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“Keep that attitude,” he said, still smiling. “But right now, the best thing to do is go to bed and get as much rest as you can. You’re going to need every bit you can get these next couple of days.”
Chapter Sixteen
Early the next morning the media swarmed onto the Cee Bar, television crews in vans and satellite trucks as well as reporters and photographers from local newspapers or stringers for national publications. Anticipating their arrival, Quint had made sure that Empty and Dallas had ridden out at first light, before any reporters were on the scene.
Promptly at eight-thirty, Quint stepped before the phalanx of microphones, cameras, and reporters gathered at the porch steps, and issued a brief statement that admitted little, other than that they were awaiting lab results on the deaths of two animals and cooperating fully with the authorities.
A barrage of questions followed, but Quint answered only one that exaggerated the health risk to the ranch employees and implied a lack of concern by the Calders.
“Anthrax is an occupational hazard for everyone who works with livestock,” he stated. “All proper precautions are being taken.”
Ignoring a fresh onslaught of questions, Quint stepped off the porch and moved through the throng of camera lenses and microphones pointed his way, responding to any and all with a shake of his head and a firm “No comment.”
Undeterred, they followed him to the barn and waited while he saddled his horse.
One asked to be shown where the dead cattle had been found. Quint informed him that permission to do that would have to come from state authorities.
By the time he swung into the saddle, the throng had begun to divide into smaller groups. Soon they would disperse to track down the veterinarian, state officials, and neighboring ranchers for comments.
Quint rode out of the ranch yard, confident that he had gotten rid of the media, at least temporarily. About midmorning he learned how wrong he was when a helicopter swooped low, scattering the cattle they had gathered.
The camera lens pointed from the side of the helicopter captured the scramble of the three riders to gather the cattle back into a bunch—as well as the discovery of a third dead cow, this time along the west fence line. The helicopter subsequently hovered above the scene to record the arrival of the vet and the eventual burial of the carcass.
News of the third dead cow spread quickly, along with a bulletin from the lab confirming anthrax as the cause of death. The media returned to the ranch yard in force.
Their presence complicated the work of driving cattle, already spooked by the helicopter, into the makeshift holding pen. Shortly after the gate closed behind them, the vet arrived to examine each cow, as the state required, providing more fodder for the cameras.
Any hope Quint had that the state officials would insist that the media keep their distance was soon proved wrong. In fact, they appeared to welcome the opportunity to show the public the extent of their diligence. It was after sundown before any of them called it a day, forcing evening chores to be done in the dark.
Come morning, Quint, Dallas, and Empty were back in the saddle again, this time to round up the rest of the cattle from unaffected areas and bring them in for the vet to examine and inoculate for anthrax.
Streaks of coral ranged across the western sky when Quint led his horse into the barn. The clop of its hooves on the alleyway’s cement floor echoed through the barn. Empty was there ahead of him, dragging the saddle off his horse. He set it on the floor and draped the damp saddle blanket over a stall partition, then spared a glance for Quint.
“I sure was glad to see the last of those nosy reporters pull out a minute ago.” The gruffness in his voice made his opinion of them clear. “I’d already made up my mind that if that helicopter showed up again today, I was getting my shotgun and shooting it out of the sky.”
“I think that might have been a bit drastic,” Quint suggested dryly and hooked a stirrup on the saddle horn before reaching down to loosen the cinch strap.
“Maybe so, but we would have been done with this work in half the time if it wasn’t for those nosey parkers,” he grumbled. “Darned near every time I’d get a cow headed into the chute, some fool would climb on the rail. There was many a time today when I wished I still chewed, just so I could have the satisfaction of spitting on the lens of one of their cameras.”
Rustling noises, accompanied by the grating slide of a metal lid settling into place, were heard from the combination tack and feed room. A hen clucked and strutted away from its door as Dallas shouldered it open, lugging a five-gallon bucket of grain for the horses. Quint’s bay gelding swung its head toward her, ears pricking, nickering softly.
Quint’s glance tracked her progress across the alleyway to the stalls while he removed the saddle and used the blanket to wipe the gelding’s sweaty back. His expression softened when he noticed the smudge on her cheek and the wisps of hair that had escaped from the French braid.
She stopped at the first stall and scooped a portion of grain into its feed bunk. Chickens pecked in the straw near her feet, then scattered when Empty gave his horse a slap on the rump, sending it into the stall.
The instant Quint stripped the bridle off the bay, the gelding trotted eagerly into its stall. Out of the corner of his eye, Quint saw Empty stoop to pick up his saddle, his movements slow and stiff.
“I’ll put your gear away for you, Empty,” Quint told him. “You go make sure there’s plenty of water in the horse trough.”
“You won’t get any argument from me,” the old man replied and trekked out of the barn.
When Quint hefted one saddle onto his shoulder and picked up the other, Dallas threw him a brief glance. “Grab some scratch for the chickens while you’re in there.”
“Sure,” Quint agreed, his stride never slackening as he crossed to the tack room.
Once the saddles were placed on their individual racks, the bridles hung on a wall peg, and the blankets and pads set out to dry, Quint scooped some scratch into a can and scattered it along the alleyway to lure the rest of the chickens into the barn. After the last chicken darted into the barn, he slid the wide door closed to shut them in for the night.
He turned as Dallas tossed hay squares into the last manger, then stepped to one side, leaning a shoulder against a stall post in a vague gesture of weariness. Drawn by the sight of her, he moved closer.
