Rustlers, By God by Ryan Michael Hines

“For all the animals of the forest are mine, and I own the cattle on a thousand hills." —Psalm 50:10

"Get up,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”

He, Michael, did not comply. With my shotgun to my shoulder, wide-brimmed Stetson knocked back on my brow to aid in my aim, I guess it weren’t hard to understand why. Plus, he was tied up.

Michael stared at me from the spot on the garage floor where he lay. His lips moved, but I didn’t hear him. My hearing ain’t so good anymore.

“Say again, son?”

“Why are you here?”

Michael’s eyes were wide. Like a rank, cold backed colt’s. But his weren’t the ones that worried me. There were two men on either side of the young man. They were dressed in long shorts and socks pulled up to their knees. Bandanas around their foreheads, not their face or neck. Their eyes were pinheads, like a rattler’s as he strikes.

It was dark. There were no lights inside the dilapidated garage. A street lamp shining through the half open overhead door was the only light in the place. I was deep in the heart of East Los Angeles, a long way from home. The street was called Slauson. It was lined with tents and run-down Winnebagos. I smelled piss and fear, and I missed the ranch. I felt it calling to me. But I couldn’t go home to the cattle and horses.

Not yet.

“I think you go now, cabrón,” the biggest one said, pulling a pistol from inside his pants. The one opposite him did the same.   

A large black SUV pulled up outside. I couldn’t see through its tinted windows. I didn’t need to, though. I knew Death waited inside it.

“Get lost, old man,” the smaller of the two men said. “This one is ours. Not yours.”

Michael’s eyes were even wider now.

“I ain’t that old,” I said. “And Michael ain’t your’n and he ain’t mine either.”

The big one cocked his pistol.

“Whose is he then?” the big one asked as he pulled the trigger.

—

The trouble started a few months before. Actually, at the start, it weren’t trouble at all.

The ranch is out by Bishop, just off the 395, beneath the great Sierras. My wife had passed. We’d had no children. It was only me. There was too much work for one man. So, I put a help wanted ad in the paper. When Michael showed up with his pickup and two horse trailer, I was relieved. It would be so much easier on the ranch with an extra pair of hands.

“How many head of cattle you got?” he asked me.

“None,” I answered.

Michael had been confused. He pointed at the herd in the pasture by the mountain. “Whose cattle are those?”

“I just look after them. Same as this ranch.”

“You don’t own it?”

“On paper, I guess I do. But that’s not the truth of it.”

“I don’t get it.” Michael had taken his ball cap off and was scratching his head. He looked even younger without the hat on.

“The animals in the forest are mine. And I own the cattle on a thousand hills.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means,” I said as I showed Michael to the bunkhouse, “we’re just caretakers. Ain’t none of this can I take with me when I die. So, I guess ain’t none of it is really mine.”

Michael stepped inside the bunkhouse. He tossed his duffel on the bed.

“Then why do you bother with it?”

The first few months went well. Michael was a hand. He knew how to move cattle. He could handle horses well. He even knew how to cook a little bit. I was happy to have the help. It was good not to be alone. Calving season went smoothly. Weaning went well, too. But soon after that, my neighbors began to notice something was wrong.

A horse or two of theirs would go missing in the night. That, or a few calves from almost every ranch along our stretch of 395.

“Rustlers, by God,” the neighbors said. It was probably true, I’d thought. Even though it was 2024, livestock theft was still a problem. It had gotten worse in the last few years as drugs made their way deeper into our community. Easier to steal than work to pay for your fix.

It was then that Michael’s work ethic began to suffer. He was gone almost every night, in town till late. He was grouchy in the mornings, too. I even caught him mistreating a horse, something I never thought I’d see him do. This wasn’t just any old horse, never mind how bad that would be anyway. It was my late wife’s favorite animal.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked him that night at supper. “I can’t have you mistreat the stock. Especially, my Emily’s favorite mare.” He didn’t answer, just put on his hat as he walked out the door heading for town.

“Michael,” I asked him the next day, “what’s going on?” His eyes were glassy. His movements sluggish. We’d been deworming and ear tagging that morning. Michael was late to work. I’d already gotten the cows up by the time he showed. All I needed him to do was catch them in the chute. But he kept missing. Cattle were getting through the headgate before I’d poured wormer or put an ear tag in.

“I’m worried about you, son.”

“I ain’t your son. And I ain’t your friend. I ain’t yours at all.”

“Michael,” I said quietly, “that’s not the point of it.”

“Screw you, old man,” he said. “I quit.”

Until then, I had been the only rancher along that stretch of road who hadn’t lost any stock. Once Michael quit me, that changed. I woke up one morning to find my dear departed Emily’s mare had disappeared.

I was furious.   

The Sheriff had no help to give. “We can call the auction barns around. But it’ll do no good. I’m sure whoever stole your mare—”

“Weren’t really mine. I guess on paper she was.”

“—either took it across state lines or sold it on the internet. Hard to track these things unless you put a chip in her. You didn’t get her microchipped, did ya?”

I hadn’t. No way I’d ever consider putting a machine inside my dead wife’s favorite animal.

The loss of that mare ate at me. The horse was the last living connection between me and my Emily. I’d started that mare under saddle for her. Fed it for her. Kept it up close to the house so that even in the last days, when Emily was almost gone, she could see her out the window first thing. I’d sometimes carried her out so she could smell her horse, feel her, hear her. Then, when my Emily left me, I would look out and see that mare first thing. Walk out to see her, feel her, smell her.

Pain gave way to rage.

I drove to the old dive outside town where local degenerates hung around. I hated to think of Michael in a place like that, but if he was into the kind of trouble I believed he was, this was the place to find him.

It was early. The bar was closed. Jack, the owner, was asleep in the filthy trailer house parked behind.

“Wake yourself!” I hollered as I kicked his front door in. Jack reached for the sawed-off scattergun he kept by his pillow, but I wrestled it from him before he blinked the sand from his eyes.

“Where is Michael?”

“Don’t know no Michael.”

“Yes, you do. You sell him whiskey and drugs. Where is he?”

“I told you. I don’t know no—”

There was a dull crack as the butt of Jack’s scattergun hit him in the chin.

“Listen here, Jack,” I breathed, “I’ve got a pile of bull testicles as high as a mountain next to the cattle chute in my corral. You want I should add yours to it? I’ll put them way up top where the view is best.”

Turned out he had seen Michael not long ago. His truck was pullin’ that two horse trailer. He’d been headed down to see Tony, a kill buyer in the valley. Michael had tried to pick up some junk on credit, promising to pay with the money he was about to make selling an old mare to the glue factory.

My Emily’s mare.

“But Michael must think I’m as dumb as he looks. I didn’t give him no credit at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because we all know he’s in hock up to his ass with some Sureños boys down in the flatland. And they all know Tony. He doesn’t just move livestock outta that sale barn of his.”

“Thank you,” I said as I helped Jack up off the floor.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled, all perplexed like as he watched me tuck the shotgun into the crook of my arm.

“Keepin’ this,” I said, then tipped my hat and headed for the door. “Sorry about your jaw. There was no helpin’ it.”

“Hope you get your horse back.”

“Wasn’t really mine. Ain’t none of it really mine.”

—

I went to see Tony at the sale barn.

“It’s not here! That mare ain’t here!” he screamed as I held him out, suspended over the side of the hayloft. I was old but still strong as an ox.

“Where is she?” I growled through gritted teeth.

“I swear, rancher. I don’t know. But your mare ain’t here.”

I pulled Tony back over the rail. Knees knocking, he collapsed to the floor.

“Ain’t really my mare.”

“Then why do you want her back so bad?”

I pondered the thought of Emily’s favorite horse on a truck headed for the border. I thought of that mare being slaughtered for dog food down in old Mexico. My face turned red. My heart became steel.

“Where’s Michael?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

I pulled out the sawed-off I got from Jack.

“Hey, now!” Tony was wailing. “Don’t shoot me!”

“Lookit, Tony. I know you don’t just sell stock outta here. You move drugs for guys down in the flatland. Michael’s been selling rustled cattle and horses to you because he owes those same men money. Now, I am only gonna ask you one more time.”

I cocked the scattergun.

“Where is Michael?”

Tony got calm, then. He sat still, quiet.

“Now, I’m not saying I know who Michael is. I’m not saying I bought this mare of yours or any other of God’s creatures off him either. I’m also not saying I know these men you’re talking about. But if I did—”

“Yeah?”

“—then I’d tell you that Michael came to see me to make a payment on the bill he owes the Sureños. But he’s been too late, on too much, for too long. They were here, waiting for him. Took him down to LA, to their place on Slauson. They’re gonna deal with him there.”

“The hell they are.”

Tony smiled then. “Oh,” he said, staring at the gun in my hand and the rage in my eyes, “I guess he’s yours, huh?”

“Ain’t none of it really mine. I’m just supposed to keep an eye on things.”

As I turned to walk away, I heard Tony move. There was the sound of his body on the hayloft floor, then the rasp of a gun clearing an ankle holster.

I spun on my bootheel, firing twice. Tony shot twice, too. He missed.

I didn’t.

“My God,” he whimpered, dropping the gun over the side of the hayloft as blood stained his shirt. “You shot me.”

“That I did.”

—

It was  four hours from Bishop to Los Angeles. Four hours I spent thinking about the young man who took Emily’s favorite mare away. The young man who I’d shown kindness to. The young man who had betrayed my trust.

I had to hurry. Couldn’t let the Sureños deal with Michael before I got a crack at him.

As I pulled off the freeway and turned on to Slauson, I checked the shotgun. She was loaded with double aught, just like she should be.

I drove past the Sureños garage once to scope it out. Then I took the freeway north, circled back, and stopped two blocks short of Slauson. I didn’t want the rumble of my bad muffler to give me away.

East LA was dark at night. Half the street lamps didn’t  work. No one went outside if they can help it. My bootheels were loud against the concrete. I didn’t care. I had changed my mind. Let them hear me comin’.

I turned the corner, shotgun at my hip. There was a lookout in front of their ramshackle spot. He pulled a gun, but too slow. I cut him down, racked another into the chamber, and kept walking.

The garage door was half open. Michael lay on the ground inside, flanked by the two Sureños. They’d been workin’ on him already. Even so, he looked more scared of me than he was of the two men that had been beating him for the last six hours.

I asked them nicely for Michael. They refused me. That’s when the black SUV pulled up to the curb with the Devil in the driver’s seat and Death ridin’ shotgun.

“Get lost, old man,” the smaller of the two Sureños said. “This one is ours. Not yours.”

“Michael ain’t your’n and he ain’t mine either.”

The big one cocked his pistol.

“Whose is he then?”

The big one’s shot caught me in the left shoulder. I let go with a couple rounds of my own. The two Sureños hadn’t even hit the concrete yet as I spun around and blasted the wire that held the overhead door half open. It slammed shut as Death and the Devil started shooting from inside the SUV.

I crawled over to Michael, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. He tried to back away from me. We both stayed low as bullets ripped into the door, smashing into the brick wall behind us.

I pulled a knife.

“You know why I’m here?” I hollered over the roar of pistol fire.

“Please,” Michael begged. “Please. Don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.”

“This is for Emily’s mare,” I said. Michael closed his eyes as I took the knife toward him.

“Forgive me!” he screamed as I cut the rope that bound him. Michael’s eyes opened. He raised his hands in disbelief.

I spun around again, shooting back at the SUV through the garage door.

“There another way outta this place?” I asked as I reloaded.

“What?”

“Is there a back door?” I kicked one of the dead Sureños’ pistols toward Michael. He picked it up then nodded.

“Right hand corner,” he said.

We crawled toward the exit, giving fire as we went, dodging an onslaught of lead.

Once outside, we made it to my truck. I was too weak to drive. Didn’t know till just then that I’d been shot twice. Once in the shoulder. Once again in the chest. I said nothing to Michael.

“Drive, boy.”

The sole of his snakeskin Lucchese boot jammed down on the gas. The old Ford roared. The SUV tried to follow, but we made it to the freeway before they got us. We were safe there. Too many witnesses on the big blacktop.

We lost them in the LA traffic.

Michael and I didn’t speak for at least an hour. Finally, he turned to me.

“Why?” he asked.

“Ain’t none of this mine, Michael,” I said. “I’m just supposed to keep an eye on it.”

Then I felt tired and closed my eyes.

“You shot?”

“No,” I lied. “Cut myself on some glass.”

—

When Michael and I pulled up the drive, I heard a familiar whinny come from the pasture by the house. The sun was barely up, but it was light enough to see. That mare was back where she belonged.

“How’d you get there, ol’ girl?” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Michael asked.

“Emily’s favorite mare. I see her in the pasture. I thought you’d taken her.”

“Ain’t no horse there that I can see.”

When Michael opened up the door the cab light kicked on. It was then that he saw what kind of shape I was really in.

“Jesus. You’re dyin’.”

“Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“Help me out to the pasture. I wanna say hello to that mare.”

“Dang it all. Ain’t no mare in that pasture. Dang. I gotta take you to the hospital.”

I shook my head. “Help me,” I said again.

Michael took my arm and led me to the fence. The sun rose over the top of the Inyo Mountains to the east, painting the valley below.

Emily’s favorite mare knickered to me. I reached out and felt her coat.

I saw her.

Smelled her.

“See,” I said. “Ain’t none of it mine. But I keep an eye on it.”

“There’s no horse here,” Michael said.

Then I had to sit down. I was too tired to stand up anymore.

Ryan Michael Hines  is a former farrier and farm hand who went west almost a decade ago to find his fortune. He loves the Southland sun, but misses the mystery and majesty of the Appalachian Mountains every day. His modern-day western TV pilot Eastside Outlaws was developed under a first look agreement with Sony Crackle. His feature adaptation of that script went on to win Best Crime Feature Screenplay at the Fifth LA Crime and Horror Film Festival. His novella, Moonshineland A Tale of Haunted Appalachia, was published in 2023 and is a novelization of his scripted podcast of the same name. You can learn more about Ryan and his writing at Ryanmhines.com.