“Good enough.” Rawley shrugged a shoulder. “You?”
“Busy,” Arch said, glancing down the barn’s center aisle. “You here about the missing cattle?”
“Yeah. Who found the fence broken?”
“Whip did. He’s in the other barn, said he’ll show you where.” Arch smiled and flicked a clip on his belt. A walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Hey, Whip, mid-barn, please.” He replaced the radio and looked back at Rawley. “Bet he thinks he’s in trouble.”
Rawley snorted. “Hell, I know that feeling. Whenever my boss calls me in, I’m sweating for what I did wrong.”
“That’s practically your full-time job,” Arch shot back, grin widening.
“Hey, Rawley,” a male voice said.
Rawley saw Duncan Lowry walking toward him and put his hand out to him. Duncan shook it, then he crossed his arms over his T-shirt.
A young man in a straw Stetson and dusty jeans hurried in, his boots throwing up small clouds of straw dust.
“Whip, this is Agent Rawley Bowman with MDOL. Can you show him the spot?”
“Sure thing, sir.” Whip straightened, shoulders square and fell into step beside Rawley.
Rawley shook Arch’s hand and Duncan’s again as he led Whip outside. He nodded toward his truck. Whip clambered in the passenger side, already scanning the horizon. Rawley circled the tailgate, opened the driver’s door, and settled in behind the wheel.
“Head through that gate, then I’ll point you down to the fence,” he said, pointing to where a metal gate was open. Whip exhaled a sigh. “I bet they used the road.”
“Could have,” Rawley agreed.
They rumbled through the gate and bounced over deep ruts as Rawley steered toward the fence line. He saw broken posts and tangled wire half a mile ahead. Dust rose behind them in a billowing cloud as he hunted down the answer to the missing cattle.
“Right there,” Whip said, jabbing a finger toward the mangled fence line where posts jutted from the earth at unnatural angles.
Rawley gazed through the windshield. “Damn. They really tore it apart. It looks like a tornado hit it.”
“Yeah, they did. There are some huge tire tracks, deep in the soft ground.”
“You didn’t step in them, did you?” Rawley asked.
“No, sir. I knew not to. I just walked to this side of the fence and looked from the perimeter. The cedar posts are just snapped off like matchsticks. Mr. Mitchell was furious when he saw it.”
Rawley grinned. “I know Preston. I’m sure he’s upset.”
Whip laughed. “He turned the air blue for a good five minutes.”
“That sounds like him. I’ll talk to him when we get back to the barn.” Rawley eased the truck to a stop a few feet short of the downed fence, dirt crunching under the tires. “I need to document this properly.” He reached for the door handle.
“Can I get out? I won’t disturb anything.”
“Sure. Just stay back here by the truck.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rawley grabbed his phone, a few evidence bags, and a heavy-duty flashlight. He squinted against the morning sun as he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, surveying the trampled field through the camera on his phone, the click-click-click of the shutter punctuating the silence.
He sensed Whip’s presence before he saw him, the crunch of boots on dry grass, the faint scent of cigarettes and coffee. Whip stopped beside him, his hat pulled low over his face.
“See how the tall grass is bent?” Rawley pointed to the grass section leaning over.
“Yeah.” Whip grunted, squinting at the pattern.
