The Dinosaur Hunter(4)

To get up to the barn without busting my tail, I walked along the edge of the road where there was some grass. Along the way, I was joined by Soupy, the Square C’s resident black-and-white cowdog. Soupy’s real name is Superdog. Like most Fillmore County ranch dogs, he came from a long line of black-and-white canines, had more than a little border collie in him, and took no guff off any cow, yet was always gentle with humans. I respected Soupy and I guess he tolerated me. His true love, of course, was Jeanette, which I understood. She was mine, too.

Soupy and I found our boss lady standing outside the barn jotting down a note in the little notebook she always carried with her. I guess everything that had happened on the Square C during the entire year was in that notebook, every calf dropped, every well fixed, phone numbers of folks she was supposed to call (but probably hadn’t), numbers on the cows to sell, number of hay bales off which fields, and so forth. She was bundled up in Bill’s ancient canvas barn coat, a coat two sizes too big for her and covered with ranch badges of honor—rips from barb wire fences, tractor grease, and dried cow manure. She loved that old coat. Maybe it made her feel a little closer to her late husband, I don’t know.

Jeanette tucked away her notebook and acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. I thought she looked a bit melancholy. She might have been thinking about Bill or maybe the price of beef, there was no way to tell and she surely wasn’t about to cry on my shoulder. I stood beside her, had myself a sip of joe, and took a look around. The Square C was soaked but I reckoned if the sun came out, it might dry enough to drive on, a requirement if I was going to go out and finally catch that damn bull that had impregnated our little C-sectioned heifer.

Ray came out with his school backpack and handed Jeanette a mug of coffee. I could smell it and I knew he’d made it strong enough to float horseshoes, just the way his mom liked it. “Fixed you some eggs when you want ’em,” he said.

“You driving Bob?” Jeanette asked, referring to the old pickup named after the fellow who’d sold it to Bill a quarter century ago.

“Naw. I’d get stuck for sure. Mr. Thomason got his tractor out. Amelia just called. They’re on their way.”

“See you,” Jeanette said as Ray carefully edged down the road, trying to keep his boots out of the mud. “See you,” Ray said over his shoulder. There were never wasted words on the Square C. To translate, what Jeanette and Ray had just said was: “I love you, I will always love you, and I would die for you in a heartbeat.” I said, “See you,” too, meaning the same to both of them.

The tractor arrived, driven by our neighbor Buddy Thomason, with his daughter Amelia sitting beside him. She was sort of Ray’s girlfriend. I could tell because Ray blushed furiously anytime Amelia’s name was mentioned. Jeanette and I waved at Buddy who touched his hat to us while Ray climbed up into the cab. Amelia turned her face toward him and gave him a big smile but Ray just looked straight ahead. I thought to myself that maybe I needed to give that boy some advice about women but then, it wasn’t my place unless he came asking. Also, truth was I hadn’t been all that successful with females myself.

After the tractor ground on down the road, Jeanette and I got to work. She headed inside the house and I went inside the barn to pull on some coveralls and finish the job I’d started the day before on her tractor. One of the lift cylinder seals on the loader boom had blown out. Luckily, I had some extra seals but it was still an oily mess requiring lots of pinched fingers and cussing. Throughout the day, I kept checking on the little heifer and her calf and they kept being fine. The sun blazed away all day, too, and by noon, the gumbo had turned hard again and everything was back to normal, if such a thing existed on the Square C.

After I got the tractor fixed, I started working on the case of the errant bull. I’d decided to take what we called the big truck, an ancient Ford, for my foray into the badlands to chase it down. Heavier than Bob, the big truck would provide extra traction in case there were still some wet spots out there. Before I got too far checking the Ford’s fan belts, oil levels, and such, I heard somebody drive into the turnaround. When I stuck my head around the barn, I saw a pickup I didn’t recognize. It had probably started out white that morning but the backsplash of red dog and gumbo from Ranchers Road had turned it mostly pinkish-gray. The young fellow who got out of it was wearing cargo pants, a multi-pocketed shirt, and hiking boots, all of which pegged him for a hunter, had it been hunting season. He was also wearing a hat I admired, one of those Indiana Jones-like fedoras with a hat band that had tiger stripes on it. I took right away that this was likely an interesting fellow.