“Good here,” Denver responds.
We’re about five miles out when Truett kills the headlights. The other trucks follow suit. From here on out, it’s all about stealth and night vision. The moon is barely a sliver tonight, which works in our favor.
The Morrison property is spread out over several hundred acres, but we know exactly where the cattle are. Old manMorrison keeps his prize Angus in the north pasture, close enough to the house to keep an eye on them, but far enough away that we can work without being seen from the windows.
Truett parks our rig behind a stand of cottonwoods, and I can see the other trucks taking their positions. Everything is going according to plan so far.
“Remember,” Truett’s voice comes through the radio, barely above a whisper. “We’re looking for the thirty-three head in the north pasture. Nothing else. We get them loaded, and we get the hell out of here.”
“Copy that,” I respond, checking my rifle one more time. The weight of it feels heavier tonight, like it knows this is the last time I’ll be carrying it for this kind of work.
We move like shadows across the field, our boots making barely a sound on the frost-covered grass. Even in spring, we have to worry about cool temps. Years of doing this have taught us how to move without disturbing the world around us. Carson and Devlin head toward the fence line to start cutting through the wire, while Denver and Austin position themselves as lookouts.
The cattle are exactly where we expected them to be, clustered together in the center of the pasture, their warm breath creating little clouds in the cold night air. These are beautiful animals—prime beef stock worth a good amount of money per pound. It almost makes me feel guilty. Almost.
Truett and I approach the herd slowly, making soft clicking sounds with our tongues to get their attention without spooking them. Cattle are surprisingly intelligent animals, and if you know what you’re doing, you can guide them almost anywhere.
“Easy, girl,” I murmur to a particularly large cow who’s eyeing me suspiciously. “We’re just going to take a little walk.”
The fence cutting goes smoothly, and within minutes, we have a clear path from the pasture to our trailers. Carson gives usthe thumbs up, and we start the delicate process of moving the cattle.
This is where years of experience pay off. We’ve learned to work as a unit, each man knowing his role without needing to be told. Truett and I guide the lead animals toward the opening, while Carson and Devlin work the sides to keep any stragglers from wandering off. Denver and Austin have moved closer to the trailers, ready to help funnel the cattle up the ramps.
The first few animals are always the hardest. Cattle are creatures of habit, and they don’t like being moved in the dark. But once you get a few of them moving in the right direction, the rest tend to follow.
“That’s it,” Truett whispers as the first cow steps through the cut fence. “Nice and easy.”
One by one, the cattle file through the opening and toward our trailers. It’s almost peaceful, in a way. Just the sound of hooves on grass and the occasional low moo from one of the animals.
We’re about halfway through loading the final trailer when everything goes to hell.
The first shot comes out of nowhere, the muzzle flash lighting up the darkness like lightning. The bullet whizzes past my head close enough that I can feel the heat of it.
“Contact!” Truett shouts into his radio, diving behind the nearest trailer.
More shots follow, coming from multiple directions. Morrison must have figured out what we were up to, or maybe he just got lucky and couldn’t sleep tonight. Either way, we’re in deep shit.
The cattle scatter at the sound of gunfire, their earlier docility forgotten as panic takes over. Several of them bolt back toward the pasture, while others mill around in confusion between the trailers and the fence line.
“Return fire!” Truett orders, and suddenly the night explodes with the sound of gunshots.
I can see muzzle flashes from the direction of the house, and what looks like at least three different positions. Morrison didn’t come alone. He brought backup.
I find cover behind the wheel of our truck and start laying down suppressing fire toward the house. The rifle kicks against my shoulder with each shot, and I can smell the acrid scent of gunpowder mixing with the cold night air.
“We need to move!” Carson’s voice crackles through the radio. “They’ve got us pinned down!”
He’s right. Our position is shit, caught out in the open with nowhere to go but back to the trucks. The cattle are scattered all over hell and creation, and we’re taking fire from multiple directions.
“Get the animals that are already loaded and let’s go!” Truett shouts.
But even as he says it, I know we’re not going to make it out clean. There are too many of them, and they know this terrain better than we do.
I’m laying down covering fire when I hear Truett cry out. I spin around to see him stumbling backward, his left hand pressed against his right shoulder. Dark blood is seeping between his fingers.
“Truett!” I abandon my position and sprint toward him, keeping low to avoid the bullets that are still flying overhead.
He’s gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. “I’m okay,” he says through gritted teeth, but the amount of blood tells a different story.
