Stand Up and Die

by Frances Lockridge

“What probably happened,” the doctor said, “was that she started to do something to the bull and he turned on her. Maybe he had a scratch, and she was putting disinfectant of some kind on it. Something with carbolic in it, probably. It stung and—well, the bull got mad.”

  “Hm-m,” Heimrich said. “Was there a scratch on the bull?”

  “My god, captain,” the doctor said. “You think I examined the bull, too?”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “No. I just wondered what made you think of that—that she was treating the bull.”

  For a moment, the physician looked slightly puzzled. Then he shook his head, said he didn’t know. Then he smiled, rather as the district attorney had.

  “You seemed to want an explanation,” he said. “That just came into my head. I don’t know why. Probably there’s nothing to it. Probably the bull just turned savage.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, “no doubt that’s all there is to it.”

  He thanked the physician; was promised any cooperation possible; thanked him again. He joined Trooper Crowley in the police car parked in front of the county court house. He told Crowley that everybody believed the bull had turned savage.

  “Dad says he was a gentle bull,” Crowley told him. “But—I suppose they’re right, captain. You want to go back to Hawthorne?”

  “Now Crowley,” Heimrich had said. “We haven’t had a look at this bull yet, have we?”

  They had driven toward Brewster on U.S. 6, but had turned off while still several miles north of the town and had followed a secondary road—“Old Road”—for perhaps a mile before they came to a sign which read: “Deep Meadow Farm” and which had, beneath the lettering, the pictured face of a black bull. They went up a climbing drive, then, and stopped in front of a rambling white house. As Crowley parked the car, a man came from behind the house and stopped and stood looking at them, waiting. The man was tall, heavy. His florid face was without particular expression.

  “Ballard,” Crowley said. “Farm manager.” Then, raising his voice, he said, “Back again, Mr. Ballard.”

  Ballard moved a few steps toward them.

  “Didn’t expect you,” he said. He looked at Heimrich. “Captain Heimrich,” Crowley said. Ballard took another step toward them. He said, “Captain, huh? Something come up?” Ballard asked.

  “Come up?” Heimrich repeated. “No, not that I know of. Just a formality, Mr.—Ballard, is it?”

  “Ballard,” the big man agreed. “What’s the formality?”

  “Now Mr. Ballard,” Heimrich said. “We have to keep the record straight, naturally. Probably won’t have to bother you again. Just look over the scene of the accident, you know. Check up on a few things.”

  Ballard appeared to be puzzled. There was no reason, Heimrich thought, why he shouldn’t be. It sounded thin. It was thin. The whole business was thin as glass, and less substantial. Ballard said, “O.K. What things?”

  “Well,” Heimrich said, “I’d like a look at the stall. And the bull. Unless he’s been destroyed?”

  Ballard’s expression, then, was one of more than puzzlement. It was one of open and complete astonishment.

  “Destroyed?” he said. “Prince? The champ? Are you crazy, mister?”

  “Apparently,” Heimrich said. “I don’t know much about cattle, Mr. Ballard. It occurred to me that, if the animal’s turned savage, it might be necessary to destroy him. Apparently I was—”

  “Kill Prince?” Ballard said. “Mister, he’s the grand champion.” He looked at Heimrich; Heimrich felt himself inadequate to respond appropriately to this information. “The International Grand Champion,” Ballard said, and spoke in capital letters. “That means he’s the best Angus bull in the world. The—” Words appeared to fail him. He looked a man not given to emotion, but at the enormity of what had been suggested he spread large hands in a gesture of hopelessness. He looked toward the sky, as if seeking inspiration, and there, it appeared, he found it. “Deep Meadow Prince Twelfth, mister,” he said, “is worth a quarter of a million dollars. The old girl—I mean, Mrs. Landcraft—wouldn’t have sold him for that, and she’d have been a fool to. Where would she have been?”

  “Now Mr. Ballard,” Heimrich said. “I don’t know. You mean—literally a quarter of a million?”

  “Maybe more,” Ballard said. “How can you tell? Nobody ever sells an international grand champion.” He paused. “One was sold once,” he said. “Brought two hundred thousand. That was several years ago and the Blacks have been coming along since.” He looked at Heimrich again, and then he shook his head. “You don’t know much about cattle, do you, mister?”

  “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,” Hei
mrich 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 very 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.”