Black Angus (25 page)

She did not contradict him. Folding the paper, she put it in the pocket of her jeans and went back to the sink to resume washing the dishes.

Early in the afternoon Blanchard loaded the pickup with eighteen fifty-pound sacks of feed, the portable feedbunks, and a half-dozen steel-rod corral panels. And because his destination—the north pasture corral—was so far from the house, he took along everything else he thought he might possibly need for the operation that evening, including his Yamaha trail bike, a supply of boards, his tool kit, a sledgehammer, ax, shovels, chainsaw, steel fence posts, and barbed wire. Tommy, helping him load it all, asked what they were going to do and Blanchard said it was nothing very important, just a little work in the north end, but that he was going to have to do it alone. He told Tommy that he wanted him to stay at the house and look after Ronda because she was afraid to be alone. Tommy looked crestfallen.

“It's important,” Blanchard said. “You can help me more here.”

“What's she afraid of? There ain't nothin' be afraid of, is there?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I come with, okay?”

“No, you stay and look after things. It's important.”

Reluctantly, Tommy gave in. “Okay, Bob.”

“And one other thing—if the police come here looking for Shea, you let Ronda do the talking, all right? If they ask you anything, like where I am, you just tell them you don't know.”

“Okay.”

“But only if they ask. Don't say anything otherwise.”

“Did Shea do something bad?” Tommy asked.

“In a way. The guys who beat him up—he hurt them pretty bad.”

“That's just gettin' even, ain't it?”

“That's right. So don't help the police if they come here. Don't say anything, unless they ask you. And then say you don't know. Okay?”

Tommy nodded gravely.

“I'll see you later.”

When he reached the far corner of the pasture, Blanchard unloaded the steel panels and wired them tight against those points in the corral where the pressure of the cattle would be greatest, especially along the outside perimeter of the crowding pen and the point where it narrowed into the alley and finally the loading chute itself. The biggest danger, he knew, would come from the smaller yearlings. The cows and bulls were too large to turn in the alley, and the calves were small enough to turn around without breaking anything. But the yearlings—those heifers and younger steers weighing about five hundred pounds—were just the right size to wedge themselves against both sides of the alley as they tried to turn back, which would put such enormous pressure on the corral boards that anything less than two-inch oak usually would break. And then the animal would plunge on through the
opening, with those behind it surging after, like water bursting through a dam.

So Blanchard reinforced the vulnerable areas with the webbed, steel-rod panels, wiring them tight against the boards and posts. And when he was finished he unloaded four of his steel feedbunks into the open part of the corral, adding them to the two wooden bunks already there. Then he filled them with feed from the truck, being careful to pick up the empty sacks and throw them back into the truck for burning later. By then some of the cattle were already beginning to congregate around the corral, especially the yearlings, which were used to daily feedings of grain. But Blanchard waited until almost five o'clock before he blew his whistle, knowing that by then most of the cattle would have gone to the creek or the ponds for water before they started grazing again. And as on the day before, the cattle responded predictably, with those that heard the whistle immediately running toward it, and the others, more distant, setting out in pursuit of the runners, obeying the irresistible herd instinct. Standing in the bed of the truck, Blanchard saw them coming from the farthest part of the pasture and from the woods bordering the creek, like metal filings flowing dutifully toward the magnet of the whistle's piercing sound.

He wanted only enough cattle in the corral to fill the first truck, so he did not wait for all of them to arrive. He threw open the corner gate and stepped back as they lumbered in, the cows' udders flapping as they ran. When he judged that he had at least fifty animals inside, he let out a shout and swung the gate against the flow, forcing the animals back. He chained the gate closed then and climbed up onto the corral, where he sat and watched this first group as they ate the grain. He did not doubt that some mothers and their calves had been separated in the rush, which in time would make for a prolonged
and angry bellering. But for now there was only appetite, with the boss cows getting the best of it as always.

He sat there until after the feed was gone and the cows on the inside were dimly beginning to realize what had happened to them, that somehow they had lost their freedom. There was a spate of butting then, yearlings getting in the way of the boss cows, but it did not appear serious, not the kind of melee that could have battered down the sides of the corral, as would have been the case if a couple of bulls had gone at it, within that narrow confine. So he got into his truck and started back, satisfied that the herd would remain pretty much as it was, at least for now, with those inside the corral wanting out and those on the outside wanting in. The bovine was not a crafty animal.

When he reached the house, he was surprised to see Ronda coming up the drive in his car. Getting out, she explained.

“Some things I forgot at my place. Female things.”

“You're not sick?” he asked.

“I'll get by.”

“If you're sick, just tell me. You don't have to go through with it.”

“I'm okay. I'm fine.”

“All right.”

Inside, Blanchard tried to relax with a couple of scotch and waters while he watched the five-thirty news, Walter Cronkite looking genuinely chagrined at the way the world was turning out. But Blanchard comprehended almost nothing of what he saw and heard, for his mind was on the job ahead. If all went well, within two hours he would be loading the cattle, and two hours after that the trucks would be on their way to Kansas City. By noon of the next day the cattle would be sold and by midnight tomorrow he would have his money, almost fifty thousand dollars. If all went well.

When it came time to leave, he explained to Tommy that he was going to have to take Ronda back to her place.

“So you stay with Spot and Kitty,” he told him. “And if anybody calls or comes up, you just say I'm not here.”

“Okay.”

“And I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“You be back soon.”

“And you'll be all right.”

“I be all right.”

Blanchard picked up an apple and one of the sandwiches Ronda had made for him and Tommy, and then the two of them left. Blanchard took the long way, following the country road around his ranch to the dirt lane that led back into the north pasture and the loading corral. He ate as he drove, while Ronda, in jeans and a tank-top, sat next to him with her huge denim shoulder bag balanced on her knees. She kept looking straight ahead, her eyes the same as before, and Blanchard knew that if he did not say something, nothing would be said.

“Well, here we go. This is it, as they say.”

She did not respond.

“You be glad to see Kansas City again?”

“The stockyards isn't exactly Kansas City.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I don't care anyway. The only K.C. I knew was the dives. The pits.”

He looked at her. “You all right?”

“I'm fine,” she said.

When they got to the corral, Blanchard found that most of the cattle outside had wandered off and were grazing again. The ones inside were standing patiently in the still-bright, early evening sunlight, some bawling for their calves or their mothers on the other side of the corral fence. Blanchard got out the trail bike and started it, then shut it off, making sure it would be in running order in case he needed it later in rounding
up the last of the herd. For a time he sat with Ronda on the tailgate of the pickup then, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the trucks to arrive. But her reticence got to him finally and he went into the corral to recheck the panels he had wired in place earlier.

Before he finished he heard them in the distance, the sound of the air brakes hissing on the county road beyond the swath of woods that ran along the north side of the ranch. Then one by one the four semis came rumbling out of the trees, moving slowly over the same dirt road Blanchard had taken. Though they were of different makes and colors, the trucks had a certain uniformity in that all of them were old and battered flatnosed tractors pulling forty-foot stock trailers in even worse condition, listing to one side or the other, with slats missing here and there. As they drew near, Blanchard climbed out of the corral and went to meet them, waving the first in line to a stop. Little was the driver.

“You're early,” Blanchard said.

“Better than late, ain't it?”

Blanchard motioned for him to proceed to the corral. “I'll guide you,” he said. “And go easy on the brakes. They might spook the cattle.”

Nodding, Little put the truck in gear and roared slowly forward, swinging past the loading chute and then stopping, shifting into reverse. Blanchard, standing just to the left of the chute opening, gestured for him to start back, and Little did so, expertly kissing the huge trailer up against the chute in one try. Shea and the other two drivers meanwhile had gotten out of their tractors and were coming over. Blanchard went to meet them.

“This is Jack and Junior,” Shea said. “And this, gentlemen, is—”

“Bob,” Blanchard broke in. “That's all, just Bob.”

The two men obviously were father and son, lean, toughlooking rednecks not comfortable with social amenities. Except for Jack's wrinkles and crew cut, they could have been twins. The younger man wore his hair shoulder-length, like a hippie. But he also wore a cowboy hat and boots, as did his father, which Blanchard was relieved to see, for it at least suggested they had experience handling cattle.

The father nodded curtly to Blanchard, while Junior did not even do that, just hung back chewing a toothpick as he looked about him with sour hostility.

“Settle up now or after we load?” Jack asked.

“After,” Blanchard said.

“Suit yerself. But I don't want no hagglin' on the price then. Little said two thousand, and that's what she is.”

“That's understood.”

“Okay then.” Jack walked to the corral and looked in at the cattle. “Look like purty good stock,” he allowed.

“They're okay,” Blanchard said. “One of you can work the chute and the other get inside with me. That sound all right?”

Jack nodded. Junior made no response.

“Git the hot stick,” his father told him.

“You think we'll need it?” Blanchard did not like electric prods. They made for nervous cattle.

“It he'ps.” Jack said.

Blanchard got Shea, Little, and Ronda together and positioned them just outside the corral, at those points where the cattle might bunch up and try to burst out. He explained that the three of them were not to get in front of the cattle, which might scare them and break their flow toward the chute, but were to move along the fence with them in a lateral position, talking softly and prodding any who faltered.

Junior, carrying the hotshot, came back and positioned himself at the base of the chute, where the cattle were most likely
to balk. With Jack, Blanchard then circled to the far corner of the corral and climbed inside, which made the already frightened cattle surge away from them, flowing along the inside perimeter of the fence. Calling softly—a mirthless
ha, ha, ha
—the two men pushed the animals like a giant broom across the corral and into the tighter quarters of the crowding pen and then closed the gate before climbing into the pen themselves and beginning the final push, whacking the cattle with their canes and shouting louder now, more and more urgently until the flow really began, the animals charging in their panic up the chute and into the trailer not one by one but more as a chain, a roaring stream of beef and fear. Within a few minutes it was over, without a straggler or a broken board.

“Now how about that!” Shea laughed. “Am I a cowboy or am I a cowboy!”

Over the next two hours that initial run of luck did not repeat itself. Three more times Blanchard refilled the bunks with grain and then blew his whistle while the others moved away from the corral in order not to spook the cattle. In loading the second group, one of the bulls collapsed in the chute and would not budge even for Junior's eager hotshot. Already limping and bloody, probably from fighting the other bull in the pasture that day, the animal just lay there until Blanchard reached the chute and like the master himself, old Clarence, jumped onto the animal's back and proceeded to perform a fandango on him, digging and kicking his heels into the thick muscling of his back and chest until the beast finally rose up, like a buckling in the earth itself, and tossed Blanchard over the side of the chute.

During the loading of the third group, one of the corral posts broke off, and if it had not been for the steel panels over a dozen cows and calves would have burst through, with little chance of their being rounded up again. And in corralling the
last group, Blanchard had to use his trail bike to round up a number of stragglers. Minutes later this same group proved too much for the old corral, which broke at the corner of the crowding pen, with four animals getting through, two yearlings and a cow and calf. Blanchard decided to leave them. It was almost dark. He wanted the trucks out of there.

In the headlights of his pickup he counted out two thousand dollars for Jack, which made the man grin for the first time since he had arrived. Little made one of his clumsy attempts at camaraderie, winking at Blanchard and slapping him on the back and telling him not to worry, the rest of the operation would be a “piece of cake.” Blanchard forced a smile, not wanting to alienate him, not at this point anyway. Then he walked with Ronda and Shea to the semi that the big man would be driving, with her as his passenger.