Winterkill. P.H. Turner
home. They ranched out here in the 1930s. When I was a kid, I used to shoot my twenty-two back in those pastures. You got Jake’s place across the back fence from you.
The house had creamy plaster walls set off by yellow pine floors. A huge brick fireplace with a raised hearth anchored one end of the room. There was a modern kitchen with what looked like the original farm sink. Down the hall were two good-sized bedrooms and a bath.
“Nice restoration Sam. I saw lots of workmen coming down here for months,” Jake said.
Sam nodded to Jake. “Took longer than I thought. I added that insulated garage out back. You can get in and out without getting wet.”
“Is that your cattle herd on the east side of the house, Sam?” I pointed at cattle grazing along the side fence line.
“No, I leased the land to Jake. I lost my herd about three weeks ago now.” Sam’s face was hard. “Jake’s running cattle over there now. Damn glad he leased it.”
“You lost them?” I asked
“The government boys slaughtered them. A couple of my heifers tested positive for brucellosis.” Sam’s fists were opening and closing. “All of them, wiped out in a single afternoon.”
Behind Sam, I saw Julia give a little warning shake of her head.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have known. Lost my whole breeding operation in one afternoon. The genetics of my herd went back years to my grandfather’s time. Anyway, I got the land leased to Jake and the house rented to you. That’ll help me some. I can rebuild me a herd.” Sam’s clenched hands had stilled at his sides.
Jake clamped his hand on his shoulder. “Soon you won’t need to lease me that land. I got just the bull to stand for stud when you get some heifers.”
“I’ll take you up on that bull of yours.” Sam punched Jake’s shoulder.
“Deal,” he said to Sam. “Sawyer, I’m about a half a mile from you. Let me know if you need anything. See you all later.”
“Jake’s a good man,” Sam said as he watched Jake get in his truck. “He inherited his place from his granddad. He’s got fine herds—he’s ranching cattle and buffalo. His buffalo are out of the 1880s Charlie Goodnight herd from down in Texas.”
“I worked a news story about the Goodnight herd in the Panhandle of Texas.”
He grunted. “Yeah, not many of ’em left. He shuffled out the door. “You call me if anything in the place needs fixing.”
Julia sat on the hearth. “No way you could have known about Sam’s herd. Word around town is he’s really hurting for money.”
“Why were they slaughtered? Just a couple heifers were positive.”
“That’s the law. Helps contain the disease, I guess.”
“So, does the rancher get any money for his herd?”
“A pittance. The government comes onto your ranch, loads ’em up and hauls them to slaughter. Once brucellosis is found in a herd, it’s out of the rancher’s hands.”
“So is it catching? Jake put cattle in the same pasture where’s Sam’s infected herd was.”
“I don’t know how it spreads, but it must not be in the dirt or Jake would never have put a herd over there. I just know what I read in the paper and what little I picked up from Sam.”
“Bad for Sam.” Interesting. A possibility for my first story.
Julia changed the subject. “What do you think about the house? The quiet out here will do you some good after seeing that guy murdered in San Antonio. And you have a very handsome neighbor.” Her eyes twinkled.
The rumble of the mover’s truck as he downshifted into the drive sent us both to the porch.
5
I awoke and stretched sore muscles that screamed for a good work out in the gym. Julia and I had unpacked most of the boxes and many old memories. Although I lived light, owning and moving only the stuff I used and loved, my aching muscles reminded me that I still had plenty of household goods.
I dressed for what I hoped was success for my first day on the job. Navy pants, good cream cashmere sweater and small gold hoop earrings. With my current wardrobe, dressing for success couldn’t happen too many sequential mornings, but this was the first day.
I found the news director’s office behind the studio’s soundstage. I stopped outside his door. My heart pounded nervously in my ears. At least he’s not Andy.
Clay Watkins’s office was a dusty cave stacked high with old news scripts and a Betamax recorder. In one corner, an ancient pile of three-quarter inch tape mounded in a precarious heap. Clay lived in a historical display of the last forty years of broadcasting.
He peered over his bifocals, waving a hand at the junk. “Hey, Sawyer. Don’t look too close. Clear off a place and sit down. You get squared away with the HR people?” I nodded. “Good. HR’s such a pain in the butt.”
I perched on the corner of a dusty chair unable to get a word in edgewise. He was filling all the airtime.
“Took you long enough to make your mind up about the job. We talked about it at the convention nearly two months ago. Don’t know what finally tripped your trigger, but I’m damn glad you’re here.”
I could feel the tension in my shoulders relax. “I’m ready for new challenges.”
“I got plenty of that. What I need is the hard-ass reporting I saw on your DVD resume—that corruption business where your story got that guy indicted. I’m not saying we’ve got a witch-hunt. But we got some important beats and you’re the reporter to cover it. Go find a story.” He challenged.
“I’ve found my story. The government slaughtered a cattle herd infected with brucellosis,” I answered.
His booted feet hit the floor. “Heard something about that. Make it good.” He stood. “Now let’s go meet the talent around this place.”
* * * *
I sat at my desk off the news bullpen researching cattle and brucellosis. The weathercaster was at work on the green screen. “And ah rain storm will cool the air bringin’much needed relief by thuh end of thuh week.”
“Graduate of Georgia Tech. Just sounds like a dumbass. Can’t seem to lose the twang. Sometimes his accent is so thick his weather report won’t stick to tape.” The smirk and the retreating swagger belonged to the sports anchor, Dwayne Hamilton. Lucky me, I won’t be working with him.
I closed the browser and picked up the phone. I wanted to score an interview with one of the owners of Cattleman’s Auction.
“Hello, this is Sawyer Cahill with CBS3. Could I speak with George Carlisle about a story I’m working on?” A click and a pause.
“This is George Carlisle,” he rasped.
“I’d like the benefit of your expertise for a story I’m working on.”
“Not this afternoon. No, not today. You call Hunter Kane, my partner.” Carlisle hung up.
No western hospitality there or even good judgment. Most business owners jumped at the opportunity to be on camera. He didn’t even suggest another time. Why was he so sure his partner would talk with the press? I called Hunter Kane. He was pleased to represent his company.
* * * *
My camera operator turned out to be an attractive thirtyish woman named Benita Lopez. She was already loading a tripod, sound mixer, and camera into the station’s SUV when I arrived. I double-checked the number of extra batteries and cables. On the ride over to the auction house, I got to know Benita.