Tomás Reed knew something was wrong before he reached the first steer.
Cattle did not lie that still in good grass.
Even under the punishing Wyoming heat, even after months of drought, an animal that had simply exhausted itself would breathe. A flank would rise. An ear would twitch at flies. A tail would move.
The young red steer nearest the wagon did none of those things.
Tomás dropped to his knees.
Dust rose around him.
“Come on.”
He pressed one hand against the animal’s ribs.
Nothing.
He moved to the throat.
No pulse.
Behind him, wagon wheels creaked once as Clara Bennett climbed down.
Tomás barely noticed.
The field had become a blur.
Second steer.
Dead.
Third.
Dead.
A cow near the dry creek.
Dead.
Six animals.
Six.
He stood too quickly and nearly fell.
“No.”
The word came out small.
He looked across the alfalfa.
The remaining cattle were scattered farther uphill, some grazing, others standing with their heads low in the oppressive evening heat.
Six dead animals did not look like six when a man owned several hundred.
Tomás owned fifty.
Or had.
Now forty-four.
Six dead animals were twelve percent of everything he had left.
Six dead animals were the money he needed for the bank.
Six dead animals were fence repairs.
Winter hay.
Seed.
Taxes.
Interest.
Six dead animals might be the difference between keeping Dry Creek Ranch and watching another man put his name on the gate.
“No.”
He ran toward a seventh animal standing near the trough.
The steer staggered.
Tomás’s stomach dropped.
“Damn it.”
He reached for the animal’s head.
It pulled weakly away.
Saliva hung from its mouth.
Its breathing was too fast.
Tomás shouted toward the barn.
There was nobody to answer.
His last hired hand had left three weeks earlier after Tomás admitted he could no longer guarantee wages past September.
He turned.
Clara was already moving.
Not running.
Not panicking.
Moving with purpose.
She crossed the grass toward the first dead cow and knelt.
Her simple brown dress gathered around her large body as she lowered herself with surprising ease. She was an extraordinarily big woman, tall and broad through the shoulders, with powerful arms and a full, heavy figure that had drawn open stares at the station.
At that moment Tomás saw none of that.
He saw her hands.
Clara pulled the dead steer’s lip upward.
Examined the gums.
Pressed around the jaw.
Then she forced the mouth open farther.
“What are you doing?”
She did not look up.
“Seeing what killed it.”
“You know cattle?”
“I told you where I worked.”
“The stockyards.”
“And slaughterhouses.”
“That doesn’t make you a veterinarian.”
“No.”
She ran one calloused finger along the animal’s gums.
“It does mean I’ve seen more sick livestock than most men who call themselves cattle experts.”
Tomás stared.
Clara leaned closer.
Smelled the animal’s mouth.
Then looked toward the alfalfa.
“How long have they been in this field?”
“Two days.”
“Only here?”
“Yes.”
“What did they eat before?”
“Dry pasture and purchased hay.”
“Same water?”
“Yes.”
Clara stood.
Tomás almost laughed from disbelief.
“You think the feed killed them?”
“I think six healthy enough to walk yesterday didn’t all decide to die in the same patch of grass for sentimental reasons.”
He flinched.
Clara noticed.
Her expression softened slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
Tomás looked toward the animals.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“No.”
She walked toward the water trough.
Tomás followed.
Clara crouched beside it and smelled the water.
Then she dipped two fingers, rubbed them together, and tasted the smallest drop.
Tomás grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t.”
She looked at his hand.
He released her immediately.
“Sorry.”
“You think poison?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara looked at the trough again.
“The water tastes normal.”
“You can tell that?”