Black Angus (28 page)

“Where are they?” Tommy kept asking. “Where are they? What happened to them?”

On the way to the corral, Blanchard told him. “Looks like they've been stolen, Tommy.”

But Tommy would not accept it. Shaking his head and crying, he kept insisting that they were there somewhere. “And we find them, Bob. We will. I know we will.”

At the corral, Blanchard got out and inspected what the rain had done to the scene. Heavy as the downpour had been, there were still clear signs of what had taken place. In the corral itself the hoofprints had been softened and rounded by the water, making the ground look like cobblestone. There were the broken boards, the corral panels still wired in place, the fresh hoofmarks on the floor of the chute. And beyond the corral were the tire tracks of the semis, some partially obliterated by the rain but others clearly visible for what they were.
Many were still filled with water, narrow pools of evidence leading to the woods road.

Blanchard went back to the truck and got in. “They've been stolen, all right,” he said to Tommy. “This is where they loaded them.”

“But they was our cows!” Tommy cried. “They was our cows!”

“Yeah, I know.”

Tommy's fists smeared at his tears. “They was our cows.”

“And we'll try to get them back.”

“How?”

“The sheriff,” Blanchard said. “We'll get him out here.”

All the way back to the house Blanchard did not look at his brother. He realized that it was getting to be a habit with him.

When Blanchard called in to report the theft, the sheriff told him that it would be over an hour before he could make it to the ranch. So Blanchard had time to consider what his next move should be. He knew that he had to call his insurance agent about the loss, but he did not want to do it so promptly it might seem suspicious. Also, since most of the insurance money would be going to the Rockton bank anyway, he did not doubt that the claim would sail right on through—Gideon would see to that. Therefore he decided not to do anything about the insurance until after the sheriff had gone. Meanwhile there was still the matter of the brucellosis testing, getting ready for the state vet's arrival the next morning.

Blanchard was inclined to forget about the four cattle in the north pasture. The next week he would simply load them up and sell them at the Razorback Sale Barn just over the state line. Chances were he would soon be able to use the thousand dollars, more or less, that the four animals would bring. But as
for the blacks in the front pasture with the Angus bull—those he figured he had better hold onto and have ready for testing by the vet. He considered it important that he at least go through the motions of legitimacy and act like any other rancher trying to survive.

So he took his “funny little whistle,” as Shea called it, and with Tommy helping, moved the black cattle from the front pasture into the holding field behind the main corral. The Angus bull, still remembering the grain of wintertime, followed him all the way into the corral and up to the bullpen, which was bordered on one side by the barn and the three stalls where Blanchard kept the bulls in the winter. Thinking ahead to the next morning, when they would have to brand and load the Angus, Blanchard decided to move him on into his stall for safekeeping.

He opened the gate to the bullpen and then opened the one into the stall, where he poured about ten pounds of ground corn and supplement into the corner feeder. And the bull came in as obediently as a dog, filling the open, door-width gate with his great black bulk for a moment before stepping on inside, his hooves clattering like mallets on the floor and his breath whooshing into the feeder, exploding the chaff. Closing the gate behind him, Blanchard felt a customary touch of fear at being so close to the beast, an involuntary tensing of his body for action, flight, in case the bull ever got the notion that it had had enough of corrals and fences and men. Blanchard could never quite accustom himself to the ease with which the huge beasts accepted the dominion of men. Every time he faced one down, made it run or back off, move here or there, he never missed the absurdity of the occasion, the consistency with which temerity triumphed over reality.

As he climbed out of the stall, the bull turned and looked at him, its jaws grinding powerfully on the grain. The recent rain and the bull's diet of spring grass and clover had left its coat
shining like patent leather and its eyes luminous, a pair of coals wide-set in the massive head behind which the great crest of shoulder muscle rippled and shook, scattering flies. As broad and long as the animal was, it still stood at eye-level with Blanchard, a far cry from the stubby, pony-type Angus that once had been in such vogue. Meeting the bull's impassive gaze, Blanchard found it hard to believe that the animal carried any disease at all, especially one that certified not only it's own destruction but Blanchard's as well. The next morning it would be immobilized in a squeeze-chute and the veterinarian would brand on its face a large
B
for brucellosis, to make sure the animal could not be sold as a breeding bull but only as meat, hamburger for a fast-food culture.

Tommy had come in through the side door of the barn.

“Good old Blackie,” he said. “They didn't steal him.”

“No, he's still ours.”

“And he the best, ain't he, Bob?”

“Darn near.”

“No, he the best. I know he is.”

“Okay, he's the best.”

“And the biggest.”

Blanchard smiled. “The best and the biggest.”

“That's right. The best and the biggest.”

As they left the barn, a car pulled into the farmyard and Sheriff Hume got out, as laboriously as on his first visit, hitching up his gunbelt and adjusting his mirrored sunglasses as though to make sure his eyes were properly hidden from inspection.

“Lost some cows, did ya?” he said to Blanchard.

“Not lost, Sheriff—they were stolen.”

“Well, let's go have a look.”

Blanchard told Tommy to stay near the house in case anyone called. “And run Blackie some more water,” he added,
knowing that the task would make up for any disappointment Tommy felt at being left behind.

Blanchard and the sheriff then got into the pickup and started for the north pasture. As they drove, the sheriff unwrapped a piece of bubble gum and popped it into his mouth.

“Hear about your friend?” he asked.

“Shea?” Blanchard had expected the question.

“Yep, that's the one. Seems as how he didn't leave the area after all.”

“You mean what happened at the Sweet Crick?”

“That's what I mean, all right.”

Blanchard, thinking, lit a cigarette. “I was there that night,” he said. “In fact, I saw it happen. That new friend of his, Little, was doing the driving.”

“But Little ain't no friend of yers, huh?”

“I've met him, that's all. Can't say I liked him, though.”

The sheriff put his hand between his legs and scratched absently at his testicles. “Yeah, I been hearin' about that feller ever since I took over. Deputies told me about his record and all, and that we should keep an eye on him. You know.”

Blanchard nodded.

“So I wasn't too surprised when I got this call—let's see, it was the night before last, right after all that rain. Sheriff at Springfield called and told me about it, how this Little was up to his old tricks again.”

Blanchard tried to sound casual, only politely interested. “What'd he do?”

“Well, it seems he was hitchhikin' at night north of Springfield, and this old boy gives him a ride in his pickup and Little pulls a knife on him, tells him to stop and git out, he's takin' the truck for his own. Well, this old boy he just slams on the brakes and almost puts Little through the windshield. Then, just to be on the safe side, he clobbers him with this pet rock he carries on the dashboard and then dumps him off at the
sheriff's in Springfield. Sheriff called me to see if there was any other warrants out on him, which there wasn't—though I did say I wanted to question him about the other night at the Sweet Crick.”

They were almost at the corral now. “What'd he want the truck for?” Blanchard asked.

The sheriff laughed. “Well, for transportation, I guess. Said somethin' about needin' it to track down his sister. Claims she stole somethin' off him.”

Blanchard was reasonably sure that the sheriff already knew about his relationship with Ronda, so he decided not to play the innocent. “Ronda?” he said. “Was she up in Springfield?”

“You know her, do ya?”

“Sure, I know her. What'd he say she took from him?”

The sheriff shrugged, grunting as he struggled out of the truck. “Who knows? It's not my case, not that one anyway. But you know, it's funny how you seem to know all these people. I mean, how you're kinda involved with all of 'em, you know?”

They were at the corral now, walking around the outside of it. “Just her and Shea,” Blanchard said. “I don't really know her brother.”

“Don't know Little, huh?”

“Just who he is, that's all.”

“He ain't your friend like this Shea, huh?”

“That's right.”

“And Shea—he didn't come back and see you anymore, huh? After he beat up Jiggs and that other feller at the Sweet Crick?”

“No, I haven't seen him. He's gone.”

The sheriff nodded dubiously. “Yeah, I guess maybe he is. This time.”

Blanchard had tried not to let on how interested he was in what the sheriff told him, how relieved in a way he felt at
knowing finally, definitely, what had happened. And while he wanted to know more, he knew it was time to change the subject to the matter at hand.

“This is where they loaded them, Sheriff. Or at least where it looks like they did.”

Nodding, the sheriff walked back around the corral, inspecting the broken boards, the steel panels, the tire tracks.

“How many cattle you say you had in this pasture?” he asked.

“A little over two hundred head, counting calves and yearlings.”

“Boy, that's a good bunch. And how big is the pasture?”

“Eighty acres.”

The sheriff smiled quizzically. “Kind of overloaded, wasn't ya?”

“It was just temporary. I'd arranged with Bill Ross in Rockton to spray two of my fields—in fact, I just called him this morning and canceled, because of the rain. And the cattle in those other fields, I had to put in here, with the yearlings.”

“When'd you move 'em?”

“Sunday, I think it was. My brother helped me.”

“Anyone else know you moved 'em all into here?”

“Not that I know.”

The sheriff leaned on the top board of the corral and blew a large pink bubble. When it broke, his tongue gathered it in. “Well, sure looks like someone did,” he said. “When'd you check them last?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“And it rained Wednesday. So it had to be Tuesday afternoon or night they took 'em.”

“Looks that way.”

“And next time you checked 'em was this morning, three days later. That's quite a spell, ain't it, considerin' how many head you had in here?”

Blanchard had expected the question. “Too long a spell, right. Normally I check my cattle every day, or at most every other day. But this just isn't a normal time for me, Sheriff. My wife left me, went back to Saint Louis with my boy, and—well, I guess I drank a little more Wednesday during the rain than I should have. Anyway, I didn't feel much like checking anything yesterday.”

The sheriff appeared to enjoy the confession. He grinned and took off his glasses, revealing a pair of blue, smile-squinted eyes, nothing worth hiding after all. “Happens to the best of us,” he said. “And believe me, I speak from experience.”

Laughing, he got out a pad and pencil and began making notes, using the truck's hood as a desk. He asked for a description of the cattle and Blanchard gave it to him, as well as the name of his insurance company, and the sheriff laboriously wrote it all down, licking the tip of his pencil after every line.

Finally he closed the book, returned it to his pocket, and got into the pickup with Blanchard, who started the engine and headed back.

“Well, that should about cover it,” the sheriff said. “I wish I could promise you more, but these livestock cases is just so damn hard to break. A shipment like yours, over two hundred head—hell, they could divide it into four or five parts and sell 'em out a little at a time next fall.”

Blanchard said he understood. The sheriff changed the subject then, asking if the “feller” he had seen back at the ranch was Blanchard's brother. He said what a nice feller Tommy seemed to be, “so kind of easygoin' and different.” Blanchard had heard the routine before, invariably from ignorant men, and it always angered him. They not only seemed to take pleasure in noticing Tommy's
difference
, but also wanted it spelled out for them, wanted actually to hear it, that he was abnormal, retarded, “not right.” And then they would cosset
the information, cluck over it like a gaggle of church ladies and claim they never would have guessed, he looked so normal. Blanchard knew why they did it, knew that for an Ozark hillbilly inferiors were not all that easy to come by, and such a glaring example as Tommy could not be permitted to slip by unnoticed. But understanding their motivation in no way lessened his contempt for them and what they did. So he ignored the sheriff's interest in Tommy, not even answering him as they drove on, leaving the north pasture and heading toward the farmyard.

His mind was just starting to drift to other matters as he followed the ranch road past the main corral. And it was then, in his peripheral vision, that he saw the thing begin to happen, an image as brief as a passing film frame—Tommy, beyond the corral and bullpen, standing in the open door-gate of the Angus bull's stall, and starting to move forward, toward the bull, which was lying couchant in the stall, its massive head raised, looking up as Tommy drew nearer, his hand reaching out to pet it as if it were Spot or Kitty. Blanchard immediately slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the truck—another frame moving past, so incredibly slowly, it seemed—and as he hit the ground running, starting to yell, he saw the bull already exploding to its feet, performing in an instant that move which it normally would undertake so wearily, as if it had all day to get it done. And then it came forward through the narrow open gate like a locomotive out of a tunnel, a rage of black power smashing Tommy against the gate post as if he were a glass figurine before surging on across the bullpen and driving head-down through the bullpen gate and on across the corral to the high oak-plank fence, where it suddenly took off, a ton of leaping deer that came down on the top two rails, smashing them like twigs as it floated to the ground and freedom, and then charged across the wooded holding field toward the other blacks, the similarly condemned.