"No Bones Left":
I live on a ranch out in the remote hills of western Colorado, where the land stretches for miles without a soul in sight. Last fall, I started noticing things were off with my cattle. It began small, just a couple of calves not showing up during the daily checks. I figured maybe a mountain lion got to them, or perhaps the animals wandered too far into the thick timber. But as the weeks went on, the numbers kept dropping, and no carcasses turned up. No bones, no hides, nothing.
My wife, Emily, and I run the place together. We have about 200 head grazing on leased forest land up on the plateau. It's rough country—hilly, full of pines and aspens that hide everything. One morning, after I'd been out riding the fence line, I came back to the house and found Emily in the kitchen, stirring coffee.
"Tom, you're back early," she said, looking up from the stove. "Everything all right out there?"
I shook my head and hung my hat on the peg by the door. "Missing another three calves. Counted the herd twice. They're just gone."
She set the spoon down, her face going pale. "Gone? You mean like stolen?"
"Could be," I replied, pouring myself a cup. "No tracks, no blood. It's like someone picked them up and carried them off without a sound."
We sat at the table, talking it over. Emily suggested calling our neighbor, Jack, who runs a spread a few miles down the dirt road. He's been ranching longer than I have, knows every inch of this area.
I picked up the phone and dialed him. "Jack, it's Tom. You missing any stock lately?"
There was a pause on the line. "Funny you ask. Lost five calves last week. Thought it was predators at first, but no signs. You too?"
"Yeah," I said. "This ain't right. We should report it."
That afternoon, I drove into town to see the sheriff. His office is in Montrose, a small building with a few deputies milling around. Sheriff Harlan was at his desk, papers stacked high.
"What can I do for you, Tom?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
I told him about the missing calves—ten by then—and how Jack had the same problem. "It's not natural losses. Someone's taking them."
He nodded slowly, jotting notes. "We've had a few reports like this from other ranchers. Mostly calves, vanishing from the plateau. I'll send a deputy up to look around, but you know how big that land is. Thirty thousand acres or more. Hard to patrol."
"You think it's rustlers?" I pressed.
"Possible," he said. "Could be a group working quiet, hauling them out in trailers at night. Keep your eyes open, and lock your gates if you can."
Driving back, I felt uneasy. The road winds through dark valleys, and I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see headlights following me. That night, Emily and I double-checked the barn doors and turned on the floodlights around the house.
A few days passed without incident, but then it happened again. I was out early, saddling my horse to ride up the trail. The air was still, the kind that makes every rustle stand out. As I reached the upper pasture, I saw the herd scattered, nervous. Counting them, I came up short by another four.
"Emily," I called her on the radio when I got back. "More gone. I'm staying out tonight to watch."
Her voice crackled back, worried. "Be careful. Take the rifle."
I agreed, though I hoped I wouldn't need it. After supper, I loaded the truck with a thermos of coffee, a blanket, and my old Winchester. Emily stood on the porch, arms crossed.
"Don't do anything foolish," she said. "If you see something, come back and call the sheriff."
I kissed her goodbye and drove up the rutted path to a spot overlooking the grazing area. I parked behind a cluster of rocks, killed the engine, and waited. The darkness settled in fast, wrapping around everything. I sat there for hours, scanning with binoculars, listening.
Around midnight, a sound caught my ear—a low rumble, like an engine far off. I strained to hear, but it faded. Then, silence again. I sipped coffee, trying to stay alert. My mind wandered to stories I'd heard from old timers about thieves in these parts, men who knew the land better than anyone, slipping in and out like shadows.
Suddenly, a snap echoed from the trees below—twig breaking under a boot. I froze, heart racing. I grabbed the rifle and eased out of the truck, crouching low. The moon gave just enough light to see shapes in the pasture. The cattle were stirring, heads up.
I moved closer, step by step, keeping to the brush. Another sound—voices, muffled. "Hurry up," one whispered harshly. "Grab that one."
I edged forward, peering through the branches. Two figures, dark outlines, were herding a calf toward a gap in the fence. One held a rope, the other a flashlight aimed low. They worked quick, efficient.
"Hey!" I shouted, stepping out, rifle raised but not aimed. "Stop right there!"
The figures whirled. One bolted for the trees, the other charged at me. I backed up, but he was fast—grabbed my arm, wrenching the rifle away. We tumbled to the ground, rolling in the dirt. His breath was hot on my face, hands like vices.
"You shouldn't be here," he growled, pinning me down. "This ain't your business."
I fought back, kneeing him hard. He grunted and loosened his grip. I scrambled up, grabbing a rock, swinging it at his head. It connected with a thud, and he dropped.
The other figure was gone, the calf too. I stood there, breathing heavy, staring at the man on the ground. He wasn't moving. Panic hit me—what had I done?
I radioed Emily. "Call the sheriff. I caught one, but... he's hurt bad."
She gasped. "Are you okay? I'm calling now."
I waited, rifle back in hand, watching the trees. Every shadow seemed to move, every wind gust like footsteps. What if there were more? What if they came back?
Sheriff Harlan arrived with deputies an hour later, lights flashing. They loaded the man into an ambulance—he was alive, barely. Turned out he was part of a ring, hauling calves to sell across state lines. But his partner escaped, and more cattle vanished in the following weeks from other ranches.
Emily and I talked about it endlessly. "How many were out there?" she asked one night, as we sat by the fire.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I feel like eyes are on us now."
Jack called the next day. "Heard about your run-in. You think that's the end of it?"
"No," I said. "Feels like just the start."
Nights got harder after that. I'd lie awake, listening for engines or whispers in the dark. Once, I swore I saw a figure at the edge of the yard, just standing there, watching the house. I grabbed the rifle and ran out, but nothing. Emily started locking every door, checking windows twice.
Then, a week later, I found a note tacked to the barn door—scrawled in rough letters: "Stay out of it, or next time it's not calves that disappear."
I showed it to the sheriff. "We'll increase patrols," he promised. "But watch your back."
Emily hugged me tight that evening. "Maybe we should sell the place, Tom. This land's too big, too empty."
I shook my head. "This is our home. We can't run."
But deep down, fear gnawed at me. The plateau felt different now—hostile. Every time I rode out, I wondered if someone was tracking me, waiting for a moment alone.
More calves went missing from neighboring spreads. Jack lost another ten. We met at his place one afternoon, him, me, and a few others.
"This has to stop," Jack said, pounding the table. "They're picking us off one by one."
A rancher named Bill spoke up. "I heard noises last night—trucks idling. Didn't see anything, but my dog's been barking non-stop."
We agreed to take turns watching each other's land. That night, it was my shift at Jack's. I parked on a ridge, rifle across my lap. Hours ticked by. Then, around 2 a.m., lights flickered in the valley below—headlights, cutting through the black.
I radioed Jack. "Something's moving down there. I'm going closer."
"Wait for me," he replied. "Don't go alone."
But I couldn't wait. I hiked down, heart thumping. The lights vanished, but I heard gates creaking, cattle lowing in distress. Creeping through the underbrush, I spotted a truck backed up to the fence, two men loading calves into a trailer.
One turned, spotting me. "There's someone here!"
I raised the rifle. "Stop! I see you!"
They didn't. The engine roared, tires spinning as the truck lurched forward. I fired a warning shot into the air. The truck swerved, clipping the fence, but kept going. One man leaned out the window, shouting back, "You'll regret this!"
I chased on foot, but they—wait, the driver sped away into the night. Jack arrived minutes later, out of breath.
"You hit anyone?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But they got away with at least five."
We called the sheriff again. He came out at dawn, examining tracks. "Tire marks match a heavy-duty pickup. We'll trace it."
But days turned to weeks, no arrests. The disappearances slowed, but the fear lingered. Emily and I installed cameras, motion lights. Still, I'd wake to strange sounds—branches scraping windows, distant engines.
One evening, as I fixed fence, a shadow moved in the trees. I called out, but no answer. Later, Emily found footprints near the house—boot prints, leading from the woods.
"Whoever it is, they're close," she whispered.
I nodded, gripping her hand. "We have to end this."
That night, I set a trap—left the barn light on, pretended to sleep. Hours later, a creak—the door opening. I slipped out the back, circling around.
A man was inside, tampering with equipment. I tackled him from behind. We struggled, him stronger than expected. "Get off!" he snarled.
"Who sent you?" I demanded, holding him down.
He laughed, cold and low. "You think it's just me? We're everywhere."
Sheriff's deputies took him away, but he wouldn't talk. Turned out he was linked to a bigger operation, stealing for black market sales. His words haunted me— "we're everywhere."
Even now, with the case ongoing, calves still vanish sometimes. I ride the land, rifle ready, wondering who's watching. The plateau holds secrets, and in the quiet hours, I know the threat isn't gone. It's just waiting.
"Missouri Rustler":
I live on a small ranch out in the middle of nowhere, Missouri, where the fields stretch far and the nearest neighbor is a good drive away. My name's Tom, and I've been raising cattle here for most of my life. It started small at first, just a couple of cows gone from the herd one morning. I figured maybe a fence broke or a gate got left open by accident. But when I walked the perimeter, everything looked fine. No tracks, no signs of anything forcing its way in or out.
That first time, I called my wife, Anna, out to see. "Look at this," I said, pointing to the empty spot in the pasture. "Two heifers missing. You see any reason for that?"
She shook her head, her face puzzled. "No, Tom. Maybe the boys down the road know something. Kids playing pranks?"
I doubted it. The boys in town were good kids, not the type to mess with livestock. But I drove into the village anyway, stopped at the feed store where folks gather. Old Mr. Jenkins was behind the counter, ringing up supplies for another farmer. "Hey, Jenkins," I said. "You hear of anyone losing cattle lately?"
He paused, looked at me careful. "Why you asking, Tom?"
"Lost a couple this morning. No trace."
He leaned in closer, voice low. "Keep an eye out. That Rex fellow's been around more. You know how he is."
Rex. Everyone knew Rex McKinney. Big man, always driving that old pickup, staring at people like he owned the place. He'd been in trouble before—stealing hogs from one farm, tools from another. But he always walked free, lawyers twisting things in court. I nodded to Jenkins and left, a knot forming in my gut.
Back home, I double-checked the locks on the barn. That night, Anna and I sat at the kitchen table over coffee. "What if it's him?" she asked. "Rex, I mean. What do we do?"
"We watch," I replied. "And we report it if more go missing."
A week later, three more cows vanished. This time, I found a gate unlatched, but no footprints in the mud. I called the sheriff, a man named Davis who'd been on the job for years. He came out, notepad in hand, looking over the field. "Tom, this looks like rustling, plain and simple. But proving it's tough without evidence."
"You think it's Rex?" I asked straight out.
Davis sighed. "Can't say names without proof. But he's got a history. I'll drive by his place, see what I see."
He left, and nothing came of it. Days passed quiet, but then I started noticing things. A truck idling at the end of my driveway one evening, lights off. I grabbed my shotgun and stepped out, but by the time I got close, it sped away. Anna saw it too. "That was his truck, Tom. I recognize the dent on the side."
"We need to be careful," I said. "Lock the doors at night."
The disappearances kept happening. Every few days, another animal gone. My herd shrunk from fifty to thirty before long. I couldn't sleep right, always listening for sounds outside. One morning, I found a note tacked to the barn door. Scrawled in rough letters: "Stay out of it." No signature, but I knew.
I showed it to my neighbor, Bill, who lived a mile down the road. He'd lost some cattle too. We met at his fence line. "Same thing happening to me," he said. "Lost four last month. And I saw Rex driving slow past my place last week."
"What are we going to do?" I asked.
Bill looked serious. "We talk to the others. Can't let him keep this up."
We gathered a few farmers at the local diner, keeping it quiet. There was me, Bill, Jenkins from the store, and a couple others—Ed and Frank. We sat in the back booth. "This has to stop," Ed said first. "Rex is bleeding us dry. My family's struggling because of those losses."
Frank nodded. "He's not just stealing. He's scaring folks. Shot at my dog last year when it barked at him."
I told them about the note. "He's warning me off. But I won't back down."
Jenkins spoke up. "Sheriff knows, but his hands are tied. Rex's lawyer gets him out every time."
We agreed to watch each other's places, take turns patrolling at night. But it didn't help much. Two nights later, I heard rustling out by the pasture. I slipped out with my flashlight and gun, moving quiet through the grass. There, in the dark, I saw a figure loading a cow into a trailer hitched to a truck. "Hey!" I shouted. "Stop right there!"
The man turned, and the light caught his face. Rex. He grinned, slow and mean. "This ain't your business, Tom. Go back inside."
"That's my cow," I said, raising the gun. "Get off my land."
He laughed. "You pull that trigger, you'll regret it. I got friends in high places."
He climbed into his truck and drove off, leaving the cow behind. But he took the time to slash my fence wire on the way out. I stood there, shaking, knowing he could have done worse.
Anna was waiting when I got back. "Was it him?" she whispered.
"Yes. Clear as day."
We called the sheriff again. Davis came, took my statement. "I'll bring him in for questioning," he promised.
But Rex posted bail quick, and then the real trouble started. My barn caught fire one night. I smelled the smoke and ran out, bucket in hand, Anna calling the fire department. We saved most of it, but the damage cost hundreds. No proof it was him, but who else?
Then, the threats. Phone calls in the middle of the night, heavy breathing, then a voice: "You talk too much, Tom. Accidents happen on farms."
Anna begged me to stop. "Let's sell and move," she said over breakfast. "It's not worth it."
"I can't," I replied. "This is our home. He wins if we run."
Bill came over, face pale. "He shot at me yesterday. Grazed my arm when I confronted him about my missing steers."
We went to town together, talked to more people. The grocer, Mr. Bowenkamp, had his own story. "Rex threatened me over nothing," he said. "Pointed a gun right in my face."
The fear spread like wildfire. Folks locked up early, avoided the roads at night. Rex drove around bold, waving at people with that smirk. I saw him at the tavern one day, sitting with his buddies. He spotted me through the window, raised his glass like a toast.
I turned away, but inside, the anger built. The town held a meeting at the community hall, everyone whispering about what to do. Sheriff Davis was there. "I know it's hard," he said. "But let the law handle it."
"But the law ain't handling it," someone shouted.
Murmurs agreed. I stayed quiet, but my mind raced.
Then came the breaking point. Rex shot Mr. Bowenkamp outside his store, right in the neck. The old man survived, barely. The town boiled over. We met again, this time without the sheriff. "Enough," Bill said. "He'll kill one of us next."
Nods all around. I felt the weight of it, the decision hanging in the air.
The next morning, Rex showed up in town, bold as ever, sitting in his truck outside the tavern. A crowd gathered. I was there, standing with the others. Shots rang out suddenly. Rex slumped over the wheel. Blood everywhere. His wife screamed from the passenger seat.
People scattered, but no one ran far. The sheriff arrived quick, asking questions. "Who saw it?" he demanded.
Silence. I looked at the ground, same as everyone. No one said a word.
That was the end of it. The disappearances stopped. My herd stayed whole. But the memory lingers, the fear of what one man can do to a place. I still check the fences every morning, just in case.
"October Gate":
I grew up on that old farm in rural Missouri, helping my parents tend to the cattle and fix fences since I was old enough to walk. My father, Charles, and my mother, Grace, had built everything from nothing, raising me and my siblings on those 400 acres. By the time I moved to the nearby town for work, they were in their sixties, still handling most of the chores themselves. I visited every weekend, but one Saturday in September 1993, something felt off right away.
When I pulled up the dirt driveway, the gate was wide open, which my father never allowed because it risked the cows wandering. I called out as I stepped inside the house, but no one answered. The kitchen looked like they had just come back from town—bags of groceries sat on the counter, milk warming up, bread unwrapped. "Mom? Dad?" I shouted again, walking through the rooms. Their bed was made, tools hung in place in the barn, but the truck was gone. I figured maybe they had stepped out for a quick errand, so I waited an hour, then two. By evening, worry set in. I phoned my sister, Mary, who lived a couple hours away.
"John, have you heard from them today?" she asked when I explained.
"No, and the gate's open. That's not like Dad."
She paused. "Mom called me yesterday afternoon. She said she heard gunshots outside, thought it was Dad shooting at a snake or something. Then she hung up quick, said she had to check."
Gunshots? That didn't sit right. Our farm was isolated, miles from the nearest neighbor, with thick woods on one side and open fields on the other. I decided to check the pasture. Out back, I counted the cattle—usually around 50 head, but I only saw 40 or so. Ten missing? I walked the fence line, looking for breaks, but everything was intact. No tracks, no signs of how they got out. It was like they had vanished.
That night, I stayed at the house, listening to every creak in the old wood. Around midnight, I heard a low rumble, like an engine far off, but it faded. I grabbed the shotgun and stepped onto the porch, scanning the darkness. Nothing moved. The next morning, Mary arrived, and we searched together. We found Mom's purse on the table, cash still inside, and the VCR was missing from the living room—odd, since who would take that and leave money?
"We need to call the sheriff," Mary said, her voice steady but eyes wide.
I nodded. "Yeah. And those cows— they're gone without a trace."
The sheriff's deputy came out, a guy named Armstrong, who knew our family. "Folks, we'll look into it. Could be they drove off and had car trouble. That storm last week flooded some roads."
But we knew better. The storm had passed days ago, and they would have called. Deputies searched the property, brought dogs, but the trails went cold. Days turned into weeks. More cattle disappeared—five more one night, no fences cut, no gates open. I started staying at the farm full-time, patrolling at odd hours. One evening, as I fed the remaining herd, I found a strange mark on the barn door—a fresh scratch, like from a tool, deep enough to splinter the wood.
"Who's out here?" I muttered to myself, gripping a flashlight. I followed what looked like boot prints leading into the woods, but they stopped abruptly, as if the person had turned back carefully.
Mary came over often, and we talked late into the nights. "John, remember Dad mentioning those rustlers hitting farms up north? Maybe it's connected."
"Could be," I replied. "But why take the VCR? And why not just steal the cows clean? This feels personal."
One afternoon, a neighbor, old Mr. Harlan from down the road, stopped by. "Heard about your folks. Sorry, son. Seen anything unusual?"
"More cows gone last week," I told him. "No tracks."
He leaned on his truck. "Had a couple of mine vanish last month too. Thought it was coyotes at first, but no blood, no bones. Keep your eyes open—heard talk of some fellas from the city scouting rural spots."
That conversation stuck with me. I started setting traps, simple ones with wire to trip anyone sneaking around. Two nights later, I woke to a snap outside. Heart racing, I ran out with the shotgun. The trap was triggered, but empty—no one there, just a snapped wire and a dropped glove, leather, worn. It wasn't my father's.
I showed it to Mary the next day. "Someone's been here. Testing the place."
Her face paled. "We have to tell the sheriff again."
The investigation dragged. Then, in October, a hunter found our parents' truck in the woods miles away, burned to a shell. No bodies, but the seats had dark stains. Armstrong called us in. "It's foul play, no doubt. We're treating it as homicide now."
Homicide. The word hit like a punch. Who would do this? Our family had no enemies. But the cattle kept vanishing—three more that week. I began to wonder if the thieves had targeted the farm, and when my parents caught them, things turned bad.
Months passed. I hired a hand to help watch the place, a quiet guy named Tom. One night, we sat on the porch. "Boss, I saw lights in the field last night," he said. "Flickering, like lanterns."
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"By the time I got out, gone. But I heard voices—low, arguing."
We patrolled together after that. Suspicion grew; every shadow seemed to hide something. Then, in spring, the break came. Police arrested some locals for burglaries—stolen goods from farms, including our VCR at a pawn shop. It led to a family: William Rousan, his son Brent, and brother-in-law Robert. Robert cracked first, drew a map to a shallow grave on another property.
Mary and I got the call. "They found them," Armstrong said quietly. "Shot multiple times. Buried in a tarp."
The story unfolded: The Rousans had planned to steal our cattle that night. They snuck in, but my parents heard the noise—those gunshots Mom mentioned. Confrontation turned deadly. They killed them, dumped the bodies, burned the truck, and grabbed the VCR as an afterthought. Over time, they came back for more cows, figuring the farm was empty.
William claimed my brother paid him, but that was a lie—no evidence. He and Brent got life; William was executed years later.
Even now, thinking back, the fear lingers. Those nights alone, knowing someone watched, waited. The farm sold after, but I drive by sometimes, remembering how disappearances started small—with cows—then swallowed everything.
"Tongues and Signs":
I had been riding the range at Silvies Valley Ranch for over a decade, checking fences and herding cattle across those endless acres in eastern Oregon. One morning in late July, I spotted something off with the herd. A young bull, one of our top breeders, was gone. No sign of him breaking through the wire or wandering off. I radioed back to the main house.
"Colby, it's Dave here. Number 47's missing from the north pasture. Fence looks fine, no tracks."
Colby Marshall, the vice president who oversaw operations, came back quick. "You sure? Check again. Those bulls don't just vanish."
I did another loop, eyes on the ground for any clue. Nothing. By afternoon, we had a small crew out searching—me, Jack the other hand, and Colby himself. We spread out on horseback, covering the rough terrain dotted with sagebrush and canyons. As the light faded, Jack called over.
"Dave, over here. Found something."
I trotted my horse over. There, in a shallow draw, lay the bull. Or what was left. His red coat shone like he'd been groomed, but his tongue was gone, cut clean out. The genitals too, removed with straight, even edges. No blood anywhere—not a drop on the grass or the body. No buzzards circling, no coyote prints. Just the carcass, stiff and untouched.
Jack knelt down, his face pale. "What could do this? Looks like surgery."
Colby arrived minutes later, staring hard. "Poachers? But why leave the meat? This bull's worth six grand easy."
We hauled the body back for the vet, but he couldn't explain it. No poison, no bullet holes, no struggle marks. That night, over coffee in the bunkhouse, Jack wouldn't let it go.
"It's got to be people. Animals don't cut like that."
I nodded, but sleep didn't come easy. The ranch spanned 140,000 acres, mostly wild and empty. Anyone could hide out there.
Two days later, another bull missing. Same pasture. We found him a mile away, same condition—tongue and parts gone, body drained dry. Colby called the sheriff's office. Deputy Dan Jenkins showed up, notepad in hand.
"Seen anything like this before?" Colby asked him.
Dan shook his head. "Not exactly. Heard stories from other ranches, though. A cow near Princeton a couple years back, cut up the same way. No tracks, no blood. Rancher said it gave him the creeps."
We stood around the carcass as Dan poked at the cuts. "These are precise. Like a blade, not teeth. Could be a group, using darts to drop 'em quiet."
Jack crossed his arms. "Darts? You mean like tranquilizers? Then why mutilate?"
Dan shrugged. "Black market organs? Cult stuff? I've got calls coming in with all kinds of ideas. We'll patrol more."
That started the night watches. I volunteered for the first shift with Jack. We camped near the herd, rifles ready. The land stretched dark and quiet around us. Around midnight, I heard a low hum, like an engine far off.
"Jack, wake up. Listen."
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Vehicle? Out here?"
We mounted up, following the sound toward a distant ridge. The hum stopped abrupt. Then, a faint light flickered in the trees—gone quick. We pushed on, horses picking through the brush.
Up ahead, a small clearing. An old hunting shack, long abandoned. Door ajar. I dismounted, rifle in hand.
"Stay here," I whispered to Jack. "Cover me."
Inside, the air smelled stale. Flashlight beam showed cans of food, a sleeping bag. Recent use. On a table, tools—scalpel, syringes. And a jar with something wet inside. I leaned closer. A bull's tongue, fresh.
Footsteps outside. I spun, but too late. A figure lunged from the shadows, knocking the light from my hand. We grappled in the dark. He was strong, wiry, breath hot on my face.
"Get off!" I grunted, shoving back.
Jack's voice yelled from outside. "Dave! Where are you?"
The man broke free, darting out. A shot rang out—Jack firing into the air. I stumbled after, but the figure vanished into the night.
We raced back to camp, hearts racing. Next morning, we led Deputy Dan to the shack. Everything gone—cleared out overnight.
"That was close," Dan said, scanning the empty room. "Whoever it is, they're bold. Living right under our noses."
Colby upped the reward to 25 grand for info. But more bulls vanished. The third one we found half-buried, eyes removed too. Jack quit after that.
"I'm out, Dave. This ain't rustling. It's sick."
I stayed, patrolling alone now. One evening, I spotted tire tracks near a creek—fresh, leading into the hills. Followed them on foot, sun dipping low. The tracks ended at a hidden camp: tent, cooler, two men hunched over a fire. One held a knife, cleaning blood from it. The other laughed low.
"These ranch boys are clueless. Another haul tonight?"
I backed away slow, but a twig snapped. They turned. "Who's there?"
I ran, branches whipping my face. Footsteps pounded behind. "Stop! We'll find you!"
Hid in a gully, holding breath as they searched. Voices close.
"He saw us. Can't let him talk."
They passed by, inches away. Waited hours before creeping back to my horse.
Told Colby and Dan everything. "It's a team. Poaching organs, maybe selling 'em."
Dan nodded grim. "Explains the precision. Black market pays big for exotic stuff. But why drain the blood? Hiding evidence?"
We set a trap that night—me as bait, Dan and Colby hidden nearby. Waited in the pasture, pretending to fix fence. Hours passed. Then, a dart whizzed past my ear, sticking in the post.
I dropped flat. Shadows moved—three figures approaching, masked.
"Now!" Dan shouted.
Shots echoed, not to kill but to scare. They scattered, one dropping a bag. Inside: syringes, blades, and a notebook with ranch maps, marked spots.
We chased, but they had ATVs, gone into the canyons.
Dan examined the bag later. "This is organized. Maybe tied to other cases. That rancher Terry Anderson up north had a cow done the same—udder gone, no blood."
Colby sighed. "How long they been out here?"
"Months, maybe. Watching us."
We never caught them. More patrols, helicopters even, but the mutilations stopped—for a while. Then, in 2020, a cow turned up same way nearby. I left the ranch soon after. Still wonder if they're out there, waiting in the remote spots, picking off livestock one by one. And maybe not just animals next time.