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Craig Nybo

6

“Any sign of what got at ‘em?” Larry asked.

“Looks like wolves. Sometimes they come down in the fall and pick off a few of the weaker sheep.”

“Word says it was more than a few,” Buck said.

“You’re up, Larry,” Arthur grunted over his shoulder, annoyed.

Larry made his way to the line.

“I heard it was fifty head or better,” Buck said.

“It was nowhere near fifty head,” Kurt said.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You weren’t there.” Kurt forced a smile.

Buck’s eyebrows furrowed. “I got a small spread myself. If we got a problem in DePalma Beach, I’d like to know about it. And I ain’t alone.”

“That’s a fair statement; we’re doing all we can,” Kurt said. “An official ranch warning comes out in the Herald in the morning.”

After picking up a spare, Larry sat down next to Kurt. “I heard them bite marks was not from no wolf.”

Kurt sighed.

“Here we go again,” Buck said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t give me that,” Larry said. “We’s all thinkin’ the same thing.”

“And what is it we’s thinkin’?” Buck asked.

Larry swallowed a gob of spit. “Sasquatch.”

“For the love of sweet Adam.” Buck rolled his eyes.

“Can we stay in the game here boys?” Arthur scolded over his shoulder. “Buck, you’re up.”

Buck stood and took his place at the line. “You got him started now.”

Kurt could do nothing but smile. There was poetic simplicity in how these men, his bowling buddies, thought. As he had lived in the small community, Kurt had formed a theory that his neighbors lived out more than a little of their life experience vicariously through television, with its insipid sitcoms and predictable crime dramas. But television is larger than life; and if there’s one thing small town folk know about,