Page 90 of The Mountain Echoes
The top wire’s been sheared off. The T-post is twisted and half-pulled from the earth, the other cables sagging uselessly. This is what I’ve been afraid of—all the wear and tear that we’re not able to fix quickly enough.
Scout stamps and shifts beneath me.
I swing down, hit the ground hard, and crouch beside the damage, hands trembling as I inspect the break.
Panic starts to crawl in.
If the cows get down to the county road or spook and break for the trees, we could lose them. And we don’t have the manpower to manage it alone.
Behind me, tires crunch across gravel. I whip around.
Maverick’s truck skids to a stop in the yard.
He’s out before the engine’s even off, already taking it all in—the loose cattle, the downed fence, me standing in the wreckage.
“I saw it on the drive in,” he says grimly, pulling his phone out. “Zane, breach at Longhorn. South line. Bring the rig and a couple of hands.”
He meets my eyes. “Where’s Earl?”
“On his way. Tomas and the new guy, too. But we gotta movenow.”
Already, Scout is skittish, and the herd is getting antsy—snorting, shoving each other, milling in disarray. A few have drifted toward the pasture gate, but one wrong move, and we’ll have a full-on stampede.
“We do,” Maverick’s voice is clipped.
“I’m going to go wide, right flank. When they get here, you get Tomas to take the ridge and Earl to push from the access,” I instruct.
I angle Scout along the edge, calling to the herd in low, even tones while Maverick moves fast on foot, cutting toward the center of the pasture. He’s keeping his voice low so as not to spook the cattle further.
He waves his arms wide, guiding the cattle calmly.
When one of the steers breaks off, Maverick sidesteps quick, boots kicking up dust, and redirects it with nothing more than a sharp whistle and a step forward.
“Easy. Easy now.”
Tomas appears like a shadow cutting through the morning mist. Earl isn’t far behind, riding hard, his old sorrel gelding sweating already. Wes rolls in on an ATV, dust trailing behind him like a comet tail.
“You good?” I shout as I ride past Wes.
He lifts his chin, squinting into the early light. “Saw them from the ridge. Thought I was seeing ghosts. Hell of a sight to see with my morning coffee.”
We press in tightly, pushing the cattle slowly and deliberately.
It’s like steering a living, breathing tide. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, every sense heightened.
Maverick’s crew arrives fifteen minutes later in a cloud of diesel and dust. Zane and two ranch hands hop out. They’re armed with panels and wire coils.
Soon, a portable post pounder thuds as they go to work on the fence line.
“Reset the T-posts,” Zane barks. “String the top wire first—we’ll patch the lower ones once the herd’s back in.”
We work like a machine.
One hand runs the gates.
Another builds a catch funnel.
Tomas and Earl tighten the press.
