The full moon had just risen over the mountains to the east, looking improbably huge on the horizon, with a feathery row of distant Digger pines silhouetted across its face. The air was so clear out here that Monty could easily see the surface features of the moon with his naked eye. The moonlight was more than adequate for visibility at this slow speed and over such familiar terrain, so Monty was driving without lights. Although there were slim odds of having the game warden or sheriff pass by on the half mile of county road which crossed the ranch, it was always best to take as many precautions as possible to avoid detection. Ranchers wanted protection against nighttime poachers who not only vandalized property but frequently killed domestic animals as well as the wild pigs: so they themselves had to exercise caution when doing the hunting on their own property.
When he neared the stack, Monty reached over and pulled the floor lever which put the truck into 4-wheel-drive. As he swung off the hard-packed trail, he tapped the gas pedal and the exhaust note changed to an eager growl as the tires bit into the softer hillside, the powerful engine easily pulling the truck up the steep incline. Monty was familiar with every inch of his beloved ranch, and he had already visualized exactly where he wanted to sit tonight. He swung the truck into position under the overhanging branches of a lone oak tree, flicked the headlights on and off quickly to check that they were directed toward the haystack, and cut the engine. He was about 75 yards distant, close enough for very accurate shooting with a 9-power scope, but downwind and far enough away to avoid arousing suspicions by the wild animals. He was in place for his night's work.
With the dome light switched off, Monty carefully opened the truck door, grateful that he kept it maintained so that there wasn't any squeak from the hinges. He placed a sleeping bag on the still-warm hood of the truck, then pulled out the Remington 700 rifle and laid it on top. He pulled back the bolt to ensure that there was a shell in the chamber and checked that the clip had its full complement of 7 more bullets, doing everything slowly and cautiously to avoid any noise. He picked up the heavy gun, leaned against the truck's fender, and found a comfortable position with his elbows resting firmly on the padded hood, then sighted through the scope. With the crosshairs centered on the broken bales at the side of the stack, he turned the knurled rings on the scope to adjust the distance and focus, until the bales, gleaming dully in the bright moonlight, were as clear as if they were ten feet in front of the truck. He clicked off the safety, laid the rifle back down, and climbed into the cab to wait. It could be hours until the pigs arrived.