The tale of the 82 head of wandering cattle continues. There they were, eating, drinking and enjoying the free vittles. The sheriff and a couple of deputies came out on the third day of the incarceration to look and visit. They had not heard a thing about any lost cattle, rustled or just out. They visited for awhile and did not offer any donations for the welfare of said bunch. The longer they visited, the farther behind I got.
I always like rain. Sometimes it rains for a little longer than I need, but I sure am proud of moisture. The mud gets sorta deep around hay racks, not so deep as slick, I guess. Haying in several places takes some time and slick mud takes that up a notch or two. Of course, we all love wearing rubber boots and that enhances the job!
My close relative was at the church today and I needed to stop for lunch at the coffee emporium. The offspring met me there and we settled in to plates of good chicken-fried steaks. The round table group had dispersed and had started drifting back in for the afternoon session. All the guesses and concerns about the extra cattle at our place was the top item of news. The deal was, no one knew anything about the owners.
It was past dark and I was finishing chores when a vehicle turned in our long drive. I turned off the feed room light and walked on over to the yard gate. Sure enough the sheriff was driving one of the county SUVs and pulled up grinning. My heart leapt for joy! I heard that somewhere.
The bull wagon the nomadic herd had ridden on for a good many miles had been located in a JB Hunt truck lot, parked against the back fence between two wrecked rigs. It was about two hundred miles from our county and not one fingerprint could be found on it. No recent license plate, the one on the truck was twenty years old and covered with manure. It kept the law from being suspicious. A desperate feller in New York had been screaming about losing cattle, 82 head as a matter of fact.
The opinion of the law was that the rustlers would go west to big country, Wyoming or Montana. The search had been exhaustive and very expensive. The rustled owner was left with motherless calves and roaming bulls after the truck vacated the farm in the dead of night. It had been a slick operation, well planned and fast. The calves had been left penned and bawling and for that the feller was thankful! Now you know the rest of the story! Stop by the coffee emporium and they will fill you in on all the details!
It is my opinion, and everyone has one, my frowns about keeping the cattle and spending a little money on them was not a decent thing to do. I regret that, along with other times I have frowned about something. You fellers know how surly we can get in the dark winter days and that has to stop being our excuse. Surely I, and maybe you, could be kinder in our lives, spare some old hay and grain for a feller's herd that he was searching for. Forgive me, Lord.
I am looking for a team of mules and a hay wagon because this old hay truck is in its death throes!
Bill
Bill is the pen name used by the Gravette-area author of this weekly column. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 02/01/2017