For a long while, Silas and Buck said nothing.
Nabid moved along the fence, not charging it, not panicking, but examining it. He pressed his nose near a post, stepped away, walked on, lowered his head near a sagging section, then continued. His movements were deliberate.
“He’s checking boundaries,” Buck said.
“He could walk through that fence.”
“I know.”
“Want me to get the rifle?”
Silas turned. “No.”
“I’m not saying shoot him now. I’m saying if he heads toward the road—”
“No,” Silas repeated.
Buck studied him. “You always were sentimental about expensive disasters.”
Silas looked down at the papers. There were phone numbers for Vance Transport, Whitmore Champion Genetics, and Northern Lights Animal Refuge. He called the first. Voicemail. He called the second. Office closed for Thanksgiving holiday. He called the third. No answer.
“Wonderful,” Buck said when Silas told him. “We’re spending Thanksgiving with a killer bull.”
This story touched a part of me that has hurt underneath several careers and 65 years of life. I'm 71 now. My family is a long established name there. My memories of ranching, accidents, rodeo stock, flash floods and family loss are different than the way life is lived today. This story is magnificent, thank you for sharing it. And maybe there's hope for some of us humans that just need space and understanding. It's been 40 years since I became a civilian after 11 years as a
U.S. Marine. This story and that bull have more meaning than some will ever know. Thank you once again. Job well done.