Winterkill. P.H. Turner

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СКАЧАТЬ looked up from packing her camera. “I’ll shoot cover footage from ringside if you want.”

      Amusement crinkled Hunter’s brown eyes. “Settled.”

      We had a good view of the dusty arena. Snorting bulls lumbered out of the chute. The stick man tapped the legs of each bull, urging them to the center of the arena.

      “Hey yebba de yebba de yebba de yebba. Whadda ya gemma me? Whadda ya gemma me?”

      The stick man tapped on the legs of a massive black bull and after a flurry of bids, he guided the bull to the new owner’s stock trailer.

      “Why did that bull go for more than average?” I asked Hunter.

      “That bull’s bloodline has some fine stock behind it,” Hunter explained, bringing his mouth down to my ear. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. “Mike Wiley bought him. He needs a new bloodline on his ranch.” He shifted in his chair. “A month ago Wiley paid sixteen hundred dollars apiece for about twenty heifers. Breeders wait a lifetime for a chance at bloodlines like this. That bull is going to sire a lot of calves for the Iron Horse. Each of those heifers will drop seven calves in their lifetime. Count that up! Wiley’ll make money putting him out to stud too. Not a bad life for the bull either.” He smiled.

      The auctioneer called the last bid and closed the auction. Hunter leaned over briefly and touched my forearm. “Would you join me for a glass of wine and dinner? I don’t often get to spend an afternoon with a lovely and intelligent woman.”

      I just met him. Just a casual drink, no dinner. “I’ll be at the station until around seven. I could meet you then for a drink.”

      “Perfect.” He had even white teeth when he smiled. “I’ll meet you at the station and we’ll walk across the square and have a drink at the Plains Hotel. Beautiful old bar built in 1911 when the ranchers began staking their claims.”

      We joined Benita near the door of the arena. A slender young man called, “Mr. Kane, can I have a word with you.”

      “Sure Walker, you need something?” Hunter asked.

      A skinny kid wiped his hands on his dirty jeans and stuck it out to Hunter. “I want to thank you, Mr. Kane, for all you done for me. Takin’ a chance on me and givin’ me this job. I—I got me a new job. Gonna be a cowhand over to the Wildcat with Mr. Rogers’s outfit. I wanted to tell you myself.”

      Hunter gingerly took Walker’s grimy hand. “I’m wishing you the best, Tom. Nate runs a good outfit. I want to hear how you get on.”

      Walker turned on his boot heel with a silent nod and walked away.

      Hunter puffed out his chest and thrust his chin up. “A little protégé of mine.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Kid was in foster care when I met him. Came by the auction house and wanted to work after school. I gave him a chance. Foster care is a terrible place to be. By god, he learned what hard work is. Without me teaching him, he wouldn’t have been hired by Nate.”

      “He finish school?”

      “Naw, he dropped out. I taught him what he needed. Just my little way of helping people. I really enjoy guiding people, you know? I live my life to be an example for others. Damn proud I could help him.” Hunter tilted his head back, clasped his hands behind his back and smiled down at me.

      I heard someone clear his throat. I turned and caught Jake Spooner’s intense gaze. His lips turned up in amusement.

      Hunter caught Jake’s glance, too. “Hello Spooner.”

      “Kane,” Jake said, striding past him.

      “Met Jake Spooner?” Hunter asked. We stepped out of the arena into the afternoon sunlight.

      “Yes, briefly. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

      “You’ll get to know him. Cheyenne’s not that big.”

       6

      Hunter was at the station at exactly seven PM. We walked out into the crisp night, to his recitation of the virtues of the Plains hotel. “It’s early Twentieth century. They brought the wood and stone by wagon from Colorado. Look at that veranda topped by five stories of gables and windows. Grand isn’t it?”

      Hunter opened the double glass doors into the wood paneled bar. He pointed up. “Original tin ceilings.” Our images reflected from a leaded glass mirror hung behind the bartender.

      “I love this place” Hunter ran his hand over the smooth wood. “A hundred years of cattle and land deals were done here. Some of them were mine. I want to be a success for my late wife, Emily. I still miss her after all these years.” He trailed off.

      I was shocked. Young for a widower. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

      “Thanks. Took some time to get used to going on without her.”

      We slipped into a booth at the end of the bar. The bartender cocked his head at Hunter who answered, “Bourbon neat. What do you want?”

      “Vodka martini, please.”

      Hunter covered my hand with his. “Did I do okay today?”

      “Yes, you gave me a good interview.” I slipped my hand out from under his.

      “What other stories are you working on?” He asked.

      “Sam Jordan lost his herd to brucellosis.”

      He thrust his face so close to mine that I could smell the bourbon on his breath. “Terrible loss for Sam. He’d been breeding that herd for years. Good thing he has his vet practice to support him. He’s been trying to rent out his place.”

      “He did. I am the renter. How do cattle get brucellosis?”

      He took a long slow drink of bourbon. “Buffalo,” he spat out. “Jake Spooner runs a couple of hundred head of buffalo right across the back fence line from you.” Hunter’s shoulders bunched up under his ears.

      “You angry about that?” I asked.

      “Hell yes. My ranch shares a fence line with Spooner’s goddamn buffalo herd. His buffalo better not spread disease to my cattle. Sam lost six hundred head of Angus cattle. Years of work gone in one afternoon.”

      “Is the infection in the dirt? Because Jake leased that land from Sam and is raising cattle on it.”

      “That irony is rich! Spooner profits from Sam’s loss. No, a cow can’t get brucellosis from dirt. Brucellosis is spread from body fluids.” Hunter bit out his words. “Let me give you something for your story, Sawyer. This is cattle country.” He was stabbing the air between us with his forefinger. “People in America eat beef, not buffalo.” His shoulders lowered. “I can teach you the cattle business.” His fingers curled around mine. “Could be fun, too.”

      He’d be a good source. Side benefit—he was easy to look at. “Why is Jake ranching buffalo?”

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