Page 43 of One in a Million
The distance across the pastures, from the road to the heart of Charlie’s ranch, was a little less than two miles, with several stout wire fences to cross. Once more, the wire cutters—now more than one—came out, leaving the low fences open and the eight-foot fences with a crawl-through space at the bottom. There were cattle in some of the pastures. They lowed, scattered, and stood watching a stone’s throw away.
People in the group were making no effort to be quiet. Someone started singing “We Shall Overcome.” Other voices joined in, as if this were more of a party than a protest.
Glancing back over the moonlit landscape, Jasmine could just make out the Culhane Ranch with the security lights on the stable. Faint but unmistakable, another light came on, this one in the house, off the kitchen where Mariah’s apartment was. Would Mariah raise the alarm?
“Somebody knows we’re here!” she called to the leaders.
No one paid her any attention. Short of leaving—and being suspected of a possible betrayal—all she could do was grip her rolled sign and be swept along with the crowd.
They had cut through the last fence. Now, Jasmine could see the moonlit outline of Charlie’s game ranch complex. The group leaders signaled a halt while the tiki torches were lit and the signs unrolled before marching on.
If she knew Charlie, he’d most likely be passed out after drinking off her rejection. The protestors, whom she no longer trusted, could have free run of the animal compounds.
Her fear became a chilling certainty when she saw one of the huskier men take a hefty tool out of the pack he wore.
It was a bolt cutter.
* * *
Before retiring to the bungalow, Sam had checked the shed and grounds for Jasmine’s red Corvette. When he failed to find it, he could only surmise that she’d found herself another cowboy. Struggling to ignore the bitterness he had no right to feel, he forced himself to go to bed.
He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He would be waiting and listening, hoping to hear the sound of her car pulling up to the house—and despising himself the whole time for caring about her so much.
He was still lying awake, staring up into the dark, when he heard a frantic pounding on the door. He sprang out of bed and flung the door open to find a breathless Mariah, in her robe and slippers, on his doorstep.
“You’d better get dressed and get out here,” she said. “I heard people crossing the pastures—they were singing, making plenty of noise. The last time I was in town, I heard rumors of a demonstration with hippie types coming in. If that’s what it is, they might be headed for Charlie’s place.”
Jasmine!Until now he’d forgotten his warning to her. He had no doubt where she would be now. “I’ll be right there,” he said, grabbing his clothes.
“I already called the county troopers,” Mariah said. “They’re on their way, bringing a fire crew in case those fools set fire to the grass.”
“Good.” Fully dressed and wearing his pistol, Sam joined her on the porch. “Is anybody else awake?”
“Just you and me. I didn’t want to rouse the family without a good reason.”
“Fine. Stay around the house in case anybody else needs to know what’s going on.” Sam checked his pistol before sprinting to the parking lot where the Jeep was parked.
As he started the vehicle, he heard the distant wail of sirens coming closer, moving fast. Flooring the gas pedal, he gunned the Jeep out of the gate. He had to get to Jasmine before she got hurt or ended up under arrest.
* * *
What had begun as an organized protest had become chaos. The door to the compound that housed goats, chickens, and rabbits for the carnivores had been broken open. Animals and birds were fleeing for their lives, bounding and fluttering across the moonlit pastures.
There was no sign of Charlie. Was he in the house, passed out drunk, or had he been arrested and taken to jail? Jasmine had long since lost the sign she’d been given. She pushed against the melee, struggling to get to the inner compound where the house was. Even if she found Charlie unconscious or absent, there would be guns inside. She could fire one into the air and maybe shock the rioters to their senses. But to wade into the thick of the crowd would be to risk getting knocked, shoved, perhaps trampled. And even if she could get a gun, someone stronger could take it away from her and do Lord knows what in the heat of the moment.
Torches flared in the darkness. Any one of them could start a blaze that would kill animals and maybe humans. Jasmine gasped as a giraffe loped past her. People were scrambling to get out of its way. Someone had cut the bolt on another gate and freed the giraffe from its pen. Poor, frightened thing. Lost and confused, it disappeared into the night, followed by a pair of zebras.
Now only one gate remained. Secured by a heavy-duty padlock with a chain was the high-walled compound that enclosed the big carnivores—the lions, tigers, and other cats, maybe a bear or a big wolf as well. Locked up under miserable conditions, probably hating their captors, they would be even more dangerous than in the wild. Surely her new so-called friends would understand the need to stay clear. But no—they were swarming the gate, pushing her back, ignoring her cries of warning. It was as if she was drowning in bodies and noise.
The crowd parted to let the big man with the bolt cutter through. Pulling a whiskey flask from his hip pocket, he raised it to his mouth and took a deep swig. He was probably too drunk to realize what he was doing.
This was a nightmare. And it was about to become worse.
“No!” she screamed as the chain fell away. “Stop!” But she might as well have been shouting alone in the middle of the desert. The heavy padlock parted. The gate swung open, exposing the pens and cages with their wretched captives inside. The shouting mob halted momentarily, stunned by the foul odor that swept out of the compound. Then they surged forward.
That was when a dreaded sound reached their ears—the sound of oncoming sirens.
“It’s the cops!” somebody shouted. “Run! If they catch you, you don’t know anything!”