“What’s going on?” Uncle Archie asked as Mitch pulled out the gun I’d just known he was carrying and started to fire at the helicopter.
“They’re trying to kill you,” Mitch said as he fired.
“Impressive three-fifty-seven you’re shooting. I had no idea the fire department was taking cues from Dirty Harry.”
“I’ll explain later.” Mitch emptied the gun, pulled some bullets and began reloading. The gunman in the helicopter didn’t need to reload, and the chopper was circling, trying to find a good opening between the hay bales.
“Think we can get to the house?” Uncle Archie asked as we scrambled around the bales, about a half-step in front of the bullets.
I judged the distance. “Not unless you were an Olympic sprinter and never told me.”
Mitch fired again. “They’re too far away,” he muttered.
This I knew to be true. I considered our options. They were slim. I considered my suit. It was likely ruined. I considered my shoes. Low heeled pumps that fit exceptionally well. Oh well, nothing for it.
I took off running. Not towards the house or the hangar, but towards the barn where the horses were. I’d seen enough movies, so I made sure I was running in an erratic manner. The bullets followed me, but either they weren’t trying too hard or fear had made me very fast. I chose to vote for the second option.
Rancho Creation was out in the Arizona desert. Beautiful area, loaded with rattlesnakes. Contrary to what PETA and a lot of lunatic snake lovers will tell you, rattlesnakes aren’t actually afraid of people. Diamondbacks, in particular, are nasty. Rattlers are predators, and many diamondbacks are more than willing to be aggressive. Every rancher and farming family has their own rattler stories, all ending in either horror or a snake shot to death just in time.
Uncle Archie was my father’s older brother, and we’d come out to visit him a lot. I knew about gun safety by the time I was five. I could load, unload and clean a gun by the time I was six. When I came to live with Uncle Archie, the first thing he did was to make sure I could shoot the eyelashes off a butterfly at a hundred yards, minimum. By the time I was sixteen I was a crack shot and had actually won some shooting awards. I’d shot more than a few rattlers over the years, with both handguns and rifles.
Because of where we were and also because snakes weren’t the only predators around, we had guns located where we could get to them quickly. I wasn’t heading for the barn so much as I was heading for the closest long-range rifle.
I made the barn and the chopper lost interest in me and went back to try to shoot my only living relative. There were only a few things I was certain about in the world and in my life, and that I’d never allow anyone to take Uncle Archie from me without a fight was the number one certainty.
The horses were spooked, but the rifle was loaded. I’d calm the horses later. I opened one half of the double-barn doors, positioned myself against the closed side, took a look through the rifle sight, and fired.
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Gini Koch
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