“Aay compadre, what ju doing? Este noo hunting aqui! …. Go!” Came words from beneath a black as sin moustache. Through habit of no longer having a keen sense of hearing, I had stared to read the uniformed officer’s lips. But it was to no avail for his lips were concealed beneath a brush of hair. Thankfully he spoke loud enough for me to hear, even if I expected other words from him. I started to back away, but then looked back one more time. He cast a glance with his dark ordering eyes; then with a sweeping motion of his chin pointed me away.
As I started retreating I heard him laugh, then say something I didn’t understand in Spanish, or maybe one of the local Indian dialects. One thing was certain he didn’t care for my presence. And the fact I had a .375 H&H Mag rifle in my hand didn’t seem to overly impress him.
A few minutes later back at the Jeep, I felt a bit “safer” in the presence of three other “armed” individuals, two friends and the local outfitter with whom we were hunting Coues whitetails in the sierras of eastern Sonora.
Before I could even utter a word of how I had just been treated our local guide spoke, “Senor, iss nada to worry ‘bout. Eeet’s only Juan, or local…I think ju wood call him a kunstable. ‘ee’s no problema. ‘e likes to scare de tourists. ‘eee’ll be in our campo later dees evening. You see, ee’ll be different den. ‘sides senor Colorado ee’s gonna be ju guide dees week!”
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