I had spotted them as well. There were at least two javelinas staring in our direction. Picking my way through the cactus I began to sneak toward the javelina. At about 70 yards I looked them over; their hair bristled, and their noses were in the air as they became very aware that danger was near. Having seen enough, the javelinas whirled and disappeared into the arid desert brush. Mesmerized by the javelina and the lonely Big Bend, country I holstered my pistol.

"Where did they go?" my partners asked.

"They ran like the wind, I said.

The rugged 11,000-acre ranch that Staley, Trent, and I were hunting is located in the San Francisco Creek area in Brewster County, Texas. The ranch, owned by Glen Bob Hinkle and his family, is 46 miles southwest of Sanderson, Texas. This part of the world is fierce. With less than 12 inches of annual rain, only the toughest of plants and animals can endure. It is also deceptive. The untrained would never expect big game to thrive in such an intimidating land. Javelina and mule deer abound, and mountain lion and black bear can at times be found roaming the Trans-Pecos area. We had driven 440 miles to the ranch, hoping to get a shot at a javelina. My two sidekicks are avid bow hunters, and we spent more than a few hours on our way to the ranch debating the merits of six-guns and bows. On our arrival, Glen Bob informed as a bonus we could "take any predator we saw’

Well inside the ranch, we stopped the truck in a creosote bush flat to take a few pictures. Except for Alaska, this was the most remote country I had ever seen. Only 20 miles from the Mexico border and 30 miles from Big Bend National Park, this is a paradise for the hunter who enjoys wild and secluded areas. Slowly, we started our decent to the canyon floor. San Francisco Creek cuts along the foothills of the Tinaja Mountains and flows southeast to the Rio Grande River. Although dry most of the time, San Francisco Creek is a brush- choked refuge for many species of wild life. The old ranch road that runs parallel to the creek is very rough, to say the least. About an hour before dark as the Santiago Mountains were turning a deep blue color, we began to see more javelina.

Easing down the rocky lane, my partners and I would stop and glass when we thought anything looked out of place. Busy looking for javelina, I was surprised to see the road ahead begin to narrow. Later that night, we would learn the owner of the ranch called this area the ‘shut ins’. The towering stonewalls looked like Charlie Russell himself had painted them -- Gray and black streaked obstructions of solid rock 150 feet high and 300 feet long. This geological feature forced the creek and the road to merge into one. As far as I was concerned, the shut ins looked like a first-class area for a handgunner to waylay a javelina.

Scanning the desert scrub with my binoculars, my mind began to think back to the fall of 1979. I killed my first big game animal that year, a black bear in San Juan Mountains in Colorado. The six and a half inch model 29 that I used to take the bear was a fine gun. However, twenty-one years later, I stood admiring my .45 Colt single action revolver built by John Linebaugh. The barrel was five and a half inches long, unfluted cylinder, Bowen rear sight and custom French walnut stocks. Oddly enough, the first big bore six-gun I ever owned was nearly identical to the .45 Ruger/Linebaugh. My first big-bore, a Super Blackhawk .44 magnum built by Elton Teague, was cut to five and a half inches and had a few other non-factory embellishments. I guess I had come full circle.

The only heartfelt change in 22 years of handgunning was switching from the .44 magnum to the .45 Colt cartridge. The Ruger-Linebaugh single action

Bisley seems to fit my style. My preference in hunting bullets always runs toward a cast bullet with a flat nose. Hunter’s Supply of Tioga, Texas cast the 328-grain LBT LFN I was using. The LBT design has been a terrific bullet for me. I have taken many deer with this load and have never recovered a single bullet. I handloaded this heavyweight to medium velocity of 1070 fps with 17.5 grains of 2400. I suppose I have been lucky; I have never lost a game animal with this combination.

It is funny to me that I cannot remember a person’s name two minutes after being introduced, but when I begin to focus on a big game animal, I can remember every detail. The javelina was backed into a huge prickly pear cactus staring directly at me. Staley and Trent had seen them about the same time as I and were keenly watching as I lined up the rear sight on the .45 colt. The desert pigs knew we were there, but with little or no hunting pressure, they were in no hurry to run. The largest of the four was only 15 yards away, looking at me head on. Adjusting my grip on the revolver, I began to squeeze the 3- pound trigger on the Ruger/Linebaugh. The blast from the .45 echoed off the canyon walls and javelina took off in every direction. A torrent of loose sand stirred up by the javelina and the 328-grain bullet hung in the dry desert air. Even through the dust I could see the boar was not going anywhere. Crawling into the cat claw and prickly pear, I noticed the bullet entered center of the chest and exited near the right ham. Calling for my partners to bring the camera, I was pleased with the 52-pound boar. With less than 30 minutes of shooting light, Staley and Trent took off in pursuit of the band of javelina. Alone, I sat on one of the huge boulders along the creek and watched the last rays of a breathtaking sunset.

The headlights of the truck illuminated the old rustic adobe bunkhouse. Up to this point, things were going well: spectacular country, lots of game, ideal weather, but this old adobe was the icing on the cake. Our temporary home was complete with coal oil lamps, propane refrigerator and a sheet iron roof. The bunkhouse added significantly to our stay on the ranch. After stowing our gear in the bunkhouse, Staley and I began caping out the javelina. Finishing up with the javelina, Staley, Trent, and I agreed as far as hunting goes, we had found a real gem in the San Francisco Creek ranch.

We were up before daylight and drove back to the area of the shut ins. Our plan was to hunt down the canyon and meet up around 10:00 am. I decided to try to find a trail that would lead to the top of the canyon and take a few pictures and maybe ambush a coyote. Near the top of the trail, I saw two big javelina running down a narrow draw. From my vantage point atop the chutes, I could see my buddies half-mile down the creek. I hoped they were seeing game as well. The view was extraordinary in the early morning light. I followed the rimrock down the canyon and found a broken arrowhead along the trail. Looking at the relic, I tried to visualize what, if anything had changed since the Indians occupied the region. Not much in my assessment. Around mid morning I began to work my way towards the truck. For all I knew, both young men could have taken javelina.

Driving a short distance Trent stepped out of the Cholla cactus that grows the length of the creek.

"Staley shot one," he said.

"Did you?" I asked.

Shaking his head no, we spotted a camouflage figure work his way out of the mesquite.

"Did you get one?" I asked.

Pointing towards the creek, Staley answered,

" He is down there I think. The shot looked good and I am giving the javelina plenty of time to bleed out before going after him."

Walking along a narrow cattle trail, I followed the bow hunter into the brush. Stopping in his tracks, I knew he had spotted the javelina.

"Is he down?" I asked.

"No," he responded

For the first time, I noticed that the bow-hunter was missing a piece of equipment-- his bow.

"Take my six-gun," I said.

Taking the revolver, Staley lined up the sights on the wounded javelina. I could see the javelina standing up. A deafening boom from the .45 and my nephew had his javelina.

Later that night at the bunkhouse, Glen Bob regaled us with stories of trapping and hunting the mountain lions on the ranch.

"The lions are a real problem for the sheep and goats," Glen said. "One mountain lion had grown so bold he killed a goat within 100 yards of the bunkhouse," he said. The mountain lion stories were right up my alley. I have always wanted to hunt them.

We were out early the next morning, hoping that Trent could take his javelina. The weather was perfect, around 45 degrees and just a slight breeze. The javelina were out feeding on the prickly pear. To say that my nephew, Trent, had trouble would be an understatement. Trent took several close shots at javelina but to no avail. He was what we commonly refer to as "snake-bit." I could go into a lot of technical terms like "different point of impact for different arrows", but I will let him do that. I did offer to let him use the Ruger/Linebaugh .45, but being a dyed in the wool bow hunter, he gracefully refused. We had heard a rifle shot earlier and I was not surprised when Staley showed up with a grey fox he had taken with the .222 Remington. After taking a few photographs and listening to the details, we headed back to the bunkhouse.

I am generally a restless person, always wanting to be on the move, but loading up to leave the ranch, I was in no hurry. The two days of hunting and exploring the San Francisco Ranch had been superb. Recounting the lion stories I had heard from Glen Bob, I began to devise a scheme to bring in a pack of well-trained dogs and horses to hunt the elusive mountain lion and maybe take another javelina the next year. Without a doubt, the Trans-Pecos Region had cast a spell on me.

	Left - Chris Above - Staley
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