The Daisy Ducks (12 page)

"He was released."

"Yeah? Well, whaddayuh know. Well, Roantis and
Summers had some trouble too. Summers claimed he was a racist. Maybe
he is, a little. But Summers had a chip on his shoulder too.

Roantis seemed to like me, Vilarde, and Larry Jenkins
best. And Jenkins was black. Jesus, what a great soldier and great
guy Larry Jenkins was. What a shame we lost him."

"He was MIA?"

"Yeah. Laos, in seventy-one, I think."

"And you lost the Korean, too."

"Uh-huh. Ton Youn was killed right outside
Saigon by a sniper. But he wasn't MIA like Larry—they took his body
back to Seoul."

"How did Roantis get along with Jusuelo?"

"Hmph. He's the mystery man. He and Vilarde were
close: Vilarde was Mexican and Jusuelo Puerto Rican. They used to
speak Spanish a lot. Sometimes I think they forgot I also speak it."

"Ah. Any interesting comments you overheard?"

"Not really. Except that twice Jusuelo commented
under his breath that Roantis was incompetent. Over the hill. You
know, too cautious some of the time and too reckless other times."

"And were these comments justified?"

"Maybe. Roantis made some decisions I wasn't
happy about. But we never lost a man on the long walks. That's
amazing when you consider the frightful losses we inflicted on
Charlie. You've also got to remember that in unconventional warfare
you throw away the rulebook—you make life-and-death decisions
minute by minute and think by the seat of your pants and by your
hunter-killer instincts. It's kind of weird."

"Okay. Question two: do you know where Ken
Vilarde is?"

"No. Your guess is as good as mine on that."

"Did Ken stay in touch with the other Ducks?
Would he contact you now and then?"

"Not me. Maybe the others. But probably less and
less as the years went on. You know how that is. But I think he would
have kept in touch with Jusuelo and Roantis. He and Roantis were
close, and Ken was second in command. And I told you already about
Jusuelo."

"Where is Jesus Jusuelo now?"

"Who knows for sure? I was up in Denver busting
a bottle with some old Vietnam buddies a while back, and they said
Jusuelo was mercking in Africa. That was last year."

"Can you give me a name or two to contact?"

"Rather not. If I did, they wouldn't talk to you
anyway. We're a pretty closed group. But I can get in touch with them
myself if you want and ask what they've heard lately about Vilarde
and Jusuelo."

"That'd be great, Fred. Both Roantis and I would
be in your debt."

"Where do you come in, if I can ask? Why are you
so interested?"

"Liatis has helped me out more than once. He
asked me to do some digging around while he recovers. I figured as
long as I'm in Texas, why not see you?"

"Fair enough. And I still think enough of
Roantis to help in any way I can."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he peered intently
into my face, as if measuring me.

"Well, well, Dr. Adams, welcome aboard. Having
you up to the ranch might be more fun than I thought."

"Thanks," I
said, shaking his hand. "Call me Doc."

* * *

At noon I walked into the Hilton lobby to find Fred
waiting for me. We took a cab to a little Mexican restaurant in a
rather rundown neighborhood. It was decorated with garish statues and
Christmas tree lights. I suppose I had severe doubts about the place
. . . until I tasted the food, that is. When Fred ordered for us, I
got a sample of his fluent Spanish. I don't speak it, but to me his
pronunciation seemed perfect; he sounded like a native Mexican. I
announced that the seminar I was scheduled to attend had been
canceled. He seemed pleased, and said we could fly up to the ranch as
soon as we finished eating.

"What is it, some kind of shuttle flight? I
assume I can get my ticket at the gate."

"The flight is anytime I decide to go, Doc. I
flew my own plane down here."

We finished our chile rellenos and returned to the
Hilton, where I packed my small carry-on bag with overnight gear.
Just before two o'clock, our taxi dropped us off at Martindale Army
Airfield, at the edge of town. Already the day was hot enough so that
the horizon wiggled wet and seemed to come unglued, jiggling and
dancing with the rising air currents.

Flying K's plane was a Mooney, made in Texas. I know
nothing of planes, but it appeared to be a top-of-the-line model. The
tail looked as if it had been put on the fuselage backward, so that
it leaned slightly forward. We lifted off at two-twenty, made a wide
circle, and headed north-northeast over the hot Texas plains, dotted
with live oaks and the tiny, dark, moving specks that were cattle.
The cattle seemed to cluster like sardines near the water holes and
river gullies, which were shiny brown blotches against the
buff-colored range grass. Kaunitz flew the plane with a calmness and
detachment that showed his self-confidence and skill. Certainly, to a
guy who'd been in the scrapes he had, flying a plane was child's
play. In less than half an hour we were over Austin and approaching
the Kaunitz ranch.

During the flight he related to me the events that
occurred during the march of the Daisy Ducks through the village of
Siu Lok. It was the story Roantis had told me back home in Concord,
all right. But it differed in a few important ways.

"And you say that Roantis and Vilarde sought the
old chief out?"

"Yes. They corralled him after the dinner feast
and took him off into the bush somewhere."

I said nothing. But why did Kaunitz's version of the
story differ from the one Roantis had told us at the card table? Was
it memory lapse over time, or hadn't Roantis totally leveled with me?

Then Kaunitz stood the airplane on its port wing,
throwing us into a steep turn. Below us was a magnificent set of
buildings laid out in perfect geometric symmetry, with adobe walls
and red Spanish tile roofs. Kaunitz pointed down straight at it as we
circled.

"The Flying K Ranch," he said, drawing off
his sunglasses. His eyes flashed with eagle-like intensity. "All
fifty-three hundred acres of it. Been in the family for five
generations. Hang on, we'll be on the ground shortly."
 
 

9

FRED KAUNITZ set the four-passenger Mooney onto his
black-top runway as smoothly as a falling snowflake. Since we had
been bucking some strong thermals as we made our approach, it was
clear that he was a master aviator. We taxied to the hangar complex
and tied down the plane. A stripped-down jeep was waiting, apparently
where Fred had left it earlier in the day. I noticed a raised
pedestal seat in back, complete with a safety harness. The jeep also
had a roll bar and twin spotlights. A gunrack was welded to the rear
part of the chassis, and in it were an old twelve-gauge pump and a
semi-auto carbine. I put my gear in back and hopped in. The jeep had
been sitting in the sun, and it was as hot as a laundry iron. We
headed along a gravel road toward the main house. Gee, it took a long
time. Fred gave no indication that he wanted to impress me with the
size and grandeur of Flying K, but impressive it was. The terrain was
gently rolling hills covered with rough range grass and dotted with
live and scrub oak: short, roundish trees with gnarled limbs that
resemble those in California and Spain.

Rolling to a stop beside a corral with a steel fence,
we got out of the jeep and walked over to the fence, climbed it, and
sat on the top rail. Inside was the biggest bull I have ever seen. It
must have been ten feet long and almost six feet at the withers. It
had long pendant ears, a huge Happy dewlap under its neck, and a hump
on its back.

"What the hell's that? A Brahma bull?"

"Sort of, Doc. A Brahma crossbred with an Angus.
Called a Brangus. Three-year-old. Greatest producer we've got. A
hundred twenty thousand and worth every cent. Name's Rasputin."

"How's his disposition?"

"On a good day, just awful."

"Hey, you ever do any rodeo riding? I thought I
heard Roantis mention it."

Kaunitz made a laughing grunt in reply. "Yeah.
Now and then, when things get slow, I do a little bull riding.
Wrecked my leg a bit last fall."

"Is that why you're limping a little?"

"Yeah. And ranch work aggravates it. Well, let's
head on in. You like to shoot?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Well, we can go out to the range after
breakfast tomorrow. If you like to fish we've got a nicely stocked
reservoir too. Some nice fat largemouth . . . In the creek there's
some big catfish."

"Gee Fred, a guy could hang out here forever."

"He sure could," said Kaunitz as he started
the jeep, "but it gets boring too. The heat, the work, the same
people. I like to get out and around once in a while."

The ranch house was a U-shaped single-story building.
The open side of the U was not open; it was an adobe wall that
enclosed the Spanish-style patio and formal garden. In the garden
were live oaks, Russian olive trees, cacti, and all kinds of creeping
vines and flowering shrubs. It was both intimate and spectacular. I
knew that Mary, with her fondness for Latin courtyards, would love
it. The middle wing of the building housed the kitchen, dining areas,
living room, and sleeping quarters for three generations of
Kaunitzes. One wing was mostly workrooms and living quarters for the
household staff and a family room. I was to stay in the wing
opposite, which consisted of two guest suites, the living quarters
for the senior ranch help, and the gunroom. In addition to the main
ranch house, there was a separate bunkhouse for the general ranch
help, a workshop, a horse barn and tackroom, and all the other
outbuildings one usually finds on big ranches, including, in this
case, a separate office to manage the day-to-day business of a
five-thousand-acre ranch and breeding farm.

Almost before we coasted to a stop outside the
building, two men came running up to the jeep, awaiting Fred's
instructions. They were accompanied by a huge black and tan German
shepherd, whose name, I found out later, was Lothar. Fred spoke to
the men in brisk Spanish and they disappeared. He asked me to follow
one of the men to my rooms. I did, and walking through the enormous
gunroom, I got a quick glimpse of the trophy-lined walls, the big
pool table, and many old photographs of the ranch and the elder
Kaunitzes who built it.

"How tall you, senor?" my guide asked.

"Six feet, even."

"How you weigh, senor?"

"One seventy-four."

"How big you belt, senor?"

"Uh, thirty-two inches."

"Tang you, senor."

The man disappeared on the gallop, and I had a minute
to examine my luxurious accommodations before he reappeared, flinging
blue jeans and a western shirt down on the bed.

"You be ready pronto, hokay? Senor Kaunitz say
for you: don forget we has to move seven hundred head cattle. You wan
help?"

"Certainly. Pleased to."

"Hokay. How big your foot, senor?"

I told him, and a few seconds later he came with a
pair of rough-out boots with walking heels. Standard issue to guests,
I gathered. I dressed in less than two minutes and rushed out to the
jeep. Fred was waiting with the engine running, and what followed was
one of the most brutal and enjoyable afternoons of my life. We drove
for twenty minutes through high grass and dust to where the big herd
was. They were mostly Herefords, but quite a number of Brangus and
other crossbreeds dotted the herd as well. In the next three hours I
spent an hour on horseback, an hour at the wheel of the jeep, and the
final hour at the corral chutes sorting yearlings and young calves.
Sometimes the animals were panic stricken or stubborn, and required
some hauling, kicking in the butt, and sometimes even carrying. It
was after six o'clock when we finally finished. I could scarcely
move. Not having ridden a horse in two years, I was on fire
everywhere between my waist and my knees—front, back, and in
between. It's amazing what happens to certain muscle sets when you
don't use them. Likewise, my upper body glowed with that special hurt
of exertion that feels so good. My feet hurt from the western boots,
and I was drenched with sweat from working in the heat. My throat,
nose, and eyes were full of red range dust. But I felt great. And
then I knew what it was that kept people like Fred Kaunitz down on
the farm. It was the elemental joy of being physical, of overseeing
your own piece of turf, and of not having any twentieth-century
fallbacks to bail you out when the going got rough. It was just the
land, the cows, and us. Period. And I was loving it.

It was at the day's end, just as work was finishing,
that it happened. It scares me even now to think back on it. We were
getting ready to load a small batch of steers onto a truck from a
holding pen at the edge of the corral complex. From the pen, a cattle
chute sloped up and out, terminating at a gate the height of the
truckbed. I approached the chute to slide the gate open for Fred's
helper, Jimmy, as he backed the truck up to it. There were seven or
eight animals on the chute, scared as hell, each one weighing maybe
nine hundred pounds. I was to pull the sliding gate aside as the
truck came up, allowing the animals to hop inside it. But somebody
hadn't fastened the gate properly, and it had crept open a few
inches, sliding along its roller track. Just then Fred came storming
up the sloping boards of the chute from the pen, yelling and
whistling to get the animals moving. Move they did, and the lead one,
a Hereford with fear-bugged eyes, slipped his big head through the
crack and pried that gate right open. The truck had not quite
arrived, and four of the steers came spilling out the top of the
chute—and onto me. I felt a hoof strike my chest and a horn brush
my head as I went down. Just before I passed out, I saw the two sets
of double truck tires spinning my way and managed to roll between
them and underneath the axle.