As the first pipe was tilted upward by the winch, a great shushing sound came forth. Instead of dirt or water or rust, what flew from the downward end of the pipe was a six-foot snake, striped in green, gray, and black, thick as a bread loaf. When the snake came free, it formed an S in the air, caught the afternoon sun in the silver ladder of its belly scales, and fell dead in the weeds by the reservoir. Its body whumped like a feedbag on the hard summer sedge.
Klinsman’s sister Connie ran to the snake first. Quickly she was there, kneeling, petting its spade-shaped head, trying to quiet the angry glare in its eyes. Alejandro, the ranch hand who had shown them all how to shoe horses and lay pipe, arrived next to take gentle hold of little Connie’s wrist and make sure the snake was as dead as it appeared. He flopped the upper jaw and nodded.
They all stood back a little at the raising of the next pipe. Again there came a sound, a similar hushing but much softer and slower. What came forth from this pipe amused the brothers and sisters but greatly concerned Dr. Klinsman and Alejandro. It seemed at first a snake, of similar length and color as the other. It too formed an S in the afternoon sun as it came free. But it floated on the air for a moment, flicked its tail in the breeze, rose a bit as though it were the ghost of the snake before. When it fell, it settled like a falling kite without a sound and lay delicately on the tips of the brittle summer grass.
Aaron was the first to this one, beating Connie by a step to stroke the translucent scales. It was the hollow skin of another snake, perfectly formed and intact, with a piece of the rattle caught on its tail end. It felt like something from the sea, cool and moist as kelp. He wanted to put his arm in it.
The snakeskin was carefully mounted on the wall of the barn attic. The Klinsmans had fashioned the barn’s upper floor into a clubhouse, complete with pool table, dartboard, refrigerator, water spigot, and daybeds. The western window of the big A-frame had a spectacular view of the borderlands and the Pacific. You could see the sunset over the Coronado Islands. Most of the redwood barns of the borderland ranches had spaces like this, rustic dormers for hired hands, migrant workers. The Klinsman children considered themselves ranch hands, so this attic was theirs.
The four oldest brothers were named after the Book of Daniel. Dan, the oldest, organized and led the snake hunt. He used the snakeskin mounted on the wall as his point of reference, often stroking its scales with his fingertips as he instructed his brothers and sisters on the dangers of this particular subspecies of pit viper, its speed, its utter lack of hesitation, the intensity and complexity of its venom. He was already in college, premed, as all his younger siblings would be, until the last of the nine—Aaron—broke tradition.
During formal phases of the hunt, they were instructed to search in assigned pairs. The oldest in each pairing was to keep a half step in front while searching and also while overturning any object that could cover a possible hiding place. Aaron was paired with the youngest of the first set of brothers. Azariah believed everything was a game, or so it seemed to Aaron. Not yet in college, Az wore his hair in an unfashionable crew cut but got dates anyway. He liked Aaron because the little boy was always up for his elaborate games and designs—designs that often played out for days, weeks, or the length of a summer.
The set of four sisters, born in sequence after the set of four brothers, was named after the Immaculate Conception. Perhaps their mother, who had taken charge of all the naming, had hopes that these names, their stories, would somehow fortify her children. Mary, the oldest, used her name and her position as the middle child to claim a position as lieutenant in all family decisions and events. Thus, she stood second in command to Dan on the snake hunt. Mary would not touch the skin, though. She paired herself with Connie with the expressed purpose of keeping the littlest sister, not quite eleven, from running all about the ranch in hopes of catching the giant Crotalus lepidus first. Connie bounced on the daybed as Dan and Mary gave their instructions until Josephine calmed her by putting a pet rat into her hands.
Aaron, who was not named after the Book of Daniel or the Immaculate Conception or the story of Moses, stared fascinated at the snakeskin on the barn wall. He imagined it on his arm like a sleeve, watched the barn light glisten on the green, gray, and black scales, which were as large and inviting as nickels. Unattached to any set or book, he remained a free radical among his siblings, was not even assigned a room or bed, was left by his mother to find a nook and pillow each night in whatever room would take him. His father, for once claiming rights at his final child’s birth, had named him on the day Hank Aaron had set the home run record.
As adults twenty years after the hunt, Jo and Liz, who eventually used their premed degrees from UC to become animal behaviorists, posted old 8-mm footage of six-year-old Connie wearing a bull snake around her neck as she walks the north fence line. Dappled light sifting through the eucalyptus adds flicker and grain to the silent footage, making it seem even older. Just as Klinsman warned his sisters, soon after they put the footage up on their sites and spaces, the clip quickly made its way around the web. How could it not? In the footage little Connie’s image is ethereal as she walks calmly toward the camera, letting the snake coil around her, nosing her throat and shoulders.
The ranch hunt for Crotalus lepidus posed a great challenge for Dr. Klinsman. Only one of his children, the middle one, Mary, feared snakes. She was in fact the only one who was not fascinated by them—fascinated by all animals, really. So by having them organize the hunt, partake actively, Dr. Klinsman made the ranch safer. Except during formal hunting, no one was allowed to go off pavement unaccompanied. Awareness of the snake remained high.
A herpetologist from the zoo conducted a couple of fruitless searches. He told them the snake could live in this climate only for about two weeks, that the cool ocean nights and mornings would be the viper’s undoing. He was very confident. Jo and Liz, already on their way, apparently, questioned him intently. Connie told him it could live forever. She pointed to the skin mounted on their clubhouse wall. The herpetologist seemed surprised at the skin’s length, the nickel-sized scales. He went silent and left soon after that. “Good luck,” he said to them.
Two chickens disappeared. The horses neighed most nights. But no traces were ever found, no signatures appeared in the sand and dust. During the summer months on the ranch, it was not unusual for foxes to come out of the dry riverbeds seeking food and water. Perhaps they had taken the chickens. And so, after three weeks, the formality of the hunt dissolved. All precautions were lifted. The snake became a phantom, escaped from the skin of the physical world. For all except Alejandro, who continued to work the ranch armed with a staff he had fashioned from eucalyptus. It had a forked end.
The snake hunt became a game, especially for Az, who took his assigned partner, Aaron, with him on exaggerated expeditions stocked with stolen beer and hard rolls from Tijuana. On what was to be the last of these play hunts, Az and his little brother began near the house, just off the driveway, where Alejandro was repairing an irrigation stanchion. Their mother claimed she could see Alejandro and her two sons from the kitchen window.
They began at the doghouse, which was used not to house the ranch Labs but to store irrigation repair tools. Az, who even as an adult could not explain why he confused game with reality, suggested to Aaron that they raise one end of the doghouse, look under there. Alejandro, just off to the side, stood suddenly, just as Az and Aaron took their prescribed positions—older sibling to the fore, younger a half step back and to the side.
Az was laughing when he lifted the end of the doghouse, laughing at little Aaron’s formal and sincere stance, still following the rules of the barn. Alejandro was moving toward them deliberately with his staff, speaking calmly in Spanish, a crease in his dark brow.
Aaron saw the snake first. It appeared unreal to him, an oversized and gaudy plaster sculpture of a Mexican pit viper, a thing from the movies. Its head was raised. Its rattle sounded. Aaron imagined