He needed some air, and there was a hastily scrawled note left on the door for Safine this morning. The least he could do was try to help before she returned.
Protection against the rising sun was a well-practiced ritual, though infrequent. Dusk or dawn he could get by with his worn hat, a shirt buttoned high above his throat, thin leather gloves, and the common sense to not stay out longer than necessary. Safine offered him a lacy parasol once, but he declined and said black leather was more his preference.
Today, sun sickness was preferable to the preaching from next door.
Leaving the barren saloon behind him, he turned left across the veranda towards the livestock yards at the river’s edge. At least the cattle wouldn’t preach at him.
Main Street was choked with the dust kicked up by fifty head of longhorn as vaqueros herded them past the saloon towards the shrieking steam-train in Ridgewater.
One man, dark eyes gleaming in his handsomely tan face, tipped his hat at Decker as he rode by, and he knew he could count on at least one customer later. Likely more, as the vaqueros tended to stick close to each other when they were this far north.
Keeping under the thin swathe of shade provided by the porches and storefronts, Decker skirted around McKinney’s Mercantile and greeted the stout, rosy-cheeked man as he arranged sacks of grain and bolts of cloth nearly as tall as him into organized displays. He nodded to the blacksmith who jerked his heavily-bearded chin at him between ringing blows of his hammer on a red horseshoe, then ducked into the livery to avoid the sun.
The owner, a beautiful creature with elegant, swooping dark eyes that glowed from within, glanced up from under a hat they’d wrestled over pointed ears and straight, inky hair. They flashed a smile. Wiping their long tan hands on the shirt that hung loosely from their lithe frame, Lee dropped their bristle brush into a bucket and fastened the door behind them.
In the metal-lined stall, a black horse snorted sparks and stamped dinner-plate obsidian hooves as the other two peered from their own reinforced stalls. Born from eggs smuggled carefully all theway from their hometown, Lee’s herd of three was their life’s work.
“Can we help you, Decker?” Lee’s voices softly echoed, overlapping like soft notes on piano keys.
He retrieved the crumpled paper from his pocket. “Mr. Gibson left a note for Safine, but she won’t be back until later tonight. Was hoping I could find him here.”
“We think he’s out back with his herd. He’s in an awful way this morning. Cattle are coming down with something.” Dropping their tenor to a hundred whispers, they gave into their nervous habit, tucking thick strands of hair behind their pointed ears. “He was scared yesterday night when he rode in. We could smell it on him. Never had a problem with us before now.”
Others were noticing the shift stealing into the heart of their quiet town. Decrease in business, wariness from humans that had once been neighbors and only saw what they wanted to.
“I’ll look into it,” Decker said, offering them a small smile.
Lee and their herd often kept to themselves, except when out-of-towners needed to rent a dependable, ordinary horse—when the traveler reached where they were going, Lee would send one of their own herd to retrieve it under the cover of darkness. The herd held parts of their soul, they said when McKinney questioned them one night. Lee could see what they saw, hear what they heard.
All the more distressing for them when their herd sensed Mr. Gibson’s unease.
Decker followed the fence behind the livery to the stockyards where cattle lowed and kicked up dust, nearly obscuring the towering windmill at the center.
When Thomas left him the Haven ranch, Decker had no interest in becoming a rancher, and he offered it to Gibson. The newcomer in town was an honest man looking to start his life as a free man. He’d done well for himself since.
Scrubby trees cast a film of shade into the paddock nearest the river, and under them he found Gibson, worry soaking his tired, deeply lined face as he wiped down one of the steers.
“Mornin’, Mr. Gibson.” Slipping through the gate, he joined him, cow dung and straw squelching underfoot. The ground stank of rot. Most of the frogs had disappeared into the river—some weren’t as lucky and drifted along the back of the livery. Their bloated, leathery bodies mingled with the stench of the herd.
Ragged clumps of flesh and hair wedged into the rough boards as cattle raked their ribs along the fence, lowing desperately.
Gibson thrust a rag in the water bucket, wringing it between broad, deep brown hands before moving to the other side of the beast where he tried to provide relief with the cool river water. Finally, he met Decker’s eyes.
“It’s not good. Me and Callie brought ‘em in last night and all of ‘em were healthy. Got up this mornin’ and not a single one’s not got it.” He said it like Decker was to blame, but he couldn’t find it in him to bristle at the accusatory language.
The cattle were his livelihood, and keeping them well-fed and fending off rustlers on the old Haven ranch took his life, only repaid with the prospect of sending them off on the train. His work would be for nothing if they were diseased.
Decker frowned, taking in the weeping pits scraped across their bodies where the cattle rubbed themselves down to sinew andbone. “Any of the horses affected?” His gaze caught on a bloody hipbone jabbing through the mangled haunch of a steer.
“Not so far,” Gibson muttered.
Just more strange shit.
“I’ll get Safine over here as soon as she gets back. She’ll help as best she can,” he promised, scratching one of the bolder steers between the horns. The white hair shifted under his gloves and the strands writhed alive. Decker recoiled and snatched his hand away from a thousand tiny creatures.
“Keep wiping down the cattle and change your clothes before you go inside,” he said, trying to ignore the phantom insects skittering up his spine and burrowing into his skin.
“Didn’t start until we brought ‘em in last night,” he said in that tone again.