The story to now: The people at the Lodge Dairy Farm are still trying to round up Old Dutch, the nasty-tempered, runaway dairy bull.
Henry Wells, astride his cutting horse Sheila, rode into the Dominici almond orchard, heading north along a row of trees, trying to see the 1,900- pound Holstein bull that he knew to be a bad hombre. Old Dutch had escaped from his pen in the dairy barn, and had been running loose all that morning.
Henry had every intention of being careful around Old Dutch. Having been a rodeo cowboy, he had some experience with bulls, although he had never ridden one. He rode bucking horses. They were bad enough. A fall from a bucking bronc could leave you with a broken shoulder, as it had left him. A bronc could kick you, as he had been kicked. But a bull could do more than break your shoulder. A bull could kill you.
He knew bull riders who had been gored, who had scars where bulls had stepped on them hard enough to break the flesh. He knew a bull rider who had a metal plate in his head because his skull had been fractured by a bull swinging its horns like clubs. While Old Dutch was no rodeo bull, Henry knew Old Dutch would like nothing more than to charge a person, pin him, paw him with hooves as big as a man’s head and pound him with his horns. Dutch’s horns were short, but nearly as big around as the business end of a ball bat...