abattoir manure

On the way to Flintwood Brazilaar Graybeal was attempting to educate the younger Sheets on the finer details of cattle speculation.

“To pull the strings of trade without manipulatin confidants makes as much sense as huntin a dead black hog at night.”

“Cause it’s black right?” Sheets asked.

“No, listen. Cause it’s dead.”

For miles Brazilaar pontificated on what he called the truths of his revered cross-bred Shorthorn-Herefords: their pleasurable white faces, their sturdy upper bodies standing well on their toes, the peacefulness of their muscular bellows given their singular refinement, and consequently and most importantly the stability and quality of their meat-production. The county infiltration of Jerseys, Guernseys, Ayrshires and Holsteins combined with the interest in dairying stimulated by the concurrent cheese making demonstrations didn’t mean a damn thing stacked against the undeniable Shorthorn-Hereford. And anyways he had connections within the Board of County Commissioners, connections that even reached to the State Board of Agriculture, and they assured him that the newly employed farm agent was sympathetic to the viewpoints of a solid beef cattleman. With the market skills Sheets would learn–pooling with others to short a particular breed, spreading rumours to drop the price even lower–anything could and would be done to destroy the foolish dairy farmers plaguing the county.

“Milk the fools from every teat,” Brazilaar said.

Around Black Forge he shouted at his cattle boy to hold the pack, and they parked the chuckwagon. Brazilaar stepped off hugging a salt barrel against his chest, and Sheets followed with a bucket of feed. Sheets poured the feed before the steers, and Brazilaar scooped the salt with a half quart tin can, carefully measuring the amount on each feed pile. He shook the dust off his suit and tightened his bolo tie. They waited until the steers were finished.

After climbing back in the wagon, Sheets said “They sure anxious for some water.”

“Yessir, and it oughta add to em fifty more pounds, and lookin at a conservative rate of 5 cents a pound, that’ll be 25 more dollars. Gonna milk them fools from every teat.”

“Will they hold?”

“They’ll hold son, my Shorthorn-Herefords can hold gallons of piss if they know that I want em to.”

Upon entering Flintwood Brazilaar offered one last piece of advice: “Remember the distinct ideal I’ve been paintin for ye, the best types constituted by their highest qualities, from a breeding or a meat standpoint, and most decisively, pay attention to those men of a less discriminatin eye.”

They stopped their cattle drive at the front gates to the pastures where the market was being held. Two men stood in their way. Seeing one wearing the county insignia, Brazilaar descended the chuckwagon and approached him.

“How are you on this fine day sir? You must be Mr. Len Wilcox, the farm agent, don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure to make your introduction.”

“Ah, Mr. Graybeal, heard so much about ye. And what are ye bringin this day to the market?”

“Only several long, deep, broad bodied fat steers.”

“Dr. Wilson here is gonna inspect your cattle, you know this area’s been ravaged by the milk sickness.”

“Sir, he should smell the fetor of my breath. I live with these cattle.”

The inspector intervened, “The milk is not misaffected? Does it foam? Can it turn silver black?” he asked.

“Check the eyes, you’ll see none small or sunken.”

“If no symptoms appear, the brain itself could be troubled, a juice bred in it or otherwise, contaminated blood after some inflammation.”

“Horseshit.”

Brazilaar turned to holler at Sheets “Get you a few of them herd boys to help ye move them cattle along to where they need be.”

He looked directly at the agent and inspector once more, and tipped the front of his broad brimmed black stetson.

“Gentlemen, pleasure to meet ye.”

Before he left he grabbed Sheets close and whispered, “Take em over to the water pump and troughs and don’t let em stop drinkin until right when you take em to get weighed.”

He proceeded toward the tavern carrying his dark brown briefcase. In the tavern’s large room were drovers, cattlemen, butchers, and others passing the time before the main auction, most of them acquaintances of Brazilaar. He called out first to the auctioneer.

“Mr Gardner, I want ye to make sure you appraise my steers correctly, prime cattle such as these take a sight of time and fodder to fatten. And Sheriff Dickson, go easy on that peach brandy, we gotta long day ahead of us.”

He greeted one he didn’t recognize who said “I’m a newly licensed victualler, my name is Orren Clift.”

“A pleasure Mr. Clift. You’ll see my Shorthorn-Herefords as prime for your buyin, they have the broadest heads, and necks blendin evenly with the head and smooth shoulders, largest rumps, absolutely perfect conformation.”

“I cannot wait to see them,” said Clift but Brazilaar had already moved on, across the room, to a former partner he recognized. “Jones,” he yelled.

This man addressed not only Brazilaar but everyone in the room: “My, my, gentlemen if it isn’t Brazilaar Graybeal. No one, and I mean no one who is at all conversant with the theories of physiognomy, no one who forms his opinions on the manner of a man based on the face’s lineaments, the formation of the skull, the expression of the eye, could look upon you Brazilaar without being disagreeably and disgustingly affected by your castrated bull-like head.”

“A pleasure to see ye too Jones. But how bout you leave that high falutin science horseshit to these men tryin to pick the best of these here cattle?”

The two men shook hands, while the others laughed and whooped.

“And of science, I’d be a lyin fool if I didn’t say I’m intrested to hear our farm agent shit wisdom on the subject,” Brazilaar said.

The men parted for Wilcox, who was now sitting on a stool in the far corner.

“You ask for my opinion? Well this is no official meeting, being as it is a market. However, I will say I sincerely appreciate this cooperation, overall camaraderie between beef cattlemen and dairy cattlemen.”

Led by Brazilaar, the men applauded and whooped some more.

“But you have nothing more to tell us?” called out the cattleman Henry Works.

“Well. Y’all have probably heard of or even witnessed some of my fellow peer the extension agent Mr. Elliot’s cheese makin demonstrations. I see Edmund Baker over there, who I know I saw at one, and he can testify to their success.”

“I was there, but I can understand a few doubts and skepticism on the matter.”

Wilcox continued “Well, you should look at the avenues and opportunities available to increase your income through milk producers. Cheese will be a viable money maker soon.”

“But for those who have seen no results?” Works asked.

“Mr. Elliot’s recently built Cove Creek Co-operative Cheese Factory is the first in the entire south, not just our state, with an estimation of $15,000 worth of cheese to be produced in the next year.”

“For one thing, not that it means much, but I do feel right secure,” said the dairy convert, Franklin Thomas, wearing his garb of Confederate regalia, as he always did whenever he attended any public business matter.

“Oh Mr. Thomas don’t be humble,” Brazilaar said. “A humble veteran, a true sign of character.”

“I would like to add that we should also feel hopeful,” Wilcox continued, “and I would be remiss if I didn’t call attention to the helpful hand of Mr. Brazilaar Graybeal, who is, from what I understand and always has been, a pure beef cattleman, who pooled together a group of investors, some of them amongst us now, to make the Co-operative Cheese Factory more than just a possibility, but an actuality. We should all be thankful for this gentleman’s support.”

Everyone applauded, and when the sounds of their clapping hands died out, Wilcox resumed, “I think it’s gettin that time we all move outside, Mr. Gardner should be finished settin up.”

The men exited, but Brazilaar and Works remained in the large empty room.

“Somethin botherin ye?” Brazilaar asked.

“You trust in what that farm agent was yappin about?”

“What do ye think Henry?”

“I’m unsure whether or not I should invest more.”

“Brother, all you have to do is ask.”

Brazilaar undid the latches and from the briefcase handed Works several bills. They strolled outside on the tavern’s long open porch where the crowd had gathered facing the pastures. Brazilaar found Sheets and hugged his shoulder. The auctioneer, standing on a raised platform, began.

“Good afternoon to you sirs, my name is Elbert Gardner. As auctioneer, having your undivided attention, I would like to comment on a pressing matter before we get busy with the tradin. It is the thefts of dairy cattle round these parts, made public recently, which in its effects has not only been disastrous to those engaged in the newly profitable business of raisin dairy cattle, but has had a disheartenin effect upon our early investors, who hear the rumors, growing as they go along, it is simply disgraceful and we must appeal to the better angels of our nature. If we here believe in the dairy industry of this county and wish and propose to keep it alive, we should all endeavor to help the law pursue these thieves, who are presently at large.”

Brazilaar whispered to Sheets, “Who in their right mind would want that stock?”, and then he winked at the Sheriff.

The auctioneer motorized his chants as the cattle were brought out. Each man had his own signal for catching Gardner’s attention. One ran his finger along his eyebrow. Another pretended to slick back his hair. When Brazilaar’s cattle trotted before the crowd, someone shouted,

“Look at the barrells on them, you’d think Brazilaar himself was sellin dairy cattle.”

“You hear that sirs,” Brazilaar responded. “Listen to that weight, them steers’ll meat ye for a year.”

The sight of his cattle made him giddy and he gleefully called out to the veteran, “The ribs are thickly fleshed, well sprung. Mr. Thomas they are seemin to beg for ye to purchase them.”

And to the others grouped around him, “I’ve seen this man exercise the same influence over his cattle as he did to the devoted soldiers who developed to him that same personal attachment we feel to our fathers. The ass surely knoweth this master’s crib.”

Franklin Thomas’ face remained lifeless as he spat out tobacco juice. Brazilaar walked over to where his former partner was standing, and Jones said to him “You know he only was in the infantry, never had any men serve under him.”

“But it sure pleases him to hear,” Brazilaar said. He pulled on the cords of his bolo tie, and continued, “The motions of the mind are swifter than any subtle movement of the lips, eyebrows or nose.”

Now bored with the auction he walked toward the tavern. After he left, Jones sighed reflectively. To no one in particular he said “That there’s a man who will turn himself into all shapes, all colors like a lizard, actin any part for his advantage, good when meetin good, bad when meetin bad, a different character for every character he meets, can snort like a hog, moan like a cow, hiss like a snake, sting like a bee, weep like a dog, fight like a bear, give orders, take orders, wise at home and a fool abroad.”

Inside the tavern Brazilaar found the Sheriff drinking alone. They chatted about various county topics while sipping the Sheriff’s peach brandy. Around the time the market closed they were joined by Jones. The former partner had abstained from trading that day. He neither sold or bought cattle, and traded none. Brazilaar was in the middle of a story, the time he tricked Edmund Baker into buying tick infested cattle, when Sheets came to report that veteran Thomas had bought all his Shorthorn-herefords.

“And I thought he was all about dairyin,” Jones said. “I could never be said to follow any line of that man’s thought. He will stand around, listenin to people offerin him advice, and at the end of the argument suddenly proclaim one of the ideas as his own, without seeming conscious that any argument had taken place.”

“He has good reason to be satisfied with his purchase today. Pray now my boy Sheets, I guess our business here is settled, we better get our move on outta here.”

Having packed the veteran’s bills safely into the briefcase, the two were saying their farewells to the Sheriff and Jones when Henry Works stormed into the tavern and shouted at Brazilaar’s face

“You said at the last market the low prices they was fetchin was a fluke.”

“And I guess I would say it now. Listen Works, let’s discuss this matter some other time.”

“Nope, we need to settle it now, we’re gonna have a meeting on this.”

Behind Works a mob of cattlemen packed into the room.

“Brazilaar, we need to have a conference on this,” one said.

“Works is all frustrated Graybeal and with good reason,” another said.

“We’re gonna have a meeting on this Brazilaar,” a third said.

Seeing the men swarming around him, Brazilaar whispered to Sheets “Send word to Samuel, I’ll see him in an hour, he’ll know what it means.”

Sheets wormed his way through the crowd and Jones, wanting no part in the discussion, followed his lead.

“You heard Wilcox earlier Brazilaar, the benefits the dairy can bring to this county. Mr. Works here now owns more dairy cattle than anyone in the county. It would only be right if we worked together, to breed the best cattle, instead of depreciatin the cost of em, who would want to buy em if the price of em kept droppin.”

“So you bought more and then the ones you sold didn’t fetch the price you hoped?” Brazilaar said. “That’s how it goes. And I’m only guessin but I figure you bought most of em from some of these men here?”

“But I thought this was a pool of shared interests? We work together,” Works pleaded.

“Well if it is a pool, I’d say one of the men you bought off of should give ye your return, but why would they give ye back the dollars you gave em?”

Not one of the befuddled faces responded. Brazilaar tightened his bolo tie. Wilcox entered the meeting.

“Mr. Graybeal, I’ve heard rumours today amongst the men suggestin they sell their dairy cattle as soon as possible, and not put any bids toward buyin anymore of em, and the more I’ve questioned em it seems these rumors lead back to you. Now I have to ask myself why would a man who originally invested and helped create the cheese co-operative do such a thing?”

“I have no share in that cheese factory anymore, the last of my investments were mostly in them cattle I guess Works bought. I’ll go ahead and give ye Works your share of my return before any future meetings of this pool you keep mentionin, if that’ll calm ye.”

“Brazilaar’s gonna squat on us again,” Edmund Baker shouted.

Before Brazilaar could open his briefcase Wilcox asked: “What’s the point of all this? You’re gonna calmly return your victim’s own money as a portion of the pool’s earnings? I think the county board will find these stories pretty intrestin, if it turns out you’ve worked against, and I think stolen money, from one of its primary, current intrests.”

“I guess the point,” Brazilaar responded, “if you need a point, and this is my word, my honor, the point is that Mr. Bledsoe on the State Board of Agriculture, not the county, has purchased several very fine pure-bred Aberdeen-Angus bulls, and is gonna lease these to responsible breeders of beef cattle. We’ll be producin more beef than any county in North Carolina.”

“Your word Graybeal?” Baker said. “I wouldn’t trust your word no farther than you can toss one of them bulls by its tail.”

“Y’all should trust this then,” Brazilaar shouted back. “Means more than your sore tails, as sorry as the dairy cattle you’re moanin over. That man Sheets, who y’all a moment ago let leave this town unnoticed, the poor boy was scared y’all finally had caught on, I did my best to keep him here, this man, I have evidence that he’s the cattle thief y’all been lookin for.”

The group began murmuring, each to each other, and Brazilaar leaned back against the bar, satisfied with this temporary lapse in their accusations. He started, “Well I trust y’all will be able to figure this out later–” But his speech was cut off by one of the herd boys who bolted through the tavern’s swinging doors, almost stumbling over himself, exclaiming “Colonel Thomas was drivin his newly purchased steers home when a sudden they began pissin everywhere in the street and nobody can move outta town at all, the drainage is all overrun, the mayor is in a panic, the general says he’s gonna rain hell fire and brimstone on the man who sold him those cattle.”

Realizing that he could manipulate events no longer, that he could be shot or worse thrown behind bars, Brazilaar handed the Sheriff a wad of bills and exited out the tavern’s back door, stuffed briefcase in hand. He cut across the main street where a smell of urine stunk in the heavy air, through an alleyway and ran, his hand holding his stetson on top his head, to the river where his giant manservant and fourth cousin Samuel was waiting with a flatboat. Once onboard, Brazilaar Graybeal tightened his bolo tie, and said

“When we get to Whitetop we’ll take the train up north and then we can head out west from there. Root hog or die Samuel, I think our days of cattle speculatin in this county are over.”