As far as ranches go in these parts, Mr. Clyde Jenkins was doing rather well for himself. Having been the third generation of Jenkins in this area, his family had acquired a really nice piece of prime real estate in Sasaskwa valley in the shadows of the Twin Eagle Peaks along the Hatchapi River. Sitting on just over 500 acres of lush fertile grazing land, a modest stone and log cabin sits near the forest line. Adjacent to it, a weathered wooden barn stands, situated squarely between a horse corral and the main gate leading to an expanse of fertile pasture land. All in all the Jenkins family as a whole had led a very modest life, simple and in harmony with a lifestyle befitting of the community and town. Old man Mr. Jenkins however had become the last living Jenkins in these parts, his kin, both a sister and a brother, having left years ago to raise a family closer to a more modern lifestyle in suburban America. He lost his wife many years prior and never had children. The ranch as of recent had become too much for the elderly man to look after by himself, it’s age beginning to mirror his own. But he refused to sell or abandon his family legacy, joking often that he would eventually die somewheres out in the tall grass of his fields, and that would become his eventual and eternal resting place.
Sheriff Packard pulls up through the circular drive and stops near the stairs where Mr. Jenkins is sitting atop the porch on an old rickety rocking chair, pipe in one hand, a steaming cup of black coffee in the other, rockin to the slow rhythm of each draw on his pipe. Had Norman Rockwell been alive today, Packard half expected him to have an easel set up somewhere near artistically brushing an antique palette of shades to canvas of the scene he just drove up on. This small town life was slowly growing on the once big city cop, but he would damned to let anyone know it.
“Top of the morning to ya Sheriff” mumbles the elderly land owner, as a small puff of aromatic autumn cherry tobacco smoke escapes through a slightly agaped crack in his lips opposite his weathered briarwood pipe.
“Good morning to you as well Sir” replies Packard approaching the bottom step of the porch. He had come to learn early on that one does not step up onto another’s porch without being invited to do so. He remains at it base. “What seems to be the problem? Judy in dispatch mentioned something about a horse mutilation occurring on your property. Is that correct?”
Mr.Jenkins gulps down the remainder of his coffee and gently sets both his mug and pipe down on a nearby table. Struggling, he slowly hoists himself from the unstable chair, needing a second more robust go at the task to accomplish it. Sheriff Packard stands in amazement, wondering why the old fellow would continue to sit in a chair he must obviously know he cannot rise from and whether the loud creaking he’s hearing as Jenkins is trying to stand is coming from the dilapidated chair or the knees of the dilapidated man.
“Correct in deed Sheriff. I’ve got a dead horse”, answers Jenkins matter of factly as he finally erects himself and makes his way down the steps. He meets Packard at the bottom and the two men shake hands.
“Well we’ve all seen dead horses, that’s nothing new around these parts. You are living in the wilderness” remarks Packard.
Jenkins shakes his head in such a manner of both disagreement and acknowledgment simultaneously. “You ain’t never seen a dead horse like this before, I damn sure guarantee that son…Hell, I ain’t never seen a dead horse like this, not ever in all my years” he responds curtly.
An expression of bewilderment and intrigued crosses over Packards face as he follows the old timer around to the horse corral. The enclosed fence of the corral is made of aged but solid birchwood beams, hand debarked, notched and fastened together with heavy wire and pegs, standing slightly over six feet high. Mr. Jenkins walks Packard over to where a large horse, the kind used for plowing or moving heavy equipment, lays bloodied and disemboweled. The section of the fence that the horse lays nearest is badly damaged, the top two beams are broken. The horse lays there at their feet.
“Best I can figure Sheriff is that something really big got to her”.
Packard kneels to get a closer look, not that he had much horse mutilation training in the city.
“You’re right about that replies Packard. Looks like maybe a grizzly got her next to the fence…here. Must of been a surprise attack as well…close proximity to the forest edge, no ground disturbance, no struggle” he continues. “How strange”.
“But that’s just the thing Sheriff. Haas was locked inside this very corral last night. There’s blood inside, some innards too over there”. He points some twenty feet away more towards the center of the corral. “There’s the drag marks in the soft earth over yonder on the inside. They lead here”.
Sheriff Packard steps up onto the fence adjacent the broken beams to get a better view of the scene. He removes his hat and rubs his head in amazement. The ground on the inside of the pen is all torn up where a definite struggle ensued.
“There’s also blood there on these here broken beams”, Jenkins continues.
A large smooth trail where the horse was obviously dragged from the point of initial attack leads up to where the men now stand and the top two beams are indeed covered in blood.
“Some hair too mixed in with that blood, although it doesn’t seem to be from the horse. Too coarse, all knotted up, and hell does it smell the backend of a skunk, two weeks dead”, Jenkins continues.
Sheriff Packard rubs a small sample of the horse blood and hair between his finger tips. He brings it up close to his nose, but the pungent smell punches him in the throat makeing him gag. He quickly wipes the mess on his trousers, but immediately regrets the decision as the smell has now become his travelling buddy, at least until he gets back to the station to change. He tries to clear his throat of the noxious smelly taste combo, but the offense is quite pungent and his eyes are still watery.
“A twelve hundred pound horse…ahem… over a six foot high fence?” questions Packard, clearing his throat yet again.
“Got any other idea’rs on how this could happen?” Jenkin questions in response.
“I guess maybe it’s possible that a Grizzly could have done this, though I don’t see how.” Packard continues.”They rarely if ever will pick a fight with something as large as them”.
“Shoot, if it was a Grizzly, it’s the biggest damn grizzly i’d ever want to see. Damn”. Jenkins interjects.
Packard jumps down from the second beam landing on the soft earth, his feet sinking into the soft earth around the corral. Strange that he couldn’t see any obvious tracks anywhere at the scene. All that was visible was a few hoof prints from the large dead horse, and the smooth deep impact trail from where the horse was dragged to the fence. He couldn’t see any type of tracks from what could be a large enough predator that could have killed such a large prey as Haas. Sheriff Packard takes a small sample of blood and hair and puts it in a small container, seals it up and shoves it into his knapsack. He retrieves a small digital camera from his pocket and begins taking numerous photos of the scene, both inside and outside the corral as well as some close up shots of the dead horse and its gruesome injuries. Flies buzz around the bloodied carcass and towards Packards face, occasionally landing on both.
“Ohh God!” he exclaims, cupping his hand over his mouth and nose.
The putrid smell and sight of the scene nauseates the sheriff to the point of nearing losing his breakfast. He quickly steps away from the scene to catch his breath. Definitely never trained for this in the city.
“Tell you what” explains Packard, “I’ll take this sample to the coroners office and see if he can determine the hair and or blood type”.
“Well when you find out who or what did this, you’ll let me know right? Haas was my best horse, but I do have other livestock as well, and need to make arrangements to keep them safe,” responds Jenkins.
Packard reaches out to shake the old man’s hand, “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. I must say I’m as interested in this as you are in getting to the bottom of all this”.
The two men walk back to the patrol truck, where Sheriff Packard tosses his knapsack onto the passenger side seat and jumps in himself. He gives a courteous nod goodbye to old man Jenkins and another equally putrid sniff of his fingers, eliciting a similar response as earlier, then drives off down the road and out of sight. Old man Jenkins remains at the base of the stairs for a few minutes longer, gazing out at the tall grasses in the pasture land.
“I fear sooner than later,” he remarks just audibly.
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