We pulled our rig out of Texas, up North to Highway 10, and then North again into New Mexico. We sought Whites City and the wonders of Carlsbad Caverns. Late in the day we arrived and found that the only campground within twenty miles of the National Park. It was a creepy, sleazy, poorly maintained goldmine owned by the White family who seemed to own everything at in the area. We got connected and relaxed for the night, melding into the campground.

That night, as the land cooled and the bugs worked their way out of the gravel, I sortied over to the camp of some ranch workers who seemed to have lived in this RV park for some time. I had my straw cowboy hat on. They had seen our old rig and admired the ’86 Chevy Crew Cab. I also had a growth of beard. I fit in, like a hand. My glowing Perfecto helped me mosey into the group and sit kinda in and out of the circle, without arousing anyone’s ire.

I blew smoke at the ground and kept my ears open, my mouth shut on that cigar. In no time I learned that there were three in the group named Jesus. It was Jesus this and Jesus that and Jesus’ll do it. A short, tired looking guy with a black Stetson that had once been 4-X quality, seemed to be under the influence of too much Black Label. Bottles were neatly arranged at his feet. It looked as if he’d been drinking suds all afternoon. The taller of the men named Jesus called him Manuel, short for Emmanuel, I guess. There was an older, thin guy named Gordo and a man with an Edward Almos face, called Esteban. One Jesus and a Billy Bob had their shirts off and spent a lot of energy swatting and scratching. The main man, so it seemed at first, was Esteban, called Steve by those without roots South of the Rio Grande. I learned that he was a Texican.

Esteban was trying to persuade the others to go after pigs. His Stetson had been black before it got dirty and sun-faded. Pulled onto his head over the years, sometimes when wet, the brim seemed to sag like a vulture’s wings when they hold them out to air. He went to his rusty F-150 and got a rifle from the rear window rack. Returning, he carried the stubby rifle like one of the Great White Hunters one sees in old Africa Safari movies. I guess I was noticeably alarmed, as the Jesus next to me touched my arm and said, “Pigs. It’s for them goddamn Javalina.”

“Boys,” Esteban said as he held out the 30-30 saddle gun. “What you kin confirm is that we’s got us a rogue pig that’s got to be got.”

“Hell, them ain’t pigs, as I tol ya afore,” said Gordo, the last light making his thin face seem longer than it was. “Them Javalina is rodents that ain’t even related to pigs.”

Esteban go angry real quick. “You tell ’em Billy Bob. You kilt more of ’em than anybody.”

“Well, I’d heard that people … well, some of them educated jackasses that floats around at the university, say that…that they ain’t pigs, I mean. But you think! They gots pig noses; pig snouts. They got them little beady pig eyes. They got pig ears and feet … and hams. Hell, if they ain’t pigs, dogs ain’t dogs neither. Sides, that rogue pig you’s after roots stuff out like he was a giant boar.” He paused and sucked at the neck of a Carlings, not really taking much out which indicated that he was short cash and bound to make the fluid last as long as possible. “I knowd of another pig that went rogue,” he continued. “He attacked a woman down on the other side of the Pecos … no, I think it was the Brazos…”

Esteban put the rifle at rest on its butt, wiped sweat from his forehead and turned towards Billy Bob. “It was just West of the Pecos … ‘tween there un Hondo in Lincoln County. North of here, but them pigs…” he paused and gave Gordo a mean look, the thin man squirmed and it was evident that he wouldn’t go up against him over that issue, “…them PIGS was running in large gangs and it had been long dry, like now is. They took to attacking anything. Lead boar had tusks that could take the calf off yer leg in a split. Sows was worst. They’d gang and go for anything. Bite? Could tear a truck tire apart!”

“Sows’ll get you.” Jesus in work overhauls and a dirty white T-shirt added, “They’s never as big as real pigs, but they’s got twice the mean.” Jesus liked Gordo and wanted to support him, but he didn’t get a rise out of either man with his “real pigs” comment. He leaned over and put his hand, palm down, about 24″ off the ground. “This high.” Then he haunched down and put out both hands about three feet apart. “This long, too.”

“Jesus!” one of the hands that had come up just in time to hear the talk said. Three voices answered almost at the same time “Como?” “Si?” “Si?” The newcomer looked down, thought a minute and said “I mean Jeeze. I mean I wasn’t callin you hombres.”

Esteban had his pig hunt in mind. “We got ta git this one. He’s a raider, sometimes alone. Killed a dog. Killed a calf … killed sheep … ate a garden and bit the lady.” He paused and then added, “Probably has kilt kids and messed up more. This is bad compagres, and it’s only gettin worst with this dry. We got to get this here big one and stop some of them others with lead in their pig brains where the killin fever lives.”

Men nodded agreement and held little side conversations. Two Jesuses compared beers and finished them together as if setting a pact. Gordo got up and went to his trailer. He returned with a scoped 30.06, handling it like he knew what it was for. He turned to me, kinda hidden at the side of the group.

“You shoot one of these?”

“I have.”

He handed me the gun, barrel pointed out away, but right at the new man that had joined the group. I took it from him and got the hot end aimed at the dirt. The new guy let his eyes return to almond shape and mouthed a silent “gracias” my way.

Gordo was older than I had first thought. Esteban was in his 40’s, I’d guess, so that made the thin man oh … maybe 55 or 60. Gordo was probably the natural leader of any group of Charros. Esteban was challenging and pushing his pig-hunting agenda. Gordo’s -06 was a one-up on Esteban’s 30-30. He was right about Javalinas not being pigs, and I quietly acknowledged that as he leaned near to dust the scope.

“Outa this here barrel has come enough hell for Javalinas,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear. He hitched a thumb in his fake concho belt and kinda spun around as he talked. “Kilt a raging sow with ten half grown when she attacked my horse ‘n me when I got off to ease the mare.” He stood tall now, addressing the whole camp. “It ain’t so that they come at you alone. Alone they’s cowards. That there Javalina and others I have also kilt always attacks in packs. That mean damed sow had her half-growns … and there was a whole pack back of them in the brush … come out soon as I shot. They was tearing around even as I shot ’em. Horse kicked two. Shot three. Then they got to going after each other and the wounded. I turned the horse and got her going fast. Looked back and it looked like they was fighting each other … hard to see through the dust, though. Meanest mess of animals I ever seen. Later, from my camp, I saw them out crossing a flat, hunting. If they had smelt me I think I’d be dead now.”

Billy Bob was nodding and even before Gordo finished his tale it was obvious that he had stopped listening and was focused upon what he had to say. He put a knife that would have made Jim Bowie seek counseling, down on his knees and made sure he got his words in.

“Packs, that’s how they do it. They always runs in packs and they attacks anythings that they thinks they can kill. That one Esteban wants to get keeps his pack hidden until he beats something out. Then they circle the pobre … whatever it is, and come in slicing and biting. That’s how they comes at you, and that’s what you got to expect when you hunts ’em.” His palms were sweating and he wiped them on his jeans. “It’s possible one man couldn’t kill ’em fast enough to stop ’em. One man could be pig food in short order.” He grinned, looking around at the others for approval.

The big Texican stood up. “Don’t git yerselfs scared boys, a man’s smarter than a damned pig, pack or no. You don’t hunt ’em from a place where they can git at you. You makes a hideway in a tree and baits ’em in. Then…” he raised his arms as if supporting a rifle and made three popping noises, “pow, pow, pow! Don’t take much of a tree either, damned pigs can’t climb.”

The Jesus who hadn’t said anything stood, holstered a long barrel Blackhawk pistol with a Magnum 22 cylinder he had been cleaning, and went to his trailer for another cool one. Another man with a pockmarked face got to his feet and stood facing Esteban, his left side to me. I could see by his profile that he had a lot of Indian blood. He had a rangy, dusty look that told of many days out in the wastelands. He was a Charro, and when he spoke, his voiced had the soft edges of a native Spanish speaker.

“Amigos, donde in the hell you think them officianados be? Them BLM guys — the game wardens? They’s the ones suppost to get them Javalina, no?”

Esteban looked at the man, seeming to focus on the 44 S&W tucked in his belt like a another hand. “Cuts. They got their monies cut. Ain’t none hereabouts since fall.”

“It’s not jist them Javalinas,” the Charro said. “We got trouble with them big cats as well. I crossed the tracks of a lion hoy. Grande gato, that one … and on the prowl for anything he could git. They’ll kill Javalina, sabe? Take un hombre fer desayuno.”

The camp got quiet. The man who had joined late was making a hissing sound. When he spoke he got the others to thinking.

“It’s them or us, out there. Man on foot is meat. Soon dead. I heard that in the past they came at camps in the night. Pigs first, lions came in after the pigs and whatever. It happens boys, you’d better believe it happens! From the amount of sign I cut near here, we’s got plenty of company out there in the arroyos, just waiting their chance. Nothin fer them to eat but us. A dog or two from the campers, but then all they got is us.” He opened a 6″ pocket knife and began to look for something to whittle.

Esteban was noticeably shaken by the man’s words. He balanced his 30-30 in his hands and tried to see out into the dark. “Gotta git ’em fore they gits us. You men? Who’s up fer a fine pig hunt tonight?”

Heads turned faces towards the ground. None volunteered.

“Ifn not tonight, tomorrow? Let’s git the bastards tomorrow.” Esteban’s voice had a higher pitch now. He knew the others weren’t following his lead.

Gordo was looking for this opportunity. He raised his voice and was about to speak when the squeals of some animals out in the dark cut through everyone’s brain. He caught his breath and forced himself to go on. “I’ll go alone if needed. But not in the dark, damn you, best huntin is an hour fore dawn or at dusk.”

All heads turned as more animal noises came from the arroyo back of the dumpster. I thought I could see the small, dark shape of a Javalina move into the garbage-strewn area. The men around me were up and suddenly gone. I heard trailer doors slam and some curses. Then I realized that I was sitting there alone. The desert moon was rising and the shapes of Javalina moved about the dumpster. I got up and moved as quick as I could without running to our trailer. As I closed the door, I heard what sounded like a baby wailing off in the distance. The Javalina made grunting sounds like laughter.

Morning dawned and I went out to see if my companions of the night before had gone hunting. They were getting into their trucks and heading to work.

“What about the pigs?” I asked as Gordo and Emmanuel got into a dilapidated old Dodge.

“Same as always is,” Gordo answered. “It’s like that every night… I mean the talk is. Them boys always likes the imagined more’n the real.”