The Ranger - Ace Atkins [73]
He called for Hondo but couldn’t find the dog.
A young boy, maybe twelve, ran up to Quinn. He was barefoot, even in the cold, and as soon as he began to speak it was easy to tell he was somewhat mentally deficient. He asked Quinn about all those dead cows.
“There weren’t any animals in that barn,” Quinn said. The heat was tremendous across his face, and ash blew over them in a steady wave of wind.
The boy shook his head and pointed to the muddy pasture, where a half-dozen cows lay on their sides, the blood clearly visible across their flanks.
Quinn walked toward the animals, the barn behind him, the cars and trucks and commotion, men smoking cigarettes and calling home on cell phones. A hell of a banner day for Tibbehah Station No. 8. One of the firemen joked to another: “Anyone want to grill up some T-bones?”
The cattle had been raked with automatic weapons, looked to him like small caliber, probably .223 assault rifles. There were more dead animals down in the creek, two calves dead in shallow water running with blood, and a momma cow that lay on her back in a sandy creek bed, probably toppling over while trying to get away, mouthing for air like a beached fish. He heard more cries from cattle along the edge of the creek.
Quinn walked back toward the house through the heavy black smoke in the air, wondering why they’d spared the house, but then he spotted the long black charred marks across the east side. A fire had been started but didn’t take. They’d only been able to bust out a couple windows.
He found the Browning .308 in the back of his truck and loaded it with bullets, followed the broken path and skittered down the muddy bank to the dying cow. He took a breath, and the rifle recoiled in his hands.
He walked to another, reloading, and did the same.
A third, and then there was an electric silence in his ears.
Again he yelled and whistled for Hondo.
As he crossed the road and entered the drive, a blue sedan pulled up behind Quinn’s truck and killed its engine. County fire marshal Chuck Tuttle stood up out of the car, a leather jacket over his shirt and tie, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth, picking the last bits of a leisurely meal before getting down to work.
He shook his head sadly when he saw Quinn and offered his hand.
Quinn just stared at him, his right hand hanging at his side.
“Everybody all right?” Tuttle said, again shaking a hangdog head.
“I must’ve left the skillet on too long,” Quinn said.
“Come back?” Tuttle said, a confused smile on his lips.
“Looks like a grease fire to me.”
“You trying to burn down them old barns?”
Quinn didn’t say anything.
“All right,” Tuttle said. “Let me take a look. Some teenagers probably thought this place was abandoned.”
“How much?” Quinn asked. Tuttle turned to walk down to the barn.
Chuck Tuttle pulled the toothpick from his mouth and spat.
“I sure as shit hope Johnny Stagg made it worth your while,” Quinn said. “I wonder how those kids felt as they were being burned alive.”
Quinn felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and found Wesley looking down and smiling at him.
Tuttle kept walking down the hill. Wesley blew out a long breath and took in the whole scene, slipping off his baseball cap in some kind of reverence. “Holy shit.”
“Tuttle said it was some kids.”
“I saw the cows. This wasn’t no kids.”
“You believe Shackelford now?”
“I never argued there weren’t some evil people living among us,” Wesley said, placing his cap back on his head, hands on his hips. “I just didn’t see any conspiracy in what happened. Look at Gowrie, look at what he did here. You see that shit from a mile away.”
“You see Hondo?”
“Shit.”
“He’s not down with the cattle.”
“I’ll drive up the road into the hills,” Wesley said, nodding. “You want to ride with me?”
“Nope.”
“Quinn, I know what’s on your mind.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Come on with me. Let’s go find that dog. You can’t do nothin