immutable act of nature, best to accept, let go, move on. Still, he wanted closure.
In late spring he decided to visit Pedro Jr., do some yellowtail and white sea bass fishing. He had to do it. He loved Baja too much to stay away forever. He’d stop at Don Pedro’s house on his way down, ask where he could find Evangelina in Ensenada. He’d find her, say a proper goodbye, wish her the best.
When Rusty crossed into Mexico, the Mexican border guard took his passport and scanned it. Rusty became concerned when he saw the man make a call on his cell before coming back. What now? I bet I need a vaccine card…The guard asked where he was going. Rusty told him San Quintín and pointed to his rods in the back. The guard waved him through.
He took the Tecate crossing after deciding the rural route would give him more time to think. He liked driving through the hills in his old Bronco. It brought back memories of his wilder days.
After he crossed, he stopped at his favorite street-side stand and ate tacos and washed them down with Tecate’s home cerveza, served in the can with lime and salt. He bought a sixer of Modelo and two water bottles and put them in the cooler on the passenger seat. He drove toward the coast.
He drove through the rolling hills headed south and west. He clicked on his Bluetooth speaker and played his “old Mexico” playlist—Colter Wall’s Kate McCannon came on. As he sang along, the irony wasn’t lost on him.
He opened his windows, letting the warm soothing breeze bathe him. He loved that the air along this stretch always had the faint smell of charcoal smoke and the ocean. He popped a road beer from the cooler. He considered it all. As he took in the passing foothills, he realized he had no need for closure. Irish goodbye. Just move on, cowboy.
A mile up, he took the dirt road that would bypass Ensenada on the way to San Quintín. He would take the same route home. He’d take this route next time, every time.
***
Rusty pulled into the first set of San Quintín’s strip malls just before dark. He stopped for gas and to pick up some boat snacks for the next morning. As he was finishing at the pump, a new black Mercedes pulled into the station. The window rolled down to reveal Chuy’s smug mug. He could see Evangelina in the passenger seat, pulling at Chuy’s arm and turning her face away. The men stared at each other for a moment. Rusty nodded and gave a slight “I don’t want trouble” wave. Fuck this. Chuy rolled up the window and sped off.
The Policia pulled Rusty over a half-mile down the road. Fuck you, Chuy! They cuffed him and put him into the back of a cruiser. One of the cops got into Rusty’s Bronco and drove away.
“Let me call Pedro Jr. or Don Pedro. I don’t want trouble; I came to fish.”
“You got trouble amigo. Lots of it.”
“I didn’t know they would be here. Seriously. I’m just here to fish,” Rusty said, remaining as calm as possible, but feeling his rage building.
“But he knew you’d be here. And if you are still breathing tomorrow, I’d go home and never cross that border again.”
Rusty stayed quiet, now wondering if this was going to end with him in a shallow grave.
After a short drive, the police cruiser pulled onto a dirt road and headed into the hills. This is not good. Fuck. They pulled into a small set of out buildings at what looked to be an abandoned cattle ranch. His Bronco was parked out front.
The cop led Rusty into a small cinder block building. Inside a single light bulb hung over a rusty metal chair. There were blood stains on the floor. Rusty had just enough time to see that the small table next to the chair held a car battery hooked to jumper cables, sponges, several bottles of soda water, an electric drill, and some old tools before a blow to the back of his head knocked him out.
Rusty woke suddenly, pain seared his sinuses, soda water soaked his shirt. He was still cuffed, and zip tied to the chair. He tried to say something but choked on vomit. Chuy let him settle before he went to work.
***
As torture went, Rusty knew he got off easy. He looked in the rearview mirror of his ’96 Bronco – his left eye was already turning black and swelling shut. His upper lip was split, and his front tooth was missing. His ribs ached from Chuy’s blows with a PVC pipe. Rusty’s nose and throat burned.
He started his old truck and headed north. The men stood in the twilight between the torture chamber and his truck smoking, the glow of their butts like little floating demons. They watched him go, laughing and waving. Nobody followed him.
Rusty tried to settle as he drove. He rolled down the windows to let in the warm desert air, as he turned off Mexico 1 onto a dirt road he’d driven a dozen times, that would take him back to Tecate over a series of jeep roads. Stay off the main roads…They still might kill me. His torn shirt, wet with the club soda they had poured up his nose and blood from his lip and gums, began to dry in the night breeze. Four miles up the truck trail, Rusty stopped to change his shirt. He fished a Modelo from his cooler and held it to his lip a while before he downed it. He grabbed another, got back into the cab, scrounged a stale pre-rolled joint from the glove box, lit it. I need to calm the fuck down. I can lose it when I get across the border…He looked at his watch—9:20 p.m. Rusty, knowing the drive would take eight hours, headed north.
The inevitable questions ran through his mind: Did Evangelina know? Did she beg Chuy not to kill me? Did Pedro Jr. know? Rusty knew he’d never have the answers to these questions. All he really knew was the pandemic took Evangelina from him; Chuy took Baja. He’d miss them both.
HUNTING BREMMER’S MESA
by JD Clapp
For much of the rural world, hunting is more than sport or a means of procuring meat; it’s a way to learn about life, a tradition often passed on from old men to boys. In the 1950s, Robert Ruark published a series of fictional stories in Field and Stream Magazine based on his time hunting with his grandfather as a boy. Ruark eventually published these stories as a collection titled, The Old Man and the Boy (Henry Holt, 1957). Set in contemporary Colorado, Hunting Bremmer’s Mesa is a modern riff on Ruark’s classic rural coming-of-age stories.
The kid finished feeding and watering Bremmer’s goats and horses. He pulled on his work coat to ward off the chill of 17 degrees. His Carhartt hoodie was enough when he was slinging hay. The old man came out of his ramshackle abode to grab firewood and nodded toward the kid. The kid had noticed Bremmer was no longer up before the sun every day. A couple of years ago, when he first started working for Bremmer, the old man was strong as a horse. Not so much anymore. The kid worried for him.
The kid waved. Bremmer motioned him over.
The morning sun in his face, Bremmer took a step back into the shade of the rusted corrugated porch roof and bumped a deer rack hung on an old nail. The kid handed Bremmer his phone to show him a picture of a deer. Bremmer grumbled something, then looked at the kid’s phone screen for a beat.
“Yup. I seen him just yesterday. He’s been on some hot does below the mesa on the south end. He lives up in them thick cedars bordering Miller’s place,” Bremmer said, handing the kid back his phone like it was a piece of cow shit.
“Can I hunt him?” the kid asked.
Bremmer took off his soiled John Deere baseball hat and ran his hand through his long gray, greasy hair. He scratched his month-old beard, then his balls through his Carhartt bibs. He looked hard at the kid. Goddammit. I should be sayin’ no or trying to run that deer off into the Miller’s place.
“You want him for the meat or the head?” Bremmer asked.
“Both…but it’s a big rack.”
“Deer like that only causes problems these days. Trespassing. Poaching. News people…”
“We don’t need to show him off if we get him. We can hang the rack on your shed. Plus, you were saying you wanted to lay up some meat. Lot of backstrap on that deer,” the kid said.
Bremmer smiled. Shit, the kid is just like me. He could bargain with the devil and come out on top. Bremmer liked the “fuck you” symbolism of hanging a homemade skull mount of the state record muley over the door to his shanty, exposed to the weather. And the kid wasn’t lying—he also could use some more meat for the pot.
“O.K. You can hunt him. But only you. You kill him, I’ll help you drag him out and do the skinning and we’ll split up the meat. You’ll need to help me make jerky and can some meat, too,” Bremmer said.
The kid stuck out his hand and Bremmer took it. Bremmer shook his head, and spit chew juice onto the dirt.
As the kid was climbing back into his truck, Bremmer called to him.
“Lock them gates when you leave and don’t show nobody that picture of that sombitch deer, or I’ll have every goddamn guide in town trying to hunt him.”
***
Bremmer threw a log on the wood stove in his shack. The structure was originally the workshop of his father’s cattle ranch before the fire of 1978 burned everything but a couple of outbuildings to the ground. Bremmer just took what he could salvage, went down to Grand Junction, bought some supplies, and moved into the shack. He’d lived there ever since. He’d never even considered rebuilding the main house. Bremmer often told the kid he was twice-over rich. “This ranch is worth about seven million, but that’s worth less than the fact I live simple and don’t need to suffer any fools with all this space to myself.”
Bremmer walked out to the old truck bed camper sitting on jacks behind the shack. He was tickled that he had traded for the camper with Lukas Swenson in exchange for letting him hunt a mountain lion with dogs on the mesa last season. Hell, I’d let the fool kill that tomcat for free after he killed four of my goats.
He climbed in and looked at his cache of food—25 pounds of beans, 25 pounds of rice, some canned deer, 10 pounds of flour, five gallons of frying oil, 10 pounds of coffee. He checked that the roof was sound. He saw mice hadn’t found their way in. Good. Got plenty in the way of staples for winter, and if the kid whacks that sombitch deer, I’ll be eating real good.
Bremmer went back into the shack and made some cowboy coffee on the woodstove. He ran his hand through his scraggly white beard thinking about the deer and the kid as he sipped from his warm mug. I’d like to do something for that kid now, instead of waiting till I take a dirt nap.
He put on a flannel, grabbed his .45-70 Henry, and headed out to saddle his horse. I need to find that deer’s bed.
***
The kid made his way back to the Ace Hardware in Collbran. He asked Pauline for the last box of .234 ammo.
“You find a good deer?”
“I seen a few shooter four-by-fours. Nothing special, but I should fill my third season tag,” the kid said.
Lukas Swenson was standing nearby looking at a chainsaw. He looked at the kid, knowing he was the only person in the valley Bremmer would let hunt deer on his place. Lukas considered his options.
As the kid was getting into his truck, Lukas came up to the window and knocked. The kid rolled down the window.
“Hey, Billy the Kid! How’s it going my man?” The kid nodded.
“Listen, I have two high-roller clients coming in next week with deer tags. I got one decent buck patterned but need another one. I’ll give you $500 in cash if you find a shoot for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Lukas. I’ll text you if I find something good,” the kid said.
“You seen anything moving up at Bremmer’s yet?”
“Some forkies and four-by-fours…nothing special.”
Lukas nodded, thinking the kid was holding out on him.
“I’m going to site-in my rifle up at my folk’s place. I’ll let you know if anything is moving out that way,” the kid said as he pulled away. Lukas waved.
As soon as the kid turned onto PE road, Lukas jumped in his rig and headed for the fire road leading to the BLM land above Bremmer’s mesa. His Leica spotting scope and Nikon rested on the passenger seat of his Ford Raptor.
***
Bremmer saw the buck headed into the cedar stand just before sunset. Goddamn…Even with his naked eye, at 200 yards he could see the massive rack was atypical. He counted 11 points and a bunch of stickers. Jeeeesus. I ain’t never seen nothing like that sombitch in all my years! The beast had crowns like a New Zealand red stag, and a massive chocolate-colored drop tine.
As the sun dipped below the peak to the west, Bremmer caught a glint of light way up on the mesa ridge on the BLM side. Well, fuck me…That’s goddam Lukas…
***
Lukas hit send. His text and several clear photos taken through his spotting scope of the possible world record mule deer went to M. Morgan Downs, owner of International Fracking Corporation, and Lukas’s sole billionaire client. Less than a minute later, M. Morgan Downs replied. The man was always offering huge paydays for world record animals or mythical trophies. He’d recently offered Lukas $2,000,000 cash if he found him a wild piebald bull elk.
Lukas’s phone pinged. The text read: Lukas! If this is photoshopped you’re a dead man. If it’s real, get me a tag and I will be there in a day. I’ll pay $50K to hunt him. An extra $50K if we see him. A million if I kill him and he’s a state or world record. LMK ASAP.
Lukas already had a landowner tag lined up for $7,000. He made a call, bought the tag, and texted Downs back: Pack your bags. It’s on.
Lukas group-texted his brother and old man: Meet tonight at pop’s farm. Massive third-season payday coming our way. Need you both Saturday morning.
***
Bremmer got the old Dodge Ram Cummins diesel started after a few tries. He did so weekly, when he remembered, then drove a couple miles on his land to keep everything lubed. He preferred riding his horse if he could, but he liked having the truck around just in case. He drove to the kid’s cabin on the edge of town.
Normally, the kid would have been shocked to see him, but he figured Lukas had already gone out to Bremmer’s on a hunch and offered big money for the deer.
“We got a problem,” Bremmer said, before the big truck’s engine completely sputtered out.
Bremmer told the kid he’d seen Lukas on the ridge looking for the deer; the kid told Bremmer what happened at Ace.
“Alright, shit-for-brains ain’t poaching that deer on my land. I got an idea.”
***
The day before the season started, an hour before dawn, the kid and Bremmer hiked out to a series of shallow arroyos between the wall of the mesa and the cedar stand on the foothill where the monster buck bedded. They set up just below a small rise that had a clear view of three game trails leading into the cedars. Bremmer began glassing the mesa at gray light. The kid watched the hillside.
“You think we are good shooting a day early if we see him?” The kid asked.
“Shit. My land, my damn deer. Seasons is for guides and public land,” Bremmer answered.
“You really think Lukas and some rich guy are going to try to poach this deer?” The kid asked.
Bremmer said, “yup,” without lowering his binoculars. The kid saw the deer first. “Holy shit. There he is coming down the top trail.” Bremmer shifted his position slightly, then glassed until he saw the deer.
“Alright, when he steps between those two scrub bushes on that little flat, shoot him.”
“About 200 yards?” the kid asked. Bremmer nodded.
A minute later, a shot rang out across the valley.
***
Bremmer skinned the monster deer so that the cape was longer than normal. He carefully removed the head at the neck, carried it to his small work shack, and set to work. The kid quartered the deer and hung the quarters on the old meat hooks fixed to the eaves of Bremmer’s shack roof. He cleaned the silver skin with a finely honed filet knife, then steaked the backstraps and tenders with an old butcher’s knife. Finally, the kid went to work cleaning the heart and liver and trimming stew-size chunks of meat from the ribs and neck for canning.
The kid was washing the blood off his hands when Bremmer returned from his work shed to show him his handiwork.
“Well, goddamn! That is some handiwork right there,” the kid said, laughing.
Bremmer had secured the deer head and cape to two five-gallon buckets with bailing wire, and stuffed straw between the hide and the buckets. Bremmer explained, “We’ll set him up like he’s bedded, make sure only his head and back are showing. I’ll prop his head with sticks. They’ll get sick of waiting for him to stand and shoot him. You get the rest,” Bremmer said with a wide chew-stained grin.
“Ok, now you call that fool Lukas and tell him you couldn’t find him anything worth shooting. Tell him me and you are headed to Crestone for a few days to pick up a couple ponies.”
***
Before dawn on a frigid opening morning of the third rifle season, Lukas’s old man and brother, Conrad, sat in their side-by-side near the fire gate between a strip of BLM land and Bremmer’s fence line. Lukas and M. Morgan Downs sat atop the mesa in a brush blind, glassing does and a couple smaller bucks out on the arroyos.
“Where the hell is he?” Downs asked.
“You keep your eye on the herd. He’s probably in one of the small arroyos. I’ll start glassing the cedars.”
It took Lukas a while to spot Bremmer’s bedded decoy. From his vantage he could see the rack, a bit of the head, and a clear patch of neck and back. The deer looked to be bedded for the day.
“I got him. He’s 322 yards and bedded. You have a neck shot now, or we can wait to see what he does.”
Downs was not the type of man to wait or miss an opportunity; he jacked a shell into the magazine of his custom Blazer .300 WSM, lined the deer’s neck in the crosshairs, and touched off. As the shot echoed across the mesa in the morning sun, the decoy’s head keeled over as the unseen sticks crumpled on the 180-grain slug’s impact.
From behind their boulder hiding place a hundred yards above the decoy, the kid smiled and Bremmer chuckled. Then they heard side-by-sides fire up.
***
When Lukas and Downs made it to the clearing just below the decoy, they were stunned to find Conrad and Lukas’s old man kneeling with their hands behind their heads. Bremmer stood behind them with his Henry. The kid stepped forward and leveled a 12 gauge at Downs and Lukas. He pumped in a shell as Lukas’s face went pale.
“Mister. If I were you, I’d set that rifle down really slow. You boys are trespassing and poaching,” Bremmer said to Downs.
Downs set the rifle down and Lukas started ranting.
“Bremmer you son of a bitch. Put that gun down. This man paid good money to shoot a deer you were going to let die of old age. We can work something out,” Lukas said.
Bremmer spat chew and smiled.
Downs spoke next, “Sir, I apologize. My guide here told me we had permission to hunt this deer on your land. I am happy to make this right. How does a $10,000 trespass fee sound?”
Bremmer laughed. Lukas glared at Downs who knew damn well they were poaching.
“$10,000? Hell, that is a state record deer. Maybe a world record, not that I give two shits. I know you high-rollers pay hundreds of thousands for a deer like that,” Bremmer said.
Wanting to end the standoff before he got shot by the old man or kid, Downs quickly upped the offer to $150,000. Then he offered another $50,000 for the cape and head.
Bremmer had anticipated this. The night before, during his old man restlessness when sleep escaped him, he thought of the kid.
“Well sir, make it an even $200,000 and I’ll take you up on that. Hell, I won’t even report old Lukas here and his dumb-shit brother and Pa to Fish and Game. But the head belongs to the kid over there. He shot him.”
“Head ain’t for sale, Mister. That deer belongs here,” the kid said.
Bremmer smiled. Goddamn, I like this kid.
***
On Thanksgiving Day, the kid stood on a ladder and hung the deer’s skull and antlers over Bremmer’s shed door. Bremmer sat on a stool watching, eating a plate of turkey and all the fixings the kid’s mom had sent.
“Deer looks fine right there, I’d say. Why don’t you text ol’ Lukas a photo of it?” They both laughed.
On Black Friday, Bremmer and the kid drove down to Grand Junction and had breakfast at the IHOP. When they finished, Bremmer drove them to the Farmer’s Savings and Loan. Bremmer handed the kid a check for $200,000. “For your future.”
The kid looked at him, started to say something, but Bremmer waved him off. The kid put out his hand. Bremmer shook it.
They drove back up the mountain in silence. Bremmer had a Merle Haggard CD playing. The kid had grown to like the old shit Bremmer listened to. Bremmer broke the silence. “Gonna snow tonight.” He continued, “We better get them goats and horses put up when we get back.” The kid nodded.
by JD Clapp
Colter Wall writes songs that conjure images of cowboys, the old west, and simpler times. His song Evangelina tells the tale of a failed cross-border romance between a beautiful woman from Puerto Peñasco, Baja Mexico, and a suiter from the states. The song has an Old West feel to it, suggesting men on horseback. This ‘cover’ is a retelling of that same story in a modern context.
San Quintín, Baja, Mexico, March 2019.
Evangelina admired the handsome gringo as he walked into the bar at Don Pedro’s Fish Camp. He was tall, tanned, a few years older than her. Since most gringos, men from southern California, drank too much then assumed she was the camp’s whore, Evangelina figured he’d be no different. The handsome ones are usually the worst.
Rusty sat at the mostly empty bar, took off his flat-billed Padres cap and Dixies flannel work shirt, set them on an empty stool next to him, and ran his hand through his disheveled sandy blonde hair. His feet were sore from standing 9 hours; he wished he had taken the time to swap his XTRA Tuff boots for flip flops, but right then he wanted a beer more than comfort.
Evangelina approached him from behind the bar and asked what he’d like to drink. She admired the colorful tattoo of a mermaid on his cut bicep, his shoulders broad from labor, his strong callused hands fresh with fishing line cuts.
Beat to hell from nine hours fishing in big seas on a small panga, Rusty hadn’t noticed her before she was standing two feet from him across the bar. Good god, she is…stunning.
“What can I get you?”
“How about a Modelo?”
She reached into the well, pulled out a cold Modelo, popped the cap, and placed it on the coaster in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a swig and sighing.
“Is the kitchen open yet?”
“I can fix you something in a minute. You and those drunks back there are the only people in camp, so I’m the cook, waitress, and bartender,” Evangelina began to explain, when a voice bellowed, “Senorita, another round por favor!” followed by some muted mention of “bonita chee chees” and salacious laughter. Evangelina grabbed Rusty some chips and salsa before she made her way to the drunk’s table.
Rusty looked back at the group of five gringos at a corner table covered in empty bottles and shot glasses. Rusty glared. Rude assholes. The two older men and three guys in their early 20s, perhaps their grown sons, looked like they stepped out of a high-end marlin fishing catalog. Probably rich douchebags from Orange County. Rusty shook his head, knowing he was too whipped for a five-on-one dust up.
Rusty drank a few more Modelos but held off from ordering food until the drunks in back finally wandered off to bed. He had spent countless hours in the Cantina. The thatched roof, raw beams, and decaying fish mounts screamed Baja. He loved that Don Pedro built it himself and that not a single joint was true.
“Thanks for being patient. I appreciate it. Now, what can I fix you?” she asked with a tired smile.
“Whatever is easiest. Looks like those pendejos kept you running.”
She chuckled and headed to the kitchen. Eventually she returned with a whole fried calico bass, rice, beans, and fresh handmade tortillas.
“You probably haven’t eaten yet. Please join me, have a seat,” Rusty said, moving his hat and shirt from the stool next to him. She gave him a tired smile, came around the bar, and sat next to him.
***
The next morning, Rusty’s phone alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. Between gusts of wind he could hear the obnoxious group from the bar loading their Range Rover and Jeep out front. Blown out today. Shit. He stepped out of his small cinder block room onto the dirt parking lot. Sand blasted his face with a gust. His breath merged into foggy salt-tainted mist. He looked up and could make out a sliver of moon flashing between fast-moving storm clouds. No fishing today. Maybe no fishing for a few days. Shit.
Before breakfast, Rusty went to visit his amigo, Pedro Jr. Now both in their early thirties, they had met seventeen years ago on Rusty’s first visit to the camp with his father. The two had fished together numerous times over the years. Rusty went into the little office next to the camp’s bar and kitchen without knocking. He found Pedro Jr. smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee, and yelling at someone over the phone. Pedro Jr. smiled, rolled his eyes, and motioned for him to sit down while continuing his rant. Having grown up in San Diego and spending hundreds of hours fishing and off-roading Baja’s network of desolate dirt trails and beaches, Rusty had a solid grasp of Spanish. Pedro Jr. was yelling at his father about some fire that had burned up the kitchen in the Don Pedro’s house up in Ensenada.
“Sorry about that, Russ. My old man is going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop trying to cook. Stubborn old mule is too cheap to hire help. Now I got to go up there and deal with that shit.”
After catching up a bit, they pulled up the marine forecast on Pedro’s laptop—the only thing that had any signal in the Camp—and determined the next fishing window was at least 36 hours away.
“You mind if I extend my stay a few days? I’ll fish Friday and Saturday and head home Sunday.”
“The camp is yours my friend. We have nobody booked for the next two weeks. Not many gringos willing to fish in these early spring swells. I probably won’t get back here before Saturday. You and Julio can work out when to fish. Evangelina will be here to cook for you. She’s living in number seven if you need anything.”
“What’s her story?” Rusty asked.
Pedro Jr. grinned.
“Those girls from Puerto Peñasco…” he shook his head, smiled, and chuckled, “muy bonita, muy peligroso. Be careful, my friend. She breaks hearts…”
***
Rusty and Evangelina spent the next two days talking, cooking, and watching the storm waves build in the back bay. The chemistry between them built. She found him almost perfect— respectful, handsome, resourceful. He understood and seemed to love Baja and the culture. But…he lived in el norte.
In turn, Rusty found her beautiful, sexy in a quiet way. He admired her confidence and intelligence. She was more assertive than most women he’d met in Baja, but not brash like many of the entitled women he’d grown tired of dating in San Diego. If we lived in the same place, she could be the one…
They waited until the third night to have sex. Neither had fucked that long, with such passion before. After a brief sleep, Evangelina woke Rusty, handed him a water bottle, and asked what he wanted for breakfast. He looked at her naked body backlit from the dim gray sky coming through the thin window shade. He slugged the water and pulled her naked body back into bed. “You,” he answered. They stayed in bed until late afternoon.
The weather finally allowed Rusty to fish on Friday. In the gray light, Julio bumped the Panga to the pier and Rusty jumped down into the bow. It was dead calm after the storm.
“Hola, amigo! You all rested and ready to pull on some black seabass?” Julio asked.
“I’m ready to pull on some blacks, but I spent the last couple days with that firecracker bar maid of yours. I’m hardly rested.”
Julio laughed.
On Friday, Rusty returned from fishing and found Evangelina in a heated argument with a young man at the bar. He was Mexican, good looking, and based on his business suit, Rusty guessed upper class. Rusty sat at the far end of the bar. After a few minutes, the man left, muttering to himself.
“Everything ok? Rusty asked.
“Yeah. He is my old boyfriend. He wanted the bracelet he bought me last Christmas back. Cheap bastard.”
Rusty got the rundown on Evangelina’s former boyfriend, Juan “Chuy” Chavez: son of the local police chief, politically connected, a lawyer working and living in Ensenada, full of himself. But no immediate threat to her safety…
April 2019 through COVID-19 Border Closures
Rusty returned to Don Pedro’s Fish Camp seven times over the next few months. On the days she worked, Rusty fished then sat in the bar and chatted with Evangelina until she got off. On her days off they’d visit the wine country below Ensenada or eat birria at their favorite roadside stand, then drive into Ensenada to shop and have a few drinks. That September, she took Rusty to meet her parents in Puerto Peñasco.
Rusty investigated buying a place in the hills above San Quintín and moving his small boat restoration business south. Baja had a gold mine of classic fishing boats moldering away in storage yards, waiting for a set of skilled hands to give them a second life. Life would be cheaper. We could live together. It could work.
COVID-19 Lockdown
Like the rest of the world, Evangelina and Rusty slowly adapted to pandemic life. In the early months of the shutdown, they texted several times a day. The internet and wireless service in San Quintín precluded much else. After a few sexting sessions, they grew bored with it and stopped.
With the U.S./Mexico border closed, they had few options to stay connected. They did their best to keep things fresh, but for them, like the rest of the world, every day was the same. Time dragged on.
Around a year into the pandemic, Rusty noticed a change. Evangelina’s texts grew terse, less frequent. She became slow to respond.
Fearing she had fallen into a depression, Rusty tried to visit her twice, using business as his excuse to cross into Mexico. Both times, he was turned back.
Then one morning he woke to a text that broke him: I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stand being alone any longer. I tried. I held out as long as I could, but this might not ever end. I can’t be alone. I moved in with Chuy. I will always love you, but this is goodbye.
He tried calling her. The number was no longer in service.
San Diego to San Quintín, Baja, 2021
Rusty spent months wondering, depressed, and angry. He drank too much for a bit. Eventually, he adopted the practice he had used through the entire pandemic; he accepted the breakup as an immutable act of nature, best to accept, let go, move on. Still, he wanted closure.
In late spring he decided to visit Pedro Jr., do some yellowtail and white sea bass fishing. He had to do it. He loved Baja too much to stay away forever. He’d stop at Don Pedro’s house on his way down, ask where he could find Evangelina in Ensenada. He’d find her, say a proper goodbye, wish her the best.
When Rusty crossed into Mexico, the Mexican border guard took his passport and scanned it. Rusty became concerned when he saw the man make a call on his cell before coming back. What now? I bet I need a vaccine card…The guard asked where he was going. Rusty told him San Quintín and pointed to his rods in the back. The guard waved him through.
He took the Tecate crossing after deciding the rural route would give him more time to think. He liked driving through the hills in his old Bronco. It brought back memories of his wilder days.
After he crossed, he stopped at his favorite street-side stand and ate tacos and washed them down with Tecate’s home cerveza, served in the can with lime and salt. He bought a sixer of Modelo and two water bottles and put them in the cooler on the passenger seat. He drove toward the coast.
He drove through the rolling hills headed south and west. He clicked on his Bluetooth speaker and played his “old Mexico” playlist—Colter Wall’s Kate McCannon came on. As he sang along, the irony wasn’t lost on him.
He opened his windows, letting the warm soothing breeze bathe him. He loved that the air along this stretch always had the faint smell of charcoal smoke and the ocean. He popped a road beer from the cooler. He considered it all. As he took in the passing foothills, he realized he had no need for closure. Irish goodbye. Just move on, cowboy.
A mile up, he took the dirt road that would bypass Ensenada on the way to San Quintín. He would take the same route home. He’d take this route next time, every time.
***
Rusty pulled into the first set of San Quintín’s strip malls just before dark. He stopped for gas and to pick up some boat snacks for the next morning. As he was finishing at the pump, a new black Mercedes pulled into the station. The window rolled down to reveal Chuy’s smug mug. He could see Evangelina in the passenger seat, pulling at Chuy’s arm and turning her face away. The men stared at each other for a moment. Rusty nodded and gave a slight “I don’t want trouble” wave. Fuck this. Chuy rolled up the window and sped off.
The Policia pulled Rusty over a half-mile down the road. Fuck you, Chuy! They cuffed him and put him into the back of a cruiser. One of the cops got into Rusty’s Bronco and drove away.
“Let me call Pedro Jr. or Don Pedro. I don’t want trouble; I came to fish.”
“You got trouble amigo. Lots of it.”
“I didn’t know they would be here. Seriously. I’m just here to fish,” Rusty said, remaining as calm as possible, but feeling his rage building.
“But he knew you’d be here. And if you are still breathing tomorrow, I’d go home and never cross that border again.”
Rusty stayed quiet, now wondering if this was going to end with him in a shallow grave.
After a short drive, the police cruiser pulled onto a dirt road and headed into the hills. This is not good. Fuck. They pulled into a small set of out buildings at what looked to be an abandoned cattle ranch. His Bronco was parked out front.
The cop led Rusty into a small cinder block building. Inside a single light bulb hung over a rusty metal chair. There were blood stains on the floor. Rusty had just enough time to see that the small table next to the chair held a car battery hooked to jumper cables, sponges, several bottles of soda water, an electric drill, and some old tools before a blow to the back of his head knocked him out.
Rusty woke suddenly, pain seared his sinuses, soda water soaked his shirt. He was still cuffed, and zip tied to the chair. He tried to say something but choked on vomit. Chuy let him settle before he went to work.
***
As torture went, Rusty knew he got off easy. He looked in the rearview mirror of his ’96 Bronco – his left eye was already turning black and swelling shut. His upper lip was split, and his front tooth was missing. His ribs ached from Chuy’s blows with a PVC pipe. Rusty’s nose and throat burned.
He started his old truck and headed north. The men stood in the twilight between the torture chamber and his truck smoking, the glow of their butts like little floating demons. They watched him go, laughing and waving. Nobody followed him.
Rusty tried to settle as he drove. He rolled down the windows to let in the warm desert air, as he turned off Mexico 1 onto a dirt road he’d driven a dozen times, that would take him back to Tecate over a series of jeep roads. Stay off the main roads…They still might kill me. His torn shirt, wet with the club soda they had poured up his nose and blood from his lip and gums, began to dry in the night breeze. Four miles up the truck trail, Rusty stopped to change his shirt. He fished a Modelo from his cooler and held it to his lip a while before he downed it. He grabbed another, got back into the cab, scrounged a stale pre-rolled joint from the glove box, lit it. I need to calm the fuck down. I can lose it when I get across the border…He looked at his watch—9:20 p.m. Rusty, knowing the drive would take eight hours, headed north.
The inevitable questions ran through his mind: Did Evangelina know? Did she beg Chuy not to kill me? Did Pedro Jr. know? Rusty knew he’d never have the answers to these questions. All he really knew was the pandemic took Evangelina from him; Chuy took Baja. He’d miss them both.
HUNTING BREMMER’S MESA
by JD Clapp
For much of the rural world, hunting is more than sport or a means of procuring meat; it’s a way to learn about life, a tradition often passed on from old men to boys. In the 1950s, Robert Ruark published a series of fictional stories in Field and Stream Magazine based on his time hunting with his grandfather as a boy. Ruark eventually published these stories as a collection titled, The Old Man and the Boy (Henry Holt, 1957). Set in contemporary Colorado, Hunting Bremmer’s Mesa is a modern riff on Ruark’s classic rural coming-of-age stories.
The kid finished feeding and watering Bremmer’s goats and horses. He pulled on his work coat to ward off the chill of 17 degrees. His Carhartt hoodie was enough when he was slinging hay. The old man came out of his ramshackle abode to grab firewood and nodded toward the kid. The kid had noticed Bremmer was no longer up before the sun every day. A couple of years ago, when he first started working for Bremmer, the old man was strong as a horse. Not so much anymore. The kid worried for him.
The kid waved. Bremmer motioned him over.
The morning sun in his face, Bremmer took a step back into the shade of the rusted corrugated porch roof and bumped a deer rack hung on an old nail. The kid handed Bremmer his phone to show him a picture of a deer. Bremmer grumbled something, then looked at the kid’s phone screen for a beat.
“Yup. I seen him just yesterday. He’s been on some hot does below the mesa on the south end. He lives up in them thick cedars bordering Miller’s place,” Bremmer said, handing the kid back his phone like it was a piece of cow shit.
“Can I hunt him?” the kid asked.
Bremmer took off his soiled John Deere baseball hat and ran his hand through his long gray, greasy hair. He scratched his month-old beard, then his balls through his Carhartt bibs. He looked hard at the kid. Goddammit. I should be sayin’ no or trying to run that deer off into the Miller’s place.
“You want him for the meat or the head?” Bremmer asked.
“Both…but it’s a big rack.”
“Deer like that only causes problems these days. Trespassing. Poaching. News people…”
“We don’t need to show him off if we get him. We can hang the rack on your shed. Plus, you were saying you wanted to lay up some meat. Lot of backstrap on that deer,” the kid said.
Bremmer smiled. Shit, the kid is just like me. He could bargain with the devil and come out on top. Bremmer liked the “fuck you” symbolism of hanging a homemade skull mount of the state record muley over the door to his shanty, exposed to the weather. And the kid wasn’t lying—he also could use some more meat for the pot.
“O.K. You can hunt him. But only you. You kill him, I’ll help you drag him out and do the skinning and we’ll split up the meat. You’ll need to help me make jerky and can some meat, too,” Bremmer said.
The kid stuck out his hand and Bremmer took it. Bremmer shook his head, and spit chew juice onto the dirt.
As the kid was climbing back into his truck, Bremmer called to him.
“Lock them gates when you leave and don’t show nobody that picture of that sombitch deer, or I’ll have every goddamn guide in town trying to hunt him.”
***
Bremmer threw a log on the wood stove in his shack. The structure was originally the workshop of his father’s cattle ranch before the fire of 1978 burned everything but a couple of outbuildings to the ground. Bremmer just took what he could salvage, went down to Grand Junction, bought some supplies, and moved into the shack. He’d lived there ever since. He’d never even considered rebuilding the main house. Bremmer often told the kid he was twice-over rich. “This ranch is worth about seven million, but that’s worth less than the fact I live simple and don’t need to suffer any fools with all this space to myself.”
Bremmer walked out to the old truck bed camper sitting on jacks behind the shack. He was tickled that he had traded for the camper with Lukas Swenson in exchange for letting him hunt a mountain lion with dogs on the mesa last season. Hell, I’d let the fool kill that tomcat for free after he killed four of my goats.
He climbed in and looked at his cache of food—25 pounds of beans, 25 pounds of rice, some canned deer, 10 pounds of flour, five gallons of frying oil, 10 pounds of coffee. He checked that the roof was sound. He saw mice hadn’t found their way in. Good. Got plenty in the way of staples for winter, and if the kid whacks that sombitch deer, I’ll be eating real good.
Bremmer went back into the shack and made some cowboy coffee on the woodstove. He ran his hand through his scraggly white beard thinking about the deer and the kid as he sipped from his warm mug. I’d like to do something for that kid now, instead of waiting till I take a dirt nap.
He put on a flannel, grabbed his .45-70 Henry, and headed out to saddle his horse. I need to find that deer’s bed.
***
The kid made his way back to the Ace Hardware in Collbran. He asked Pauline for the last box of .234 ammo.
“You find a good deer?”
“I seen a few shooter four-by-fours. Nothing special, but I should fill my third season tag,” the kid said.
Lukas Swenson was standing nearby looking at a chainsaw. He looked at the kid, knowing he was the only person in the valley Bremmer would let hunt deer on his place. Lukas considered his options.
As the kid was getting into his truck, Lukas came up to the window and knocked. The kid rolled down the window.
“Hey, Billy the Kid! How’s it going my man?” The kid nodded.
“Listen, I have two high-roller clients coming in next week with deer tags. I got one decent buck patterned but need another one. I’ll give you $500 in cash if you find a shoot for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Lukas. I’ll text you if I find something good,” the kid said.
“You seen anything moving up at Bremmer’s yet?”
“Some forkies and four-by-fours…nothing special.”
Lukas nodded, thinking the kid was holding out on him.
“I’m going to site-in my rifle up at my folk’s place. I’ll let you know if anything is moving out that way,” the kid said as he pulled away. Lukas waved.
As soon as the kid turned onto PE road, Lukas jumped in his rig and headed for the fire road leading to the BLM land above Bremmer’s mesa. His Leica spotting scope and Nikon rested on the passenger seat of his Ford Raptor.
***
Bremmer saw the buck headed into the cedar stand just before sunset. Goddamn…Even with his naked eye, at 200 yards he could see the massive rack was atypical. He counted 11 points and a bunch of stickers. Jeeeesus. I ain’t never seen nothing like that sombitch in all my years! The beast had crowns like a New Zealand red stag, and a massive chocolate-colored drop tine.
As the sun dipped below the peak to the west, Bremmer caught a glint of light way up on the mesa ridge on the BLM side. Well, fuck me…That’s goddam Lukas…
***
Lukas hit send. His text and several clear photos taken through his spotting scope of the possible world record mule deer went to M. Morgan Downs, owner of International Fracking Corporation, and Lukas’s sole billionaire client. Less than a minute later, M. Morgan Downs replied. The man was always offering huge paydays for world record animals or mythical trophies. He’d recently offered Lukas $2,000,000 cash if he found him a wild piebald bull elk.
Lukas’s phone pinged. The text read: Lukas! If this is photoshopped you’re a dead man. If it’s real, get me a tag and I will be there in a day. I’ll pay $50K to hunt him. An extra $50K if we see him. A million if I kill him and he’s a state or world record. LMK ASAP.
Lukas already had a landowner tag lined up for $7,000. He made a call, bought the tag, and texted Downs back: Pack your bags. It’s on.
Lukas group-texted his brother and old man: Meet tonight at pop’s farm. Massive third-season payday coming our way. Need you both Saturday morning.
***
Bremmer got the old Dodge Ram Cummins diesel started after a few tries. He did so weekly, when he remembered, then drove a couple miles on his land to keep everything lubed. He preferred riding his horse if he could, but he liked having the truck around just in case. He drove to the kid’s cabin on the edge of town.
Normally, the kid would have been shocked to see him, but he figured Lukas had already gone out to Bremmer’s on a hunch and offered big money for the deer.
“We got a problem,” Bremmer said, before the big truck’s engine completely sputtered out.
Bremmer told the kid he’d seen Lukas on the ridge looking for the deer; the kid told Bremmer what happened at Ace.
“Alright, shit-for-brains ain’t poaching that deer on my land. I got an idea.”
***
The day before the season started, an hour before dawn, the kid and Bremmer hiked out to a series of shallow arroyos between the wall of the mesa and the cedar stand on the foothill where the monster buck bedded. They set up just below a small rise that had a clear view of three game trails leading into the cedars. Bremmer began glassing the mesa at gray light. The kid watched the hillside.
“You think we are good shooting a day early if we see him?” The kid asked.
“Shit. My land, my damn deer. Seasons is for guides and public land,” Bremmer answered.
“You really think Lukas and some rich guy are going to try to poach this deer?” The kid asked.
Bremmer said, “yup,” without lowering his binoculars. The kid saw the deer first. “Holy shit. There he is coming down the top trail.” Bremmer shifted his position slightly, then glassed until he saw the deer.
“Alright, when he steps between those two scrub bushes on that little flat, shoot him.”
“About 200 yards?” the kid asked. Bremmer nodded.
A minute later, a shot rang out across the valley.
***
Bremmer skinned the monster deer so that the cape was longer than normal. He carefully removed the head at the neck, carried it to his small work shack, and set to work. The kid quartered the deer and hung the quarters on the old meat hooks fixed to the eaves of Bremmer’s shack roof. He cleaned the silver skin with a finely honed filet knife, then steaked the backstraps and tenders with an old butcher’s knife. Finally, the kid went to work cleaning the heart and liver and trimming stew-size chunks of meat from the ribs and neck for canning.
The kid was washing the blood off his hands when Bremmer returned from his work shed to show him his handiwork.
“Well, goddamn! That is some handiwork right there,” the kid said, laughing.
Bremmer had secured the deer head and cape to two five-gallon buckets with bailing wire, and stuffed straw between the hide and the buckets. Bremmer explained, “We’ll set him up like he’s bedded, make sure only his head and back are showing. I’ll prop his head with sticks. They’ll get sick of waiting for him to stand and shoot him. You get the rest,” Bremmer said with a wide chew-stained grin.
“Ok, now you call that fool Lukas and tell him you couldn’t find him anything worth shooting. Tell him me and you are headed to Crestone for a few days to pick up a couple ponies.”
***
Before dawn on a frigid opening morning of the third rifle season, Lukas’s old man and brother, Conrad, sat in their side-by-side near the fire gate between a strip of BLM land and Bremmer’s fence line. Lukas and M. Morgan Downs sat atop the mesa in a brush blind, glassing does and a couple smaller bucks out on the arroyos.
“Where the hell is he?” Downs asked.
“You keep your eye on the herd. He’s probably in one of the small arroyos. I’ll start glassing the cedars.”
It took Lukas a while to spot Bremmer’s bedded decoy. From his vantage he could see the rack, a bit of the head, and a clear patch of neck and back. The deer looked to be bedded for the day.
“I got him. He’s 322 yards and bedded. You have a neck shot now, or we can wait to see what he does.”
Downs was not the type of man to wait or miss an opportunity; he jacked a shell into the magazine of his custom Blazer .300 WSM, lined the deer’s neck in the crosshairs, and touched off. As the shot echoed across the mesa in the morning sun, the decoy’s head keeled over as the unseen sticks crumpled on the 180-grain slug’s impact.
From behind their boulder hiding place a hundred yards above the decoy, the kid smiled and Bremmer chuckled. Then they heard side-by-sides fire up.
***
When Lukas and Downs made it to the clearing just below the decoy, they were stunned to find Conrad and Lukas’s old man kneeling with their hands behind their heads. Bremmer stood behind them with his Henry. The kid stepped forward and leveled a 12 gauge at Downs and Lukas. He pumped in a shell as Lukas’s face went pale.
“Mister. If I were you, I’d set that rifle down really slow. You boys are trespassing and poaching,” Bremmer said to Downs.
Downs set the rifle down and Lukas started ranting.
“Bremmer you son of a bitch. Put that gun down. This man paid good money to shoot a deer you were going to let die of old age. We can work something out,” Lukas said.
Bremmer spat chew and smiled.
Downs spoke next, “Sir, I apologize. My guide here told me we had permission to hunt this deer on your land. I am happy to make this right. How does a $10,000 trespass fee sound?”
Bremmer laughed. Lukas glared at Downs who knew damn well they were poaching.
“$10,000? Hell, that is a state record deer. Maybe a world record, not that I give two shits. I know you high-rollers pay hundreds of thousands for a deer like that,” Bremmer said.
Wanting to end the standoff before he got shot by the old man or kid, Downs quickly upped the offer to $150,000. Then he offered another $50,000 for the cape and head.
Bremmer had anticipated this. The night before, during his old man restlessness when sleep escaped him, he thought of the kid.
“Well sir, make it an even $200,000 and I’ll take you up on that. Hell, I won’t even report old Lukas here and his dumb-shit brother and Pa to Fish and Game. But the head belongs to the kid over there. He shot him.”
“Head ain’t for sale, Mister. That deer belongs here,” the kid said.
Bremmer smiled. Goddamn, I like this kid.
***
On Thanksgiving Day, the kid stood on a ladder and hung the deer’s skull and antlers over Bremmer’s shed door. Bremmer sat on a stool watching, eating a plate of turkey and all the fixings the kid’s mom had sent.
“Deer looks fine right there, I’d say. Why don’t you text ol’ Lukas a photo of it?” They both laughed.
On Black Friday, Bremmer and the kid drove down to Grand Junction and had breakfast at the IHOP. When they finished, Bremmer drove them to the Farmer’s Savings and Loan. Bremmer handed the kid a check for $200,000. “For your future.”
The kid looked at him, started to say something, but Bremmer waved him off. The kid put out his hand. Bremmer shook it.
They drove back up the mountain in silence. Bremmer had a Merle Haggard CD playing. The kid had grown to like the old shit Bremmer listened to. Bremmer broke the silence. “Gonna snow tonight.” He continued, “We better get them goats and horses put up when we get back.” The kid nodded.