Ridin’ Fence ~~ State troopers

A new Ridin’ Fence from Lynn Allen – Enjoy!

I know you’re not supposed to take the feed truck to town, but I was out of options. That stupid red pickup was doing it’s front-end wobble again and there was no way I was putting a ton of cake on that thing and trying to drive it home. I’m not that suicidal.

The local feed store was out of the pellets my goats like (Rumor is goats eat anything. I’d sure like to find some of that kind!) so I saddled up Methuselah and headed for Lamar.

Poor old Methuselah turned over 300,000 miles before the odometer quit and that was a couple years back, and since he has retired from road work, my husband hasn’t done anything about keeping him up. He gets his oil changed and fluids checked, but that’s about it. However, he was one of the best Dodges ever made and despite the neglect, just keeps on chugging along.

We rattled and clattered our way to Lamar, suffered the jokes from the mill hands as they tossed on my load of cake and trundled back up Highway 50 toward home at about 40 miles an hour.

Just the other side of Fort Lyon, a patrol car met us. It didn’t even look for a wide spot in the road, it whipped around in two lanes and charged up behind us, lights flashing.

I eased Methuselah to the side of the road and stopped, mumbling, grumbling and wondering where I’d stuck my wallet. It was here somewhere.

An older State trooper was headed for my window, shadowed by a youngster who’s uniform looked like it should still have the tags on it somewhere.

“Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance,” he said, as I helped the window down with one hand while pushing the button with the other.

There was a slight emphasis on the insurance bit, so I figured he was in for a surprise when I actually handed him the card proving Methuselah was insured. But first I had to find it.

I opened the glove box, dumped the B Complex, Nuflor, and Dexamethazone bottles on the seat and rummaged through exam gloves, sleeves, hardware and boluses, but I finally found it.

When I sat back up, the kid was staring with fixed attention at the syringes on the dash and the bottles on seat. He was obviously on the point. A little tense, I handed the cards over. The older guy looked them over, said “You’re insured then.” and repeated his request for my driver’s license.

I told him I had to find my wallet and started digging. The 1 cc syringes I use for B complex, oxytocin, and so on were all tangled up in the feedsack string I’d stuck in my pocket that morning, and it all came out in a wad. If possible Junior stiffened even more.

I stuffed them in a corner of the dash next to my gloves and rummaged through the cake, clips, and pocket knife in the other pocket and finally realized I’d stuck my wallet in the inside pocket. I fumbled it out and looked up just in time to see him sneak an amused peek out the corner of his eyes at the kid who was all but baying an alert.

The older guy went back to the car with my paperwork, leaving a very nervous Junior at full attention. He was so strung up, he was starting to make me nervous. The last time I saw something that uptight, I’d thrown a saddle on a horse only to discover he was proud of his ability to buck people off before they could get both feet in the sturrips. I didn’t twitch while I waited for the wonders of modern technology to prove there are no arrest warrants out on me, and that I don’t have any tickets.

He came back, eyeing his young partner’s stiff back and with a rotten little gleam in his eye and a smirk twitching his mustache said loud enough for half the county to hear, “You have a concealed weapons permit?”

Junior turned pale.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I carry a rifle to shoot coyotes with and when I ride rough country I take a pistol. Sometimes they get shoved behind or under the seat and that makes them concealed.”

“Getting any coyotes this year?”

“Not nearly enough.”

He handed my paperwork back. “You’re not calving, those boluses and syringes are too small. Kidding or lambing?”

“Kidding.”

“Nice weather for it.”

“Yeah. Beats last year doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Sure does.” He reared back and glanced at his partner under the pretense of surveying Methuselah. Most of our conversation was going over that kid’s head, and he wasn’t taking time to think about any of it, he was focused on syringes. “You really need to get this thing fixed up. Tyeing that front signal light in with twine isn’t exactly correct.”

“I know, but it was the best I could do at the time.”

“And this hood latch has to be fixed.” He tried to jerk it open, but it was tied down. “I guess it’s not coming open.”

“Oh no. I tied it down good. You have to cut it open with a pocketknife.”

Junior was still fixated on veterinary equipment.

“And I’m not supposed to let you go with that back window broken out. And this needs reattached.”

“The windshield doesn’t have a single crack!” I defended. “And that bumper’s been rattling like that for at least 150,000 miles.

Junior was still on the point, and the veteran kept glancing sideways at him. Finally, he had walked clear around the pickup, made me prove that all the lights actually worked – even if two of them were held in with twine, and checked that my load wasn’t going to fall off.

“I won’t tell you to slow down, you can’t go fast enough to get a speeding ticket, but don’t let anything else fall off that truck on the way home!”

“Of course not!” I replied. “I paid lots of money for that stuff, you think I’m going to let it fall off?!”

“Not the load, the parts of the pickup!”

He signaled the youngster and they started back to the car. The youngster kept glancing back and he must have said something because I heard loud and clear, “If we seized all that stuff, it would all come back livestock medicine and we’d have to buy her a whole new stock. Have you priced some of that stuff? Your salary won’t stand it. Get in the car. Not everything you see out here is drugs, and just because somebody has a gun doesn’t mean they’re going to shoot you. You’re going to have to learn to look at everything and not just focus on one potential trigger.”

He shut his door, blocked traffic and waved me out.

“Always happy to help educate the future of law enforcement,” I grumbled urging Methuselah back onto the highway. I’m sending my husband after feed from now on.

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