Winterkill. P.H. Turner

shook his head and stared nervously at the bloody animal.

      A young bull lay in the center of a perfect ring of trampled grass. A dark stain circled around his head. Brown fur matted in the bloody wound on his neck. Flies lazily buzzed his left eye. His slack mouth was gray with dried blood and his tongue lolled out, parching in the morning sun.

      “I hoped I was gonna find a hurt animal, but I found him like this, all cut up. I never had no trouble like this before.” Foster turned and pointed at the high outcrop of rock to the east. “Took me a bit to find him. You can’t see him from the rest of the pasture. Look at this trampled grass around him,” he said, toeing the dried grass. “Took some time to do this. See that rock cairn there? By his head? Them rocks were gathered up from over east there and stacked up by his head after the grass was flattened.” He took his hat off, wiping the morning sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his shirt.

      “We’ll find this guy, Ray,” Sheriff Barton said.

      “You better,” Ray shot back. “I ain’t got no more stock to lose.”

      The sound of a heavy diesel truck throbbed to a stop. Sam Jordan slammed the door and shambled our way.

      “Morning Wolfe. Deputy.” He nodded at me. “Sorry to hear about your troubles, Ray.” He knelt by the dead bull, grabbed his horns and pulled back to expose a gaping wound in his neck. Neck slash is what killed him.” The buffalo head thudded back on the dry grass.

      Wolfe Barton turned to Ray. “You got any new hands, Ray?”

      “No. Same boys I’ve had for nearly thirty years. Never had no trouble.”

      Benita was shooting the scene. “I want to talk to Ray a minute,” I whispered to her. She nodded her understanding and panned the camera to Ray.

      “I’m Sawyer Cahill from CBS3. Sorry for your loss. Did you see or hear anything unusual last night or early this morning?”

      “No, I already said we saw nothing this morning. We ain’t seen any strangers around either. But we was working over on the other side of the ranch. Haven’t been over this way ’til this morning.” Ray snapped his dirty hat on his jeans

      “Was this an expensive animal?” I pointed down at the carcass.

      “Hell yes, breeding bulls are expensive,” he shouted. Can’t get no calves without a bull. Going to have to put my cows out to a stud now. That’s gonna cost a pretty penny.” Foster shifted his weight forward on his toes. Dust plumes rose over his dirty boots.

      “Are you worried about the safety of the rest of your herd?”

      “What do you think? Course I am. We’ll be watching. My boys and me, we’ll be watching real close.”

      I had no doubt he would. Who had a bull to put out to stud?

      Foster started to walk away. I called after him softly. “Who do you think did this, Mr. Foster?”

      He whirled around. “How the hell would I know? Some crazy bastard. If he comes back on my land, I’ll kill the son-of-bitch.”

      Barton’s authoritarian voice broke the uneasy silence. “Foster, don’t. You have any problems out here, leave ’em to me. That bull’s important, but not worth a murder charge. You hear me, Ray?”

      “You better git him soon. Before somebody else gits to him.” Foster glared.

      Sam interrupted the tension. “Neck wound cut the artery. That’s post mortem damage to his eyes, probably birds.” He pulled up a hind leg. “Look here. Someone cut his balls off. See the wound under there?”

      “What?” Barton shouted. “His balls are missing?”

      “Yeah, and that’s not all. Tail’s gone. I’m guessing that peace sign painted on his side was done with the tail. He coulda dipped the tail in the blood from the throat slash. See the incision here?” Sam pulled back on the groin wound. “This guy had some skill and knowledge. It’s sure no hack job. He used a surgical knife to take those balls.” Sam pushed his bulk awkwardly off the grass. Sick SOB. I’m going to take a blood sample.”

      “You think he was tranqed?” Barton asked.

      “I’ll know soon enough. But you couldn’t do this without rope and sedation,” Sam said.

      “How long you think he’s been dead?” Barton bent over the carcass for a better look.

      “I’d say no more than two days. Long enough for the vultures to get to his eyes.”

      I bent over the legs of the dead bull. I picked through the hair above his hooves. Something was matted in the dirt-encrusted fur. “Sheriff, look at these strands of fiber caught around the hoof.” Barton grimaced, his knee popping when he squatted by me. “His hair is broken off and his hide is chafed. He was hog tied,” I said.

      “Deputy, get over here with that damn kit,” Barton hollered. “Hand me the tweezers and a bag.” He grunted at me. “Don’t touch nothing else at my crime scene.”

      Benita and I walked the area. There were no tire tracks other than our vehicles. Hoof prints dug into the dirt under the bull’s legs where he had struggled to stand at one point. His carcass was about a mile from the main road giving someone privacy for their work.

      * * * *

      I headed home to shower. Standing under the steaming water, I sifted through motives. Who mutilates an animal? Why cut an animal up if you just wanted to eliminate the competition for stud service? I knew a psychologist back in San Antonio. He liked strange puzzles.

      I was drying my hair when my phone buzzed. Hunter had a sexy low baritone. “Sawyer, I was thinking of you. Wondered if you’d like to join me for dinner tonight at the Little Bear Inn. I promise you a memorable steak.”

      I’d been having some pretty vivid thoughts about him, too. But he’s a news source so I hesitated.

      “Come on. You have to eat. By eight, you’re long finished with the evening news. Give us some time together.”

      “I may have to cancel if the day gets crazy,” I warned.

      “See ya at eight.”

      Immediately my phone rang again. Without even a hello Clay asked, “What have you got on the mutilation story, kiddo? You got enough to lead at 6 o’clock?”

      “Count on it. Start teasing the story now. I’m on my way.”

      I slipped into my office balancing the first of many coffees, ready to call George Carlisle.

      “Hello, I’m Sawyer Cahill. I’d like to speak with Mr. Carlisle,” I said to his secretary.

      “I’ll see if he can speak with you now,” she said, putting me on hold.

      I heard the click. “Carlisle, here.”

      “Mr. Carlisle, Sawyer Cahill. Good morning. Thank you for putting me in touch with Hunter Kane.”

      “How can I help you today, Ms. Cahill?” He barked.

      “Ray Foster had a bull mutilated…”

      “I know. News gets around fast. What do you want?”

      “You are one of the most respected ranchers in the area and the owner of the local auction house. I need the value of your expertise in an on-camera interview. Your opinion is pivotal.” That ought to grease the wheels of his vanity.

      “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. Set it up with my secretary.”

      Click. I recalled his secretary and booked the time.

      * * * *

      Barton might have a lab report on Foster’s bull back. I googled large animal tranquilizers. A wildlife vet suggested Ketamine/Xylazine at a rate of 1 mL/8lbs, claiming the dose would tranquilize the most agitated animal.

      I