CHAPTER FOUR
537 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
Guy Dafoe didn’t particularly like getting up so early in the morning. But at least these days he was working hard to take care of his own cattle rather than the herds he’d handled for other owners. Early morning chores seemed well worth the effort now.
The sun was rising, and he knew it was going to be a beautiful day. He loved the smell of the fields and the sounds of the cattle.
He’d spent years working bigger ranches and bigger herds. But this was his own land, his own animals. And he was feeding these animals right, not raising them artificially on grain and hormones. That was a waste of resources, and production-line cattle lived miserable lives. He felt good about what he was doing.
He’d plunged all his savings into buying this farm and a few cattle to start out with. He knew it was a big risk, but he had faith that there was a real future in sales of grass-fed beef. It was a growing market.
The yearling calves were clustered up around the barn, where he’d penned them up last night in order to check on their health and development. They watched him and mooed softly, as if waiting for him.
He was proud of his small herd of Black Angus, and sometimes he had to resist the temptation to become fond of them, as if they were pets. These were food animals, after all. It would be a bad idea to get very attached to any of them individually.
Today he wanted to turn the yearling calves into the roadside pasture. The field they were in now was eaten down short, and the good legume and grass pasture down by the road was ready for grazing.
Just as he swung wide gate open, he noticed something odd on the far side of the pasture. It looked like some kind of tangle or bundle over near the road.
He grumbled aloud …
“Whatever it is, it probably isn’t good.”
He slipped through the opening and pushed the gate shut again, leaving the yearlings where they were. He didn’t want to turn his stock into this field until he found out what that strange object was.
As he strode across the field, he grew more puzzled. It looked like a huge wad of barbed wire hanging from a fence post. Had a roll of the stuff bounced off of someone’s truck and wound up there somehow?
But as he walked closer to it, he saw that it wasn’t a new roll. It was a tangle of old wire, wrapped in all directions.
It didn’t make any sense.
When he reached the bundle and stared into it, he realized that something was inside.
He leaned toward it, peered closely, and felt a sudden cold chill of terror.
“Holy hell!” he yelled, jumping backward.
But maybe he was only imagining things. He forced himself to look again.
There it was—a woman’s face, pale and wounded, contorted in agony.
He grabbed the wire to pull it off her, but quickly stopped himself.
It’s no use, he realized. She’s dead.
He staggered over to next fencepost, leaned on it, and retched violently.
Pull yourself together, he told himself.
He had to call the police—right now.
He staggered away and broke into a run toward his house.
- Writer
