Her face changed.
For half a second, terror of law enforcement exceeded terror of bulls.
Then another resident yelled.
“Karen, MOVE!”
The group finally found the south exit.
People poured through.
Shoes lost.
Coolers abandoned.
One stroller dragged sideways.
Nobody was trampled.
Nobody was struck.
Nobody was injured beyond scrapes and bruised pride.
The bulls never touched a person.
Once the field cleared, I closed the livestock gate.
Diesel stood twenty yards away.
Breathing heavily.
Then lowered his head and started eating grass.
Just like that.
The danger disappeared because the chaos disappeared.
Karen remained on the other side of the fence.
Mud streaked her dress.
Her sun hat was gone.
One sandal was missing.
She stared at me with a level of hatred I had never seen.
“You did that on purpose.”
I walked toward her.
“You came onto a working farm after being explicitly told not to.”
“You released bulls at children.”
“I moved livestock on my own property after warning you to leave.”
“You trapped us.”
“No.”
“You locked the gate.”
“The vehicle gate was secured. The pedestrian exit remained open.”
“You knew we’d panic.”
“I knew you shouldn’t be here.”
She pointed toward me.
“You’ll lose this farm.”
I almost laughed.
“To what?”
“I’ll sue you.”
“Good.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“No.”
I pointed toward one of the cameras.
“I think discovery will be funny.”
Her eyes followed my hand.
Then another camera.
Then a third.
Her face went pale.
“You recorded children?”
“I recorded my property.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
She opened her mouth.
No words came.
Sheriff Hank Mercer arrived ten minutes later with two deputies.
By then the bulls were calm.
The field looked like a disaster after a wedding.
Food.
Plastic cups.
Blankets.
A collapsed canopy.
