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A shape moved on the ridge, a bulk half-hidden by dusk. Manny’s hand found the old rifle leaning by the door more by instinct than necessity. The herd snorted; calves pressed backs against mothers. The shape resolved: not wolves, not elk, but a single beast that seemed too big for the land. It was a bull, old and horned like a relic. Its hide was marked with white scars, patterns like lightning. It walked with the slow assurance of things that have outlived their threats.

Eli smiled, like a man who enjoyed arguing with weather instead of people. “You’ll see. Less time walking the pastures, fewer lost calves. You can ride out less and do more.” He tapped the satchel, and for a moment Manny saw a flash of something in the technician’s expression: pride, maybe, or a memory of his own childhood nights under a different moon. www beastranch com men and cow install