Scene #11
I woke to the growl of thunder and rain pelting my window. The storm had arrived as Dad predicted. The cold and wet could be deadly for the newborn calves. Mom had checked the herd at midnight, Dad went out again at three AM, and now it was my turn.
Icy wind gusted into the kitchen as I went through to the back mudroom, and I couldn't help wishing for a hot breakfast and coffee. But I pulled on my lined muck boots, threw on my hooded rain slicker, and let myself out into the dark. This was my chance to show Dad he could count on me. As I ran through the driving rain toward the machine shed, thunder clapped again, closer this time and lighting silvered everything.
The four-wheeler roared to life when I turned the key and soon I splashed my way through the puddles and hit the track leading to the east pasture. I’d make a quick round of the field. Even with the coming dawn, the light would be poor with the rain and storm clouds. I would think positive. The weather could work in my favor, causing the cows to bunch together.
Gripping the handle bars, I pressed the gas for a little more speed. How had I forgotten gloves? Like I'd never gone out to work in the cold before. If I wanted to prove to Dad I be trusted with responsibility on the ranch, I had to focus on the details. By the time I reached the cow field my hands were numb from the cold and my jeans soaked through. Rain pants. Another detail that slipped my mind in my eagerness to get to work.
I put my discomfort out of my mind. Any calf born in this weather would fight an uphill battle from the start.
We'd hauled some two dozen heifers to the calving barn in case they had trouble delivering for the first time, but these experienced mamas would contend with nature. I hoped the storm would pass soon.
The herd crowded close, near where we dropped off the hay and after I circled once I got off the four-wheeler to for a closer look. I took the flashlight, and also trained the headlights on the cows.
Down a few inches the ground was still frozen so the rain water pooled in the low spots. It looked six or eight inches deep in places, but I didn’t check to find out. I stuck to high ground. Other areas had turned the pasture to mud. You get a patch of wet ground churned by a herd of 1300 pound animals and you got mud few people can imagine. The closer I got to the herd, the deeper my boots sank.
I shoved between the cows alert for signs and behavior indicating labor. A high tailhead or soft puffy vulva could give you a week or two notice, but pacing, pawing, getting up and down, or bawling, that meant birth was more imminent. I beamed the light back and forth over the ground, looking for any newborn-sized lumps, but hoping if I a calf had been born, I'd find it
standing up on all four feet.
You’d think nature would play along and keep the cows from delivering until the weather was more conducive to the survival of the calf, but I knew it didn’t work that way. A nagging thought went around in my head and a pit grew in my stomach. A cow in labor often went off by herself, even in weather like this. I had to scout the field.
I had no idea how much time had passed when I got back to the four-wheeler. Thunder boomed right overhead and lighting struck almost instantly. Close. Damn. I couldn’t afford to lay in a ditch for half an hour waiting out the lighting. I’d more likely die of pneumonia than be struck by lightning.
The four-wheeler churned mud and splashed water as I drove across the field. Darkness had given way to the murky like of a cloud-covered dawn. I circled small stands of trees and peered into the brush. I aimed for the tops of the rolling hills to scope out the valleys. I covered the flatlands, coaxing guts and speed from the four-wheeler.
The engine complained as I revved it up the last small hill before heading back to the gate. Hoped I didn’t run out of gas. I crowned the rise. A cow stood below bawling. I’d have heard her sooner, if not for the sound of the wind and engine in my ears. Beyond her sprawled a mud hole. From here I couldn’t tell if she’d given birth. My stomach lurched. Dropped. And twisted, as I quickly scanned the terrain for any sign of a calf.
I eased off the brake and started down the hill at an angle. With any luck she was still in labor. Then I saw the hump in the water. Damn.
I picked up speed and spun out at the bottom of the hill before coming to a stop. Damn. Damn. Damn. I splashed into the water toward the calf lying about ten yards out. It was only a couple inches deep. The calf was half submerged, but I could see its head. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. God, please.
The mud sucked at my boots. Fear sucked at my heart. The mama cow’s bellow sucked at my last bit of hope. I couldn’t breathe as I crossed the remaining couple yards to the little black calf. Its white face propped on its knees. I cradled it’s head in my hands, it’s hair soft, wet…so cold.
A wail exploded from deep in my gut. I punched my fists at the sky. Then I bawled louder than the damn cow, tears mixing with the rain running down my face. Then I hauled up the stiffening body, trying to lift it into my arms. This was my fault. As much as if I’d taken out a gun and shot her in the head…plus all the calves she would have produced. I shouldn't have wasted time wading through the herd. I should have realized sooner that a cow in
labor would wander off alone. If I'd gotten here even 20 minutes sooner, she might be alive.
The little heifer had been strong enough to wander away from her mother, but she’d got out here in the water and her temperature had dropped. The cold sapped her strength and she’d laid down and that was that. Her body heat had seeped away into the water and muck.
She was too heavy for me. I’d have to drag her. My boots had become mired and I struggled to pick up one foot and then the other, haul the body forward, repeat. I got out of the deep water. And into the deeper mud. When I tried to take my next steps, I didn’t have the strength to yank my boots free. They stuck fast in the sludge. I stood for a moment and shouted every cuss word I knew. I was in deep shit. Dad was gonna kill
me.
I yanked my feet out of the boots and towed the dead calf the last five yards to its mother, #68, I noted. Then splashed barefoot back to my boots, used my last ounces of energy to yank them free and head to the four-wheeler.
It felt like hours had passed since I arrived at the pasture. I’d probably be late getting back, late to school. I should have woken earlier. If I’d just gotten to this little one an hour ago, her little heart would be beating now. This was going to confirm every doubt Dad had ever had about me. I was no Buchanan. I didn't have what it took to work this ranch. By blood, the Broken Arrow should be mine one day. But blood wasn't
enough to run a ranch. Blood didn't guarantee calves would survive. Didn't put money in the bank.
I climbed onto the four-wheeler and collapsed forward over the handlebars. The rain pitter-pattered on the hood of my slicker. The cold numbed me from my toes to my fingertips, but nothing could numb grief I felt for the dead calf. It was a physical ache in the region of my heart, accompanied by guilt that hammered me with every heartbeat.
When the cow stopped licking her baby and moved away, I roused myself and eased the four wheeler into position. I heave the calf's body onto the back, strapping it on with a couple bungee cords. Then I took off back toward the gate, making a quick last check as I circled the herd.
As I neared home the weight of my grief and guilt grew so heavy I slowed the four-wheeler to a crawl. I see-sawed over what to tell Dad. When I really screwed up, he’d get this deep V wrinkle between his eyebrows. He’d carry it around for hours signifying a mix of disappointment and frustration while he decided on an appropriate consequence for whatever I had done or failed to do.
He'd study me, his blue eyes icy. And that reminded me of Grandfather, and then I thought of all the Buchanans back to Great-great-great Grandfather Gilmat who'd homesteaded this ranch. I imagined all their blue Buchanan eyes judging me, sharp with disapproval, confirming my deepest doubts about my ability to take my place in the family.
Dad had given me a big new responsibility and I had failed. After everything else I'd done last week, when he heard about the dead calf, he’d go ballistic. And after that, he'd ground me from rodeo.
