First Review for Four Trails!

Review by: Wen Mur on Apr. 08, 2011 : 
I couldn't stop reading this collection of short "cowboy" stories! Touching, funny and exciting, you will be entertained and surprised by these tales from the "trail"!

Download Four Trials for FREE at http://bit.ly/e2dVHj. As a blog bonus, here's on those tales!

WARNING: IMMATURE SUBJECT MATTER & PLENTY CUSSIN'.

RATTLERS
A man in a dusty Chevy Nova pulled up to the first pump at the Balmorhea GasnGo service station, though it was unlikely he would receive any service from the one employee on duty who was firmly ensconced behind the counter in the air-conditioned GasnGo foodmart.
Jimmy Segwick sat on his stool at the cash register and watched as the man stepped out of his car, stretched and walked over to the pumps. He obviously wasn't a local, and a Nova being your standard rental car, Jimmy decided to throw caution to the wind and reset the pumps rather than have him come in and pay first. Company policy at the GasnGo was for all patrons to pay before they pumped, but Jimmy didn't stand on policy, in fact, he tried to stand as little as possible. He mostly sat on his stool all day long and sold gas, snacks and sodas to the occasional tourists who passed through, or beer and cigarettes to the handful of locals who could pay the inflated prices.
You didn't see many tourists take the scenic loop through Balmorhea these days. Travelers tended to stay on the interstate. Balmorhea in the summer time had little to offer - it was nothin' but hot and dry; hell, there wasn't anything scenic about it unless you liked scrub grass, scorched earth and rattlesnakes.
The man made several trips back and forth to the water bucket and methodically squeegeed all the dirt off his windows. Jimmy could tell he was business man, nobody around these parts dressed like that unless they were gettin' married or buried; he had to be roasting in that monkey suit, the temperature was already 105 degrees. The man topped off his tank and headed into the GasnGo food mart.
"Hot enough for ya, Mister?" asked Jimmy, as the man entered the store.
"If it was any hotter I'd be searching for the devil himself," said the man.
"I reckon you'd find him too. If this ain't hell, it's awful damn close," said Jimmy.
The man walked up to the counter and threw down a fifty for the gas.
"Hope you don't mind, but I'm supposed to check anything over twenty for counterfeit, not that you're a suspect or nothin'. Just doin' my job," said Jimmy, and ran his detection pen over the bill.
"A man's gotta do his job," said the stranger. "Keeps us all honest."
"Well, you'll be glad to know you ain't carrying no funny money," said Jimmy, as the ink on the bill turned to a light amber color.
"Thank heavens. I'd hate to get hauled off to jail way out here," said the man.
"And it would be a haul, friend. The Governor closed down the jail last year. Budget cuts, or so they say. They'd have to take you all the way to Van Horn," said Jimmy.
"You got no police around here anymore?" asked the man.
"Don't got 'em. Don't need 'em. Everyone 'round here takes care of themselves. Law has always been cowboy law out in these parts, and that's the way we like it. Besides, the police are too busy chasin' wetbacks and dope dealers to pay attention to much else," said Jimmy. "Here's your change, thank you for stoppin' in."
"I noticed some beer over in that cooler yonder. Mind if a had one or two before moving on? I've been drivin' all day and wouldn't mind stretchin' my legs before climbin' back into that matchbox," said the man.
"Policy is no alcohol consumption on the premises, but seeing as you're my third customer all day and there ain't no law around anyhow, I suppose there's no harm sellin' a grown man a beer," said Jimmy.
"I appreciate that. Cold one's on me if you don't mind drinkin' on the job, seeing as there's no law around," said the man.
Jimmy never once had a beer while working, wasn't even tempted, but the man was offering so he thought he might as well be sociable.
"All right then, but just one. If anybody drives up I'll have to stash it behind the counter. I don't need any pissy calls from the head office in Dallas 'cause some old biddy got her panties in a bunch seein' me sippin' a Bud," said Jimmy.
"That your flavor then, Budweiser?" asked the man.
"That'll work," said Jimmy.
"Then ring me up a couple them tall boys, son," said the man.
The man popped the tops on the ice cold beers and passed one off to Jimmy, and said, "Name's Harlan, Harlan Robichaud. I work out of San Antone but spent the last couple days down in El Paso."
"Jimmy Segwick," said Jimmy. "Nice to meet ya and thanks for the beer. What line of business you in Harlan, salesman for the oil companies?"
"No, I'm just an glorified accountant. I had to run an audit down in El Paso and the sonsabitches overbooked my flight back to SA. Rather than wait a couple days for the next one, I said, 'Screw it, I'll get a rental.' Bad to worse, all they had was this piece-of-shit Nova. And to top it all off, the AC is on the fritz."
"Wearin' that suit in a car with no AC — I imagine you do need a cold beer or two," said Jimmy.
"Oh, it's not off by a damn sight - it's stuck on full-fuckin'-blast. I'm wearin' my jacket just to keep warm. Freezin' to death in 100 degree temperature. Can you believe that shit? This trip is one for the ages," said Harlan.
Jimmy took a long pull on his beer, "Whole country's goin' to hell in a bucket. Everythang you buy is a piece of shit, most of it Made in China. Jews up in New York are usin' the Stock Market to rob us all blind, and then that Obama - Good Lord, don't even get me started on that boy. No offense now, if you lean the other way. Everybody's got the right to their own opinion."
"No offense taken. I grew up in Texarkana and never thought I'd see the day we'd have a Ubangi President. Just goes to show you how far we've sunk, in my humble opinion," said Harlan.
"You got that right, Mister. This country won't be fit for white people much longer. The niggers and wetbacks have done took over. Unless we do somethin' quick we all better start learnin' to habla the espanol," said Jimmy.
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I do that," said Harlan, taking another drink off his beer. "Not much traffic out here this time of day."
"No sir, most of the traffic comes through in the mornin' and slows way down in the afternoons. I'm usually closed by 5:30 if not earlier. It's a ghost town around here at night," said Jimmy.
Harlan took another large pull off his beer, burped, and took a look around the room. Dozens of pictures of rattlesnakes adorned the walls along with a pair of six foot long rattle snake hides tacked up behind the cashier station.
"Gotta lotta goddamn snake pictures in here. Some real monsters too. What's the deal with all this stuff?" asked Harlan.
"Well sir, one thing Balmorhea has in abundance is rattlers. Rattlesnake huntin' is big sport down here. There's an annual round up but that's mainly for the tourists and university types. They come down here with a big milkin' crew for the venom. Most of the local boys just hunt 'em for the meat and hides, or just out of spite," said Jimmy.
"You ever do that? Hunt the big rattlesnakes?" asked Harlan.
"Hell yeah I do, that's what brought me down here. I saw a hide on sale a couple three years ago in Fort Worth — $120 — and I thought, Hell, man, easy money," said Jimmy.
"You came all the way down here from Fort Worth just to hunt rattlesnakes?" asked Harlan.
"That and to get away from my crazy bitch of an ex-wife," said Jimmy.
"Runnin' from one poisonous snake to another, eh?" said Harlan.
"You might say that, but I prefer the ones that slither on the ground to the ones that bitch and moan, that's for dang sure," said Jimmy.
"Not quite the easy money you imagined though, snakes I mean, you workin' in a gas station and all," said Harlan.
"No, not as easy as I thought. You gotta do a volume business to make any real money with snakes, still, I prefer the company of rattlesnakes to my ex-wife,' said Jimmy.
"Is that you in that picture there?" asked Harlan, and pointed to a photograph of a grinning man in a confederate T-shirt holding up a large rattlesnake.
"Yeah, that's me, alright. That sumbitch was 8 feet long and weighed near 50 lbs. We found a half-eaten rabbit inside him, and not a little bunny neither, a big ol' jackrabbit 'bout the size of a house cat," said Jimmy with pride.
"How in the hell do you catch somethin' that big? I reckon he's longer than a man is tall," said Harlan.
"Very carefully, my friend. I ran across that big bastard not a mile from this store. Summer drought brings 'em in lookin' for water," said Jimmy. "Now the first thing you gotta do when approachin' a big-ass rattler is to gage how pissed off he is. If he's all coiled up and hisssin', then brother, he's ready to strike and you need to back-the-fuck-off."
"Jesus H. Christ, I can't even imagine," said Harlan.
"You gotta keep your eye on him and take your time. I bought me an official snake-stick but you can use anythang that puts a little distance between you and that rattler; a golf club, a piece of rebar with the tip bent over, anythang that'll put his head down in the dirt. The trick is learnin' how to approach him," said Jimmy. "He don't see too well - he gets most of his information from vibrations, so you gotta come up on him slow and pick your spot. Don't be messin' around with a rattler on uneven ground. If he's up against some scrub, or half under a bunch of rocks, hook him and drag him out into the open. Take your time, line it up, and then, quickly pin his fuckin' head to the ground. He ain't gonna like it and a he's strong sumbitch, so you gotta be committed - pin him and keep his head down. And be damn sure when you make your move."
"Good Lord, that calls for another beer," said Harlan. "Ring us up two more, Jimmy."
"Yes sir, two more tall boys," said Jimmy.
"So what do you do when you have that monster pinned to the ground? Sounds like a Mexican stand-off to me," said Harlan.
"You sure as hell don't let him go. It's you or him. Keep him pinned, and slowly, and I mean slowly, reach down with your free hand and grab him hard behind the head. Not close to the head, not an inch behind the head, but right where his head hits his body. Grab his ass tight and don't let go. He'll twist and fight and try to scare ya into lettin' him loose, but you gotta hold on for dear life, 'cause it's your life or his. There ain't no hospital 'round here, and that John Wayne bullshit of suckin' the venom out don't work. You get bit out here and the poison gets in ya… well, friend, your eyes bug out, your throat swells up and you're dead meat," said Jimmy.
"You're a braver soul than I. Now that you got a pissed-off snake by the throat - do you put him in a sack? Or beat him to death?"
"You can use a sack, but make sure it's made of heavy canvas, don't use a pillow case that he can bite right through. A lot of folks like those five gallon plastic buckets with the lids. I just assume kill 'em right off. You can shoot it, kill it with a knife — oh yeah, you might think this is funny — I've heard tell that some people freeze 'em to death."
"No shit? Just throw 'em in the fridge?" asked Harlan. "That might be a way of gettin' rid of the ex-wife too."
"Wish I'd thought of that, but no, you get yourself one of those cheap freezers at the Costco, brang your bucket of snakes home and dump 'em in. Before you know it, you got Rattlersicles," said Jimmy. "Leave 'em for a few days, then thaw 'em out, skin 'em, eat the meat and treat the hides."
"Is that how you do it then?" asked Harlan.
"Nah, freezin' 'em sounds kinda crazy to me. I like the direct approach. I just cut their heads off with my knife."
Jimmy reached down to his side, unbuckled his holster and pulled out a folded hunting knife. He opened the blade and snapped it into place, holding it up for Harlan to see.
"Four inch blade, Damascus steel — sharp as a razor, my friend. It'll take your finger off as easy as a snake's head if you're not careful," said Jimmy, then folded the knife back up and returned it to its holster.
"Not bad for protection either, I imagine," said Harlan.
"Slice through a man's belly as easy as a snakes, but my real back-up is under the counter here, Old Besty. Twelve gage, double-barreled shotgun — sawed off for that can't fuckin' miss advantage," said Jimmy, who brought the shotgun up from beneath the counter. "This is the only security system I'll ever need."
"Between that knife and your shotgun, I'd say you're pretty well covered," said Harlan. "Can I have a look at that gun? Reminds me of one my Grandaddy use to have. He ran a little moonshine back in East Texas in the 40's and 50's, and that was his preferred security system too."
"Mister, I think you're an OK feller, but I'm not in the habit of handin' over a loaded shotgun to a stranger. No offense," said Jimmy.
"None taken, son. Perfectly reasonable. It just reminded me of my old Grandaddy's gun. I do a lot of bird huntin' and I'm always interested in lookin' over a nice shotgun," said Harlan.
"Tell ya what, I'll take the shells out and you can have a quick look. My daddy gave me this shotgun when I was a boy, and his daddy gave it to him. I sawed-off the barrels when I started workin' here. It's a good gun. I wouldn't stay workin' here without it," said Jimmy.
Jimmy pushed back the locking lever, broke open the shotgun and pulled out the two shells and placed them side-by-side on the counter in front of him. He snapped the barrels closed and handed the gun over to Harlan. Harlan sat his beer down next to the shotgun shells and stepped back to admire the old weapon.
"It sure is a beauty, a real beauty. I can see why your father held on to it. I bet it made a great bird huntin' gun before you cut it all down," said Harlan. "Bird huntin' sure is a great sport. I love everything about it, I surely do: being on your own, gettin' out in the wild, flushin' out the birds, the thrill of knockin' them down from the sky. It's the best sport in the whole wide world."
"There's a few ranches down here that dove and quail hunt. I can put you in touch with them if you'd like," said Jimmy.
"I'd like that. Thank you, Jimmy," said Harlan. "You know another sport I really like? Football. America's national pastime. I'm crazy about some football. Do you like football, Bobby?"
"Sure, who doesn't like football? But you called me Bobby there, Mister, my name is Jimmy."
"Did I? I apologize, Jimmy. I must have been thinking about this thieving redneck I heard about up in Fort Worth. He liked football too, and he loved to bet on the games, but he was a loser, Jimmy, a natural born loser. You might not believe this, but he ran up a 40,000 dollar tab, and that's not even counting the vig, and then he just up-and-disappeared. That was about two years ago. His name was Bobby. Bobby Sellers. Now, when did you move down here again, Jimmy?" asked Harlan.
"Now wait a minute, Mister, I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, but I've lived here for the last ten years of my life, just ask anybody in this town. And I ain't no gambler, and I never heard of no Bobby Sellers," said Jimmy.
"That's not what your ex-wife told me," said Harlan. "Think fast, Bobby!"
Harlan tossed the 12 gauge back to Jimmy who snatched it out of the air and pointed it right back at Harlan's chest. Jimmy smiled for a second until he saw the two shotgun shells sitting on the counter next to Harlan's beer.
"You know, Jimmy… Bobby… Jim Bob, whatever the hell your name is," said Harlan, as he pulled a .357 Colt Python out of his jacket and pointed it directly at Jimmy's head. "It occurs to me, son, that the main thing about dealing with snakes is being smarter than the snake."