Blair leaned back. “What'd you hear, Frankie?”
“Just that Web Olson was buying up stock, fast
as he could, paying top dollar. Scraggly cows. Bags of bones. A couple months
ago, before he called it quits.”
“Why would he do that, with his herd of Modified
Herefords?”
“Died off.” From habit, Frankie glanced over his
shoulder. You never knew who might be behind you, maybe a mad slasher wearing a
sheet, a hangover nightmare springing back to life.
“Bitterroot Fever.”
“Jesus,” Bell said.
“The state board would close him down,” Blair said.
Frankie shrugged. “I guess they would. You're
right, Jack. Cows lie down and don't wake up. Makes hoof and mouth look like a
toothache, don't it? You heard stories of the teens, used to call it ‘Sleeping
Fever.' This country was empty, just old b
