Like a wagon train circled against Indian attack, the small mob of medium-sized pigs stood shoulder to shoulder, bunched up tight, not willing to break eye contact or ranks. With all focus on the barking dogs, we were able to walk in close undetected. For a short time, the mob held its nerve, unflappable, unmovable, but that persona changed the instant Royce shouldered the compact, hard-hitting coach gun. With an overconfident porker in the front row head-butted a solid, he hit the ground hard and stayed there. Suddenly, like politicians caught in a lie, everyone wanted to be on the next ‘tax payer funded’ flight out of town. It was pandemonium as the mob scattered in all directions. In the commotion, I fired the .50cal white-mountain carbine at a high-speed…