362
JUAN FRANCISCO BLANCO
“There’s your first turnoff, Tital,” Jonathan announced.
Tital turned west off the main road and drove the two miles
to Honest Bill Wotherton’s Cattle Sales. There were cattle pens
made out of used oil pipes with a high overhead roof made out of
corrugated steel. One small office and a large connected barn
were all that one could see man-made for miles around. Tital
and Bardala were the only ones to get out of the trucks. The rest
of the crew were trying to take well-earned naps, or use their
Dell laptop computers. As they walked to the office, they could
see several Mexican men doing cleanup work.
“Buenos dias, Señor,” called out one man who was working
on a large cattle truck that looked like it needed lots of tender
loving care.
“Buenos dias,” Tital responded, as he opened the office door
for Bardala. Inside was a wooden counter, with an older man
doing paperwork sitting behind it. The man looked up then
smiled, realizing the couple in front of him weren’t from
immigration.
“Hi, there folks, how may I help you? Are you interest in
buying some great bred, Black Angus heifers? I have a group of
farm fresh beauties out back. Take the group of fifty and I can
make you a great buy. What does the Misses say? I always ask
the boss first.” The old man stood up, and held out his hand to
shake.
“Thank you, but no, we only have some horses to feed. We
need twenty-five small bales of good alfalfa hay and twenty sacks
of your all-grain,” Bardala spoke up and told him.
“We can fix you up with the feed,” said the man as he took
out an order book and wrote the order down. “Is that the only