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“There’s one more dead.” Quint swung to the ground and let the reins trail. “Looks just like this one.”
With a straightening turn, the vet came erect and squared around to face Quint. “Where’s that one?”
“Along the south fence line on this side of the river, fifty yards or so from the cross fence,” Quint replied and sized up the man before him out of habit.
Somewhere in his early thirties, the local veterinarian was a tall, huskily built man with the stout neck and shoulders of a bulldogger, an image that was reinforced by the cowboy hat, yoked-front shirt, and blue jeans he wore. The only part of his costume that didn’t ring true to a bulldogger was the absence of cowboy boots with underslung heels. Instead, he had on a set of heavy-duty rubber boots, coated with mud and excrement.
“I’ll need to examine it when I’m done with this one,” he told Quint.
“I figured that,” Quint replied and introduced himself. “The name’s Quint Echohawk. I’m running the Cee Bar for the Calders.”
“Dan Weber.” He didn’t offer to shake hands, but Quint hadn’t expected him to make the gesture when he noticed the rubber gloves the vet was wearing.
“Thanks for coming out so quickly.”
“If it is anthrax as you suspect—and I agree the cow presents all the classic signs of it—the quicker we can get a jump on it, the better off you’ll be. I was just getting ready to draw a blood sample so I can get it sent off to the lab. They’ll have to run their test to verify whether we’re dealing with anthrax or not.” He paused a beat. “Does this ranch have a history of anthrax occurring?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Quint replied. “But the Calders purchased this particular parcel of land only ten or twelve years ago. So it isn’t likely anyone would know whether there had been previous cases of anthrax.”
“It was a thought,” the vet said with an idle shrug. “Once the bacteria forms into spores, it can remain in the soil for years. Estimates range from thirty to as much as a hundred years, and it could be more. Usually heavy rains or floods bring it to the surface, but last night’s rain hardly qualifies as that. Although…” He paused, a reflective look to his expression. “On the way here, I remember driving over a strip of ground that looked like it had been plowed up recently. That might be your source. Anything that disturbs the ground can scatter any spores that were present.”
The ground had been plowed to create a firebreak, but the means used to stop one destructive force had potentially unearthed another one. And the irony of that was not lost on Quint. Yet given the same set of circumstances, it was a decision he would make again.
Using a syringe, the vet collected a blood sample from the animal’s jugular vein. “Have either of you touched the carcass?” he asked.
“I did,” Empty replied. “But I was wearing my gloves.”
“Play it safe and burn them when you take them off. Make sure you disinfect your clothes, too.” The vet stowed the blood sample in a sealed container and scratched the necessary information on it. “You should be all right, but if you notice any skin lesions or flulike symptoms, call your family doc right away. It wouldn’t hurt to contact him anyway and have him prescribe a course of antibiotics as a preventive measure.”
“We’ll see about getting that done,” Quint agreed. “What about the carcass?”
“It needs to be buried as soon as possible, but that’s something the state authorities have to supervise. I’ll get a hold of them as soon as I get back to the office and see if they can’t get someone out here today—before any scavengers have a chance to rip into the carcass,” he said and explained, “Right now the bacteria is in an active state. Any tearing of the flesh could unleash billions of spores.” He turned to Quint as he snapped off his rubber gloves. “I’m through here. Want to show me where the other one is?”
Quint rode along with him to the second carcass where the same procedure was repeated. During the ride back to the first, the vet tossed a sidelong glance at Quint.
“I’ve g
ot to be honest, I’ve only seen three cases of anthrax before, and two of those were when I was still in vet school,” he said. “But if this isn’t anthrax, I will be very surprised.”
“Can you give me a heads-up on what the procedure will be once it’s confirmed?”
“First, all the cattle will have to be removed from the contaminated pasture and kept isolated from the rest of your livestock. Any that look like they might be sick will need to be treated with antibiotics, and the rest will be vaccinated for anthrax. It’s hard to say how long your cattle will be quarantined. It could be a month or more. If I remember right, it takes roughly four weeks for the vaccinations to be effective.”
Most of what the veterinarian told him merely confirmed Quint’s recollections of things he’d heard in the past. But it gave him the advantage of anticipating what would be required and planning for it.
“There’s a preliminary test the lab can run that takes only a few minutes,” the vet told him in parting. “But it can provide a fairly solid indication whether or not it’s anthrax. It can’t be confirmed until they grow a culture, and that can take twelve to twenty-four hours. I’ll pass along any news as soon as I get it.”
“I appreciate that.” Quint climbed out of the cab and let Dallas take his place in the passenger seat. “We’ll be following you to the house.”
As the vet drove off toward the ranch house, Empty eyed him with a watchful interest. “What now?” he asked. “Are we gonna sit on our hands and wait to learn the test results?”
“No, I think we have to operate from the assumption it will be positive for anthrax.” Reins in hand, Quint gripped the saddle horn and swung into the seat. “If we have to isolate the cattle, we might as well decide now where we want to hold them. It will need to be somewhere with easy access to water.”
The availability of water dictated his final choice—the burned area adjacent to the ranch yard with its metal-legged windmill and water tank, undamaged in the fire. Loss of the pasture had already made it a given that hay would be needed to feed the cattle, so it mattered little there was no grass for grazing. And there was the bonus that the fire would have killed any anthrax spores in the soil.
Once the choice was made, they immediately went to work stringing electric fencing to pen off a fifteen-acre section that would allow them to keep the potentially infected items under close observation at all times.
Less than two hours after the vet left, he called Quint on his cell phone. The preliminary test result indicated anthrax. A representative from the state would be there no later than two-thirty to supervise the disposal of the carcasses. Before he hung up, he provided Quint with the name and telephone number of a backhoe operator.
