“They crashed through here first.” Rawley pointed at the fence. “Tore the fence posts clean out, made a wide arc, then stopped right about where the grass is matted flat. That’s where they rounded up the cattle.” He pointed toward the area. “Then they drove back out, but see how the tire tracks curve right? Different sections of fence altogether, posts snapped at the base instead of pulled out.”
“How can you tell all that?” Whip’s eyebrows furrowed.
“The fence tells the story.” Rawley knelt, running his fingers along the splintered wood. “Metal’s bent two different ways. One curve for coming in, another for going out. The ones he hit on the way out were by accident. He was trying to stay on the same tracks, but maybe the truck slid a little, or he wasn’t paying attention, but he swerved enough to pull the posts out. I’d bet it had a cattle guard on the front too.”
“Why?”
“Less damage to the truck going through anything; fence posts, animals, and whatever else is in its way.”
Rawley straightened, the beam glided up through swaying stalks of tall grass until something gleamed in a dappled patch of morning light. Pushing aside blades, he edged forward, careful not to dislodge more tracks, until he crouched over a closed pocketknife half-buried in damp earth.
He took his phone out, snapped several photos of it, then picked it up and opened the blade. The leather-wrapped handle was caked brown, but the steel blade peeked out clean and silver. After taking photos of the blade, he closed it and put the knife in a bag.
The morning sun beat down mercilessly as Rawley approached the fence, his boots leaving clear imprints in the Montana dirt. He shook his head at the destruction, twisted metal fence gleaming in the sunlight, splintered wood scattered across trampled bitterroots. He approached a section of fencestill standing and slid under it with the ease of someone who’d been doing it for a long time, then made his way to the deep ruts carved into the earth.
He snapped several pictures, the camera clicking rapidly, then swept his flashlight beam across the flattened grass and churned soil. Something winked back at him from the shadows.
He crouched down, when he caught the metallic glint reflecting his light. Sweeping the beam more slowly, he saw it again and carefully parted the crushed grass, he reached down and plucked it from the dirt. It was a gold hoop earring, small and delicate, caked with mud but unmistakable. Small enough that it could belong to a man or a woman. He pulled an evidence bag from the satchel, dropped the earring inside of it, sealed it, then set it inside the case.
Rawley scanned the area, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his temple, but his gut told him that it would be the only earring. Rising with a grunt, he walked along the tire tracks, boots sinking slightly into the disturbed earth as he snapped more photos. He stopped when the tracks began fading into the tall grass that swayed in the hot breeze. Looking back to the fence, the professional nature of the job was clear as day. These were eighteen-wheeler tracks.
Someone with planning, equipment, and connections had deliberately come here to rustle as many valuable cattle from the ranch as they could haul away.
He scanned the sunlit meadow. A narrow track led toward the distant main road, no ranch hands worked that stretch, and a fresh fence with bright red plastic flags ran barely twenty feet behind him, meant to deter wolves. This older wire-and-wood barrier, rusted and sagging, must once have marked the boundary.
He glanced back at the fence line and counted the remaining flags on the taut red wire; three. If his math was right, four hadbeen ripped off, likely tangled in a vehicle or dropped along its path. He sighed.
Rawley crouched at the edge of the muddy tracks, stooping low so the sunlight slanted across the worn tire treads and muddied shoe prints. Carefully, he pressed damp casting material into each groove, waiting for it to set before gently peeling the hardened molds free. He laid each impression on a clean sheet of white paper, wrapped it carefully, then tucked it into a sturdy cardboard box. Once the last cast was secured, he cleared stray gravel from his knees, brushed dust from the latex gloves, and walked back to the pickup. He gave Whip a curt nod, swung open the tailgate, and stacked the boxes, along with the two small evidence bags, one containing the single gold earring, the other for the pocketknife he’d found, into the toolbox built into the truck bed, then slid onto the driver’s seat and started the truck.
He bounced over rutted tracks as he followed alongside the ruts of the eighteen wheeler’s tracks. When he reached the clearing, he cut the engine, stepped out, then opened the back door to get the evidence case. He pulled on another pair of latex gloves, grabbed his phone and his flashlight from the passenger seat, then trudged toward the hoof and tire-marked ground. Kneeling beside the trampled grass, he swept the flashlight beam across the muddy tracks, every tuft of flattened sod, every smear of dark soil, finding nothing more.
A moment later he rolled onto the gravel shoulder of the main road, slammed a hand down on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, and swore under his breath.
“Damn it,” he muttered, then shifted into reverse, whipping his head around to peer through the passenger window. In the shallow roadside ditch, something small and red caught his eye. He paused, then eased the truck forward, grabbed fresh gloves and a few extra evidence bags from the console, and climbed out.
Along the ditch’s lip, tattered grasses and stray clumps of dirt clung to his boots. He bent to pluck the flag from the road’s edge, tucking it into the bag, then swept the ground up and down the ditch line and even across the road. Nothing else turned up.
At least, he thought, stuffing the bag into the case, he knew which way the thieves went.
The tailgate groaned as he slammed it shut. He climbed into the cab, started the engine with a rumble, shifted into reverse, then steered the truck down the rutted lane toward the barn.
“What all did you collect?” Whip asked from the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the toolbox.
Rawley hesitated, but the kid seemed genuinely interested and Rawley didn’t have any bad feelings about him. He trusted his gut.
“Three different tire tracks, which means there was also a pickup truck here, shoe prints, earring, and I found a pocketknife. I don’t see where the pickup was pulling anything so whoever was driving that truck could be the one calling the shots,” Rawley replied, glancing sideways. His voice was calm, but each word carried the weight of his experience.
Whip leaned forward, curiosity lighting his face. “What does it take to become a livestock agent?”
Rawley tilted his head. “Unless, you’ve been in some type of law enforcement, you need a bachelor’s degree in something like animal science, or what’s also called animal husbandry, agricultural business, or livestock science. Then you have to be POST-certified, Peace Officer Standards and Training, so you have full law-enforcement authority, including arrest powers.”
“You can arrest people?” Whip sounded astonished.
Rawley grinned. “Yes. And you need actual livestock experience, working on a farm or ranch, in an auction yard, or as a consultant.” He studied Whip for a moment. “Luckily, you’d have that part covered.”
“How long does it take?”
Rawley explained it all to him as they headed back toward the barns.
