There were even old marks around his legs.
Tom stepped back.
“I've seen cattle like this before.”
Claire looked at him.
“Where?”
“Fighting stock.”
She frowned.
“You think he was used for fighting?”
Tom didn't answer immediately.
“I don't know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because those scars look like they came from years of being handled rough.”
Claire felt anger rising.
She looked at Atlas.
The bull stood quietly.
His eyes were calm.
He seemed unaware that anyone was discussing his past.
Claire whispered.
“Who did this to you?”
Atlas lowered his head.
One caracara hopped onto his back.
Claire watched it remove another tick.
Then she noticed something else.
The scars were healing.
Not recently.
Years ago.
This wasn't the first time Atlas had been neglected.
He had been surviving for a long time.
Claire called the veterinarian.
The vet arrived that afternoon.
She examined the scars carefully.
“Some are old.”
“How old?”
“Several years, at least.”
Claire folded her arms.
“Could he have been injured in normal ranch work?”
“Some could.”
“And the others?”
The veterinarian looked at Atlas.
“I'm not comfortable guessing.”
Claire nodded.
That was fair.
She didn't want guesses.
She wanted facts.
So she began searching.
Not online.
Through records.
Auction records.
Transfer documents.
Livestock identification paperwork.
Anything that might tell her where Atlas had come from.
The auction house gave her what they had.
The trail wasn't complete.
There had been multiple owners.
One transfer.
Then another.
A ranch outside Alice.
A cattle operation near Falfurrias.
Another buyer farther west.
Finally, the auction.
Claire stared at the paperwork.
The bull had traveled through too many hands.
Too many places.
Too many years.
But one name appeared more than once.
A ranch called Red Creek.
Claire knew it.
Everyone did.
Red Creek had once been a major cattle operation.
It had been sold years earlier after the owner died.
Claire remembered her grandfather mentioning the ranch.
She drove there the next morning.
The old Red Creek property was mostly abandoned.
The main gate hung crooked.
The cattle pens were rusting.
Mesquite had begun reclaiming the land.
Claire found an elderly caretaker living in a small house near the road.
She showed him a photograph of Atlas.
The man's face changed.
“You know him?”
The caretaker stared at the photograph for several seconds.
“That's him.”
Claire's heart jumped.
“You're sure?”
“Positive.”
“What was his name?”
The man frowned.
“I don't remember.”