The first time Dalton actually met him – short, potbellied, balding, and incredibly brash in tendering his judgment on everything from the proper way to make iced tea to the benefits of square-baled hay – he wondered was this strange diminutive character the best choice to care for Grant cattle. He didn’t have to wonder long. Not only was Craig better educated in his field than any doctor Dalton had run across, but he had an intuition of his own that sometimes rivaled Dalton’s.
The three men shook hands at the yard gate. Seth was eating a pastry and he shoved the last third of it in his mouth and wiped bits of icing from his gray handlebar mustache.
He threw a thumb over his shoulder and said, ‘Got this intern with me from UT. That okay with you?’
Dalton looked back and saw a girl with a blonde ponytail in the doctor’s truck. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘How’s the wife?’ he asked Dalton.
‘She’s doing fine. Sander got married on Saturday.’
‘So they tell me. Congratulations,’ he said without evident conviction. It was his way, his customary deadpan delivery, and it took some getting used to. ‘Here’s a tip,’ he told Sander. ‘Hug her more often. I didn’t realize that hugs don’t cost me nothing until Cheryl died last year.’
‘I hadn’t heard, Seth. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, it’s been a real bitch, but what are you gonna do? Keep moving. Oh, and thanks for the invite to the damned wedding. Had you a shiny new toaster and everything.’
Before they got in their trucks to drive over to the holding pen, Dr Craig asked Dalton what he thought was wrong with the stock he and Sander had separated.
‘I tell ya, it’s not like something you would really notice at a glance. If they were men, I’d say they were hungover. They might be fine today.’
‘I’d say, if you thought that was likely, you wouldn’t have penned em up,’ Seth retorted.
Dalton was worried and Sander could see it as well as Seth. He rode with his dad and they listened to the suspension of the old ranch truck creak and ping across the field. Privately, he believed Dalton might be suffering from exhaustion and Sander wished he had been the one to discover the wobbly stock, instead of farting around in the studio this morning.
When they arrived at the pen, Sander closed the east gate behind both trucks then joined his dad and Seth. It was possible two of the heifers were ten pounds lighter than the others. It was possible they weren’t. None were kicking the air or otherwise behaving oddly. Even Dalton took a minute to figure out which ones he wanted examined first. Once he did, Sander grabbed two short lengths of rope from behind the truck seat, hopped the pen rail and quickly heeled the ones Dalton pointed out. The first one stopped lowing and struggling against the rope when Sander put his knee on her neck.
Off the cuff, Seth said he couldn’t see that anything was wrong with either of them. Dalton told him that they seemed better today, but he pointed out how they had been standing apart from the others, how they looked – what? – nervous. They looked nervous, he thought. Seth wasn’t buying it. Normal temperature, normal appearance, clear eyes, good reflexes, no visible wounds.
‘They didn’t seem too nervous when your boy flopped em,’ he said.
‘They were, though. Yesterday they were fidgety, aloof. I can’t explain it.’
‘Aloof? There’s a five-dollar word.’
‘Or something,’ Dalton added, looking back at their trucks. ‘Does she ever get out?’
‘Rachel? Sometimes. I told her yall don’t like strangers around your cattle. She’s a timid soul.’ He rose and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head at the prone animal.
‘What do you think?’ Dalton asked.
‘I’ll put them through the paces,’ he said, ‘as many tests as you want me to run. But humans don’t have the market cornered on antisocial behavior, you know.’
‘Please,’ said Dalton. ‘It would have me sleeping better.’
‘Is that what’s wrong with you? You’re the one looks like you might need some tests,’ the doctor said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’
Sander said, ‘Give them all the full workup, doc. We’ll be at the chutes.’
‘I’ll need Rachel’s help,’ he said.
‘Is she up to it?’ asked Sander.
‘I hope so. She’s kinda pretty. Be a shame if she got trampled.’
They left Seth and Rachel to it. Sander closed the gate again behind his dad’s truck, climbed back in and said, ‘He’s a weird little man.’
‘The best vet in three states. Don’t doubt it.’
‘I have to say, I can’t see anything wrong with those cows today.’
‘Experience is good for something, son.’
‘You feeling alright?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘You do look a little pale this morning.’
‘I’m not awake, I guess.’
‘You didn’t eat much breakfast. Why don’t you let mamma cook you something else?’
‘Yeah. I’ll do that.’
This further worried Sander. He was ready for his dad to blow off the suggestion, or even tell him to mind his own business. He expected it. He had never seen Dalton leave the fields during the day unless there was pressing business inside.
‘Drive on up to the house and I’ll walk back down,’ said Sander.
‘No need. The walk will do me good.’ Dalton didn’t want Sander up at the house making a big deal out of a little fatigue, getting Jo worried. He pulled up beside the chutes and cut the engine. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.
Sander watched him start across the field. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was only groggy this morning. With all that had been going on, he couldn’t imagine any of them were as rested as they could be.
Once his dad was well out of earshot, he said, ‘Take it easy on yourself.’ Then he joined the Smitherman brothers and went to work.
From the chutes to the house was only a quarter of a mile. Dalton walked briskly for the first minute. He knew his son was watching him. Then he glanced back and saw Sander busy with the guys and he stopped to catch his breath. A quarter mile never seemed so far. He wanted to stretch out in the grass. When his breathing slowed, he started walking again, much slower. His legs were piles driven deep into the soil with each step and his shoulders began to sway with the effort of wrenching them free. He blinked sweat from his eyes. Then he fell.
Lying with one arm beneath his belly, the side of his face pressed into alfalfa stubble, he took in the scents of his land. The first day of October would be upon them again in less than four months. Another weaning season come and gone, the herd building itself for next year’s market, and the clumps of purple three-awn would be sending up their lacy flags in patches. Mixed with the reddish plumes of switch grass and dotted with bluebonnets, the pastures would be an undulating tapestry beneath fall-gray skies, stretching to the far tree line. Their bouquet would soon ride upon the pollen, borne by the north autumn wind across the backs of the herd, lifting their musk before filtering in through the window screens. Jo would keep the windows open for him, even though the ragweed from the fallow pastures made her sneeze. The dandelion wine she set aside last July would ease her hay fever in the evenings and add to the season its own special sweetness, with the ginger and citrus from her breath. He would be here to see his son enjoy that with his new wife.
He pushed himself up and turned to check that Sander wasn’t barreling across the field to scoop him up and carry him home. Nobody had seen him fall. He maintained his momentum this time, all the way to the patio door.
After getting Allie off to school that morning, Jo had decided to catch up on some reading. She was on the couch when she heard the door open.
She walked into the dining room and asked, ‘Is he done already?’
‘Who?’ said Dalton.
‘The vet.’ She walked up close to his broad chest and tugged on the front of his shirt. ‘Honey, you’ve got grass in your hair.’ He leaned down an
d she picked it out. His thick head of hair had become eiderdown. She smoothed it. ‘Why don’t you take a little nap?’
‘I’m hungry. Seth will stop by the house when he’s done and I want to talk to him.’
‘Sit down. I’ll make you some eggs. I knew you didn’t eat enough.’
‘Meat,’ he said.
‘You want sausage?’
He fell into his chair with a sigh and squeezed his temples with one hand. ‘Headache for some reason.’ Then, ‘My meat. A steak.’
‘I think everything’s frozen except a sirloin and a chuck roast.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Which?’
‘Both.’
She asked him what he wanted with it and he said water. She seared the steak in a skillet and started him with that, then cut the roast in pieces, floured and pan-fried them like stew meat. She asked him again if he could wait for her to put together a proper meal. No, he could not. He ate it all, very slowly, and she didn’t know what to say to him. She was rubbing his shoulders, kissing the top of his head, smelling of him the way he smelled the land.
Dr Craig knocked on the patio door and slid it open.
‘Jo.’
‘Seth.’
‘Something smells good. What’s cooking?’ he asked her.
‘What would you like?’
‘Some of those flapjacks with fruit on em like they do down at IHOP.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
‘Naw. Forget it. I’ll stop by over there on my way back. I just thought you might have some lying around.’
‘Coffee?’
‘That stuff will kill you,’ he said, and took a seat beside Dalton.
‘I’ll leave you two, then.’
When she was gone, Seth said, ‘No kidding, big fella. You look like hell.’
‘What’s wrong with my cattle?’
‘How should I know? Probably nothing. Rachel and I took blood and stool samples. I’ll call you when I’m finished with the labs. All your calves look fine to come off the milk.’
‘Did you tell Sander?’
‘No. I don’t work for Sander.’
‘Yes you do. He’s foreman now.’
‘Tell him yourself. And get some sleep. Doctor’s orders.’
Three hours later, Sander came in for lunch and was pleased when Jo told him his dad was sleeping. That portion of his plan as foreman which, for the blasphemy of it, he hadn’t mentioned to anyone and refused to think too loudly about, would come out over dinner. A subsistence ranch, or one in the struggling stages of profitability, was a self-imposed sentence of hard labor with no waking reprieve. No longer was that the case for Grant Beef. He and Dalton both would be putting in less hours, supervising more and taking less in hand. Especially his dad. They employed ten men now, all of them capable and experienced but, since the construction was done, they were underworked. They should earn their wages, and from this point on, they would.
Sander knew there would be some grumbling, maybe a minor argument over this, but he hoped the first of their disagreements Allie witnessed wouldn’t draw out into a week-long drama.
After lunch, his dad worked at a steady pace until six o’clock. His spirits seemed better and the nap had taken care of his pallor. They walked to the house together and the women were waiting on them in the kitchen.
Sander bellied up to the table and studied his reflection in a butter knife. While Jo and Allie placed the food between them, he announced, ‘I think that’s the last twelve-hour workday we’ll spend in the pasture, you and me.’ He looked across at his dad.
To his surprise, Dalton didn’t object, saying only, ‘It’s about time you let up on us.’
Well. There it was, then. Sander didn’t feel like pushing his luck and clarifying that he had no intention of letting up on the hired help. Nor did he think it wise to qualify his proclamation where it pertained to him alone. He didn’t personally rule out throwing in a long day with the field hands when the need arose. And he knew it would.
Seth Craig drove out again five days later, unannounced. Sander heard the truck and noticed the doctor had a younger fellow with him: a skinny man, long-faced with wire-rim spectacles. Another university intern, he suspected. It was coming on late afternoon and Sander was trying to find a stopping point outside so he could get to some paperwork. The two men climbed from the doctor’s truck and Sander met them at the gate. The skinny one fixed on him as though he were an approaching tornado.
‘Sander, this is Eliot Drew. Or Drew Eliot, I’m not sure. He’s come to have a look at those heifers. Render his expert opinion, if that’s okay.’
Sander shook his hand. The man stared up blankly, mouth slightly open.
‘He aint thick,’ Seth said. ‘He’s English. Pretty good vet from what I gather.’
‘Dr Drew Eliot. It’s a pleasure.’ Now, the best he could do was keep his gaze moving, roving the ground and the land behind Sander like he had some affliction.
‘You get the results from those tests?’ Sander asked Seth.
‘Everything’s normal.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Goddamn busybodies,’ Seth said. ‘I was chatting it up with some idiot in Oklahoma, about your heifers, and he told somebody who told somebody else because neither of us had any good ideas. Next thing I know, here comes Drew.’
‘Mr Grant, I’m a veterinary pathologist, working with your Department of Agriculture.’ He handed Sander a card with USDA on it. ‘We’ve seen abnormalities like those you reported. It’s possible I can help Dr Craig in this. Have you quarantined the animals?’
‘Quarantined?’
‘Have you put them in a separate area, away from the other stock?’
‘I know what it means. We moved the corral pen behind the barn where we could keep an eye on em.’ He looked to Seth and Seth shrugged. ‘I checked this morning. They were fine.’
The three of them rounded the corner of the barn and Seth stopped in his tracks. One animal appeared fine. It stood absolutely still, staring through the fence in the far corner of the pen and didn’t turn at the sound of the men. The other ones, however, they looked, like Dalton had said, badly hungover or even drunk. They would weave a few steps, then their front legs would buckle. Each time, the heifers caught their balance before they fell, but they looked far from okay. Their heads lolled and looked too unwieldy for them to support much longer. Sander stopped behind Seth and Dr Eliot kept walking to the fence.
‘What is it?’ Sander asked. ‘What’s wrong with em?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Seth admitted.
The Brit leaned on the fence and watched the animals with no visible reaction. Then he turned to Seth, ‘You’ve checked for bites?’
‘A week ago.’
‘Full blood chemistry?’
‘Yes,’ Seth said.
‘Lead poisoning?’
‘There are no toxic levels of lead or anything else.’
Dr Eliot turned to Sander, ‘How old are these animals?’
‘Three to four years, on average.’
‘Do you have them on supplements?’ Eliot asked.
‘Yes.’
‘May I see what you use?’
Seth nodded to Sander. It was more than a little troubling seeing Seth out of his depth, deferring to this foreigner. Sander led them into the barn, where Dr Eliot stood looking at the feed sack labels. It was a three-brand proprietary recipe Sander had settled on, the pallets were arranged in aisles for easy tractor loading. The Brit tore away the plastic wrap from one pallet and took a close look at the label beneath.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I recognize this one. Is all your stock on this particular supplement?’
‘Yeah. Rotated on it, at least,’ Sander said. ‘The yearlings have been on it since weaning. Why?’
‘In 1986 we diagnosed a brain disease among British cattle. Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.’
‘Mad Cow,’ said Seth.
‘And?
’
‘And your heifers out there seem to have it,’ Dr Eliot told him.
‘Seem to?’ Then, to Seth, ‘You said the tests were normal.’
Dr Eliot answered, ‘There is no BSE test for living animals. It requires examination of brain tissue.’
‘You have to put them down to see what’s wrong with them?’
‘They’ll be dead in a week, Mr Grant.’
‘If that’s what they’ve got,’ Seth added.
‘It is,’ said Dr Eliot. ‘Were it one animal, I would leave open the possibilities of meningitis and listeriosis. But not in so many heifers of the same age, otherwise healthy, and on this supplement. To a near certainty, it is BSE.’
Sander asked, ‘Is it contagious?’
‘Our best guess is it’s contracted only through feed supplements containing prions from infected animals.’
‘Cattle remains in the food,’ said Seth.
Which prompted Sander to ask, ‘You knew about this?’
‘I knew of the possibility, yes. Late yesterday. There hasn’t been a recorded case in Texas.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Sander.
‘For the stock? Nothing,’ Dr Eliot told him. ‘It’s invariably fatal and there is no treatment. Have you sold any three-year-old cattle this year?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Any culls?’
‘Not yet,’ Sander said again. Then he asked, ‘How do we find out which ones are sick?’
‘You don’t. Not until they’re symptomatic.’
‘Well, you’re full of answers.’ He turned to Seth. ‘One more time. Why did you bring him here?’
‘I wanted to rule it out. That’s all. I was sure it was something else. I’m sorry, Sander.’
The Legend of Sander Grant Page 16