Death and the Gentle Bull Page 4

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I just said that, Mr. Ballard. I know very little about cattle of any kind.”

  “You don’t know anything about Angus, mister?” His voice pleaded.

  “Now Mr. Ballard,” Heimrich said. “Something,, yes. This bull you’re talking about killed Mrs. Landcraft.”

  Looking at Ballard, Heimrich was struck by an odd idea—that Ballard had, during the past few moments, entirely forgotten the unfortunate incident of which he was now reminded.

  Ballard’s expression, which had been one of intense concentration on the subject at hand, altered. Ballard sighed, and shook his head. He said it was a terrible thing.

  “Can’t understand it,” he said. “I’d have sworn she knew bulls. Then—she goes and does something and this happens.”

  “You think she did something to the bull? Something he—objected to?”

  “Sure,” Ballard said. “Must have been that. Usually, he’ll do what you tell him. Do anything I tell him, anyway.”

  “Gentle, usually?” Heimrich said, but now Ballard hesitated for a moment.

  “Sure,” he said, after that moment. “Of course, I don’t say you can trust Prince completely, or any bull. But, as bulls go—” He ended with a shrug. He added, “Sure, I’d call him gentle.” He paused again. “You want to see him?” he asked. “See where it happened?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “I’d like to, Mr. Ballard,” and was told to come on, then. Ballard turned away and walked along a road which led around the house, and Heimrich and Trooper Crowley walked after him. Ballard took long strides.

  When they came out beyond the house, he stopped for a moment, and Heimrich stopped too, and looked at the great sweep of green, cupped in green hills; looked at the barns, lower down the slope. To the left of the barns, a little more distant from the house than the barns, several men were working. They were taking down a large tent.

  “Sale tent,” Ballard said, without being asked. “If this hadn’t happened, there’d be a couple of hundred people here—breeders from all over. We were having the sale today. Had to call it off, of course. Tough break. Come along.”

  They went along, down a road to the first of the barns—a long white building, with a hay loft above, open at either end. Ballard led them in—led them to unexpected coolness, to the faint hum of electric fans, to the not unpleasant odor of cattle.

  To their left, as they stood just inside the double, opened doors, there were stalls against the wall—more accurately, Heimrich thought, they were pens, since only heavy wooden fencing, less than shoulder high, separated them from the wide central passage which ran the length of the building. In the first of these pens, three medium-sized black cattle seemed to be kneeling in deep straw. They regarded the visitors with mild curiosity, through mild eyes. On the other side there was a row of vari-colored cattle, their backs to the audience, their necks confined between vertical, parallel bars of metal.

  “Some of the bull calves,” Ballard said, pointing to the apparently kneeling animals. “The nurses.” He pointed to the tan cows, the black and white cows, full-uddered and lazily tail-switching. “Keep the calves on milk as long as we can and when their mothers don’t have enough these”—he again indicated the bovine rumps on his right—“adopt them. Jersey and Guernseys for the bulls, Holsteins for the heifers, of course.”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said. “Of course.”

  “Come along, then,” Ballard said, and walked on clean cement, dusted with white powder. They walked past a second pen on the left, in which there were four more black cattle, also apparently on their knees.

  “Some of the heifers,” Ballard said. “That one’s Bessie.” He pointed. “She’s a real baby doll,” he said. “Come on.”

  They went on. Two thirds down the long barn, Ballard stopped abruptly. Here there was a much larger pen—twenty feet by fifteen or sixteen, Heimrich estimated. In the most distant corner a small cat, a blotched tabby, crouched motionless, staring at the straw, in the immemorial stance of a cat anticipating mouse. Ballard put his elbows on the top rail of the barricade and Heimrich and Crowley joined him.

  “Well,” Ballard said, “there’s the champ.”

  They looked—looked down on a murderer. Deep Meadow Prince Twelfth turned his heavy head slightly, and looked up at them. He had large round eyes, which appeared to be black or a very deep purple, just perceptibly rimmed with brown. He had a knob of bone in the middle of his forehead, and no horns. Ears jutted enterprisingly from either side of the massive head. And the bull’s expression was one of utter benignity.

  The little cat leaped at moving straw, in a flash of sudden violence. The bull turned and looked at her, and looked away again, and again at the men. The cat came out with a mouse, which had one squeal left. The cat carried her mouse toward them, and underneath the great barrel of the bull, and between bars of the fence, and toward one of the doors. As she passed under the bull, she brushed one of his black legs. Prince ignored this; now he ignored the men, and turned to nibble hay. He nibbled delicately.

  “Well, mister,” Ballard said, “you’re looking at what I’d call the greatest bull in the world.”

  Heimrich looked—looked down the great body, realized that this bull was not kneeling, although his belly almost grazed the straw in which he stood. The bull had no legs to speak of. Compared to him, the Jerseys and Guernseys they had passed earlier were built like deer. It occurred to Heimrich, unexpectedly, that the broad, perfectly level back of the black bull was precisely at a convenient patting height. And, as he continued to look at the black bull—from massive head, which still did not seem heavy, along short neck, past great smooth shoulders and tremendous body, to rounded rump, to tasseled tail which brushed the straw—it occurred to Heimrich that he was looking at something very like perfection.

  He did not then try consciously to explain this feeling to himself. Afterward, when it seemed desirable to find out what he could about Aberdeen Angus and he read what such a bull should be, more specific knowledge rather confused than brightened his first impression of Deep Meadow Prince. In those first minutes, Heimrich knew without deciding, he looked as closely as he was ever likely to look on perfect symmetry.

  He was conscious, of course, of mass, and of great strength. But nowhere did strength bulge, nowhere was there any awkwardness. Broad-backed as the bull was, short-legged as he was, there was no suggestion of—Heimrich sought a word—“sluggishness” in the whole design. Perhaps, Heimrich decided, the simplest explanation of the sense of satisfaction one derived from looking at Deep Meadow Prince was that the animal, for what had been planned, was precisely right. Beyond any living thing Heimrich could remember seeing, this bull was of one piece.

  Having reached that conclusion—while a quarter of million dollars’ worth of bull continued abstractedly to nibble hay—Heimrich heard Ballard say, in tones of deep satisfaction, “Now there, mister, is a real soggy bull. A deep soggy bull.”

  Captain Heimrich detached his attention from Deep Meadow Prince and looked at Ballard in astonishment. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes.

  “Soggy?” he repeated, and his voice remained mild. It remained so by an effort. He looked again at Prince—at a ton or so of as solid material as he had seen in animal form. “That’s soggy?” Captain Heimrich said.

  Ballard laughed, shortly. He said it was a term.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “I supposed that, naturally.” Nevertheless, he shook his head.

  “Show you,” Ballard said, and raised the latch which—not securely enough, Heimrich found himself abruptly thinking—held closed a gate in the barrier. Ballard entered the pen with Prince. Heimrich looked at Trooper Crowley, and detected—or suspected—a faint look of amusement in the young man’s eyes. That would not do, of course. Heimrich entered the stall after Ballard. Ballard thumped the big bull on the hip, and the bull moved slightly, providing additional room. He also turned his large head and regarded Ballard with v
ery mild interest.

  “Feel him,” Ballard said, and Heimrich felt. The smooth black hair was surprisingly soft to the touch. “Push down,” Ballard said. Heimrich looked briefly into Prince’s large round eyes, and pushed. Unexpectedly, the bull’s flesh gave—gave resistingly, softly. It was as if Heimrich pressed a yielding, yet resilient, rubber mattress. “See?” Ballard said. “That’s what we call soggy. Don’t want them tight, of course.”

  Mr. Ballard was enjoying all this, Heimrich realized. Ballard did not need urging and Heimrich, who was interested—but did not see where he was getting, except that the bull now, at any rate, seemed gentle enough—waited.

  “You see, mister,” Ballard said, “this is a beef animal. That’s what the blacks are, beef cattle. See—roasts.” He patted the great side of the animal. “Steaks.” He patted further aft. “Rump steaks, roasts.” He patted suitably.

  Deep Meadow Prince continued to regard the two men. He did not seem offended. Heimrich trusted he would not be.

  “When they’re soggy,” Ballard said, “it shows they’ll fatten smoothly. Room to grow, in a way. See what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said.

  “Make prize carcasses,” Ballard said. “Best beef there is, Angus.” He patted the big bull again, with what appeared to be affection. And the great animal, whose comprehension of English seemed a little dull, turned his head further toward the men, so that Ballard could reach the broad forehead, with the bony protuberance at the top, under the black-haired hide. “That’s the poll,” Ballard said, patting it. Then he more or less leaned on the bull. This seemed to please Prince, moderately.

  “Perfect poll,” Ballard said. “Perfect style all the way back. Look at that tail.”

  Heimrich looked at the tail.

  “No need to give him a switch,” Ballard said. “You can see that, mister.”

  Heimrich did what was evidently expected. He repeated the word, “Switch?”

  “Doddies are expected to have tails like that,” Ballard said. “Typy—whole animal wants to be typy. Some pretty good animals don’t have the right kind of tails. So, I’ve known breeders would work a switch in at the end to fix the tail up. When they were showing, that is. Only trouble is, any judge knows his business gives the tail a yank. Seen them come right off in the judge’s hand.” He moved to the rear of Prince, took the long tail in his hand and yanked, with no especial gentleness. “Can’t pull that one off,” he said. Prince turned his head further and looked at Ballard. Prince appeared only mildly interested.

  “O.K.,” Ballard said. “There’s your bull. What else you want to know?”

  “This is where it happened,” Heimrich said. “Where, precisely, Mr. Ballard?”

  Ballard pointed to a corner of the stall, where heavy fence met wall.

  “Got her over there,” he said. “Knocked her down—maybe just—well, rammed her—and killed her standing. Trampled her.” He looked at the straw in the corner. “Didn’t bleed much,” he said.

  It was the same corner in which the little cat had caught her mouse. Some hours ago, the crushed body of a woman had lain there. The soft-eyed great creature—at whom, Heimrich suddenly realized—neither of them was now bothering to look, had killed there.

  “Never know what she did,” Ballard said. “What got him started. Nothing to show she hurt him.” He turned back to the bull, and absently patted its forehead. “About all I can tell you,” Ballard said. “What you wanted?”

  “Now Mr. Ballard,” Heimrich said. “I don’t know. It is—well, puzzling, isn’t it? He appears to be a very mild creature.” Heimrich looked at him. “For his size,” he added. “You don’t keep him tethered, even. No ring in his nose.”

  “Not for the champ,” Ballard said, and banged the big animal’s hip. “Wouldn’t like that, would you, champ? Trained to halter, of course. Shows well. Got style.”

  “When you show them,” Heimrich said, “what do you do?”

  “Do?” Ballard repeated. “Oh, lead them into the ring. Get them to put their heads up. They’re all fitted, of course. We break the hair on the thighs and neck”—he indicated—“and curl it. Use a coat bloom, of course.” He looked at Heimrich. “Hair oil,” he explained. “First we’ve gone over the animal with a vacuum cleaner. Bush the tail out nice. Get them all dressed up for the party. Get them out in the ring and pose them—got to be trained to pose, of course, the doddies do. Some breeders figure the training is about as important as anything else—that the top animals at a big show don’t differ too much, over all, and that the best trained ones win. At the International, this time, there were some pretty good bulls, but they were all trained. The champ here was tops in that, too.”

  He leaned on the bull, and waited.

  “They don’t mind all this?” Heimrich asked.

  “Rather like it,” Ballard said. “Most of them, anyhow. Course, if you get a mean one—but who wants a mean one? Want them nice and easy-going like the champ here and—”

  He stopped, abruptly, with that. He looked at Heimrich.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? A good-tempered animal, used to people, to being shown, trained to the halter. He has been shown a lot, I suppose?”

  “Well,” Ballard said, “sure Last year. Up to the International at Chicago. The circuit in the east, through the Eastern National at Timonium. That’s in Maryland; it’s tops for the east. Like the American Royal at K. C. is pretty much tops for the west. When he went grand champion at Timonium, we took him on to Chicago, and he went international grand champ.”

  “He’ll be shown again?”

  “Nope, he’s had it. Once a two year old goes international grand champion, he can’t compete again. This fellow might win for years if we could show him. Got to give the others a chance. Win again with one of his get, maybe.”

  “So now he’s—” Heimrich did not finish.

  “Herd bull,” Ballard said. “Herd sire. Breed him a couple of times a week. Artificially, as we do it. Say he lives to be ten—he’s three, now. Sire a million dollars’ worth of animals, with any luck. See why nobody wants to sell him? And you talked about destroying him!”

  He had been naive, Heimrich realized.

  “Up to now,” he said, “I take it he’s never seemed mean. It would be difficult to show a really mean bull, probably.”

  “Sure,” Ballard said. “Nope—always been gentle as—well, as a heifer calf. Up to now.” He looked at the bull. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked the animal, and Prince turned his head away and nibbled hay.

  “This characteristic you call ‘sogginess,’ ” Heimrich said. “I gather he passes it along.”

  “Sure,” Ballard said. “That’s the whole point, captain. You start with him—perfect type of the best beef animal in the world. His get—bulls and heifers—inherit his characteristics. That’s the theory, anyway, and with breeders who know their business it mostly works out. Oh—now and then we get one that doesn’t look like much, and maybe we steer him and fill a deep freeze. But that’s incidental. The whole business is planned to end up with a lot of steers with characteristics like these”—he patted Prince—“big, well-sprung ribs, smooth rumps, no waste to speak of in the neck or legs—just a hell of a lot of beef on the hoof. Out on a ranch in the west, maybe. Not pure breds, mostly. Blacks bred out of other stock, for the most part. But turning up the best meat. No horn bruises, for one thing. Doddies breed horns right off almost anything, so—”

  He was, evidently, off again. But now Heimrich stopped him.

  “Characteristics,” he said. “They get passed along pretty consistently. And—bad disposition would too, Mr. Ballard? Meanness?”

  That stopped Ballard. It stopped him abruptly. He looked steadily at Heimrich for some seconds.

  “Might,” he said. “A lot of people would figure it would, captain.”

  Heimrich nodded his head. He said, “Well—”

  “Seen what you want to?” Ballard
asked, and when Heimrich nodded, led the way out of the stall, into the central passage of the long barn.

  “All you want to know?” Ballard asked, latching the gate. The bull moved to the fence and poked a black nose partly between two rails. “Wants to be petted,” Ballard said, and rubbed the black nose.

  “What happens now?” Heimrich asked. “To the herd, I mean?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Ballard said. “Have to ask the boys. The old girl’s sons. Me, I wouldn’t want to guess.”

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  IV

  The picture would not leave Evelyn Merritt’s mind—the first ugly picture of a woman broken, with a very little blood trickling from a corner of the mouth. Margaret Landcraft had been dead by then, but then they had not yet known it. Wade had cried, “Mother, you all right?” to dead ears, and Deep Meadow Prince had lifted his great head to bellow, and from the other bull in the barn, and from the bulls in the barn beyond, there came the same angry sound. But it had not seemed possible that Margaret Landcraft was dead. Only when they touched her, after Alec Ballard had slapped the big bull back—and how grotesque that it had taken no more than that!—had it been impossible to doubt.

  Evelyn Merritt answered the telephone in the office in the Landcraft house. She said, “Yes, it is. We tried to reach everybody” and listened and said, “Yes, a dreadful thing” and, after listening again, said, “Thank you. I’ll tell them” and replaced the receiver. It seemed, now in mid-afternoon, that she had been answering the telephone, or dialing Western Union on it, for all of the fifteen or so hours since the bull had first bellowed.

  That was not strictly true; there had been, in the middle of the night, a little lull, and during it she had slept for a few hours, uncomfortably dreaming. She had wakened with her mind exhausted. She had been numb while she breakfasted, in a room into which sun poured, with Bonita Landcraft, who was pale that morning, although her lips were bright. But after that there had been so much to do that the numbness could not last.