(this post dedicated to the creative stylings of Matt G who did not write nor endorse this post)
Dusk was nearly upon them. Their horses were thirsty and tired. The trod along slowly, taking in the scenery. It had been another long, lonely day roaming the plains of the mighty Cuyahoga, herding and protecting their charges.
Ole Grayday stopped and gazed at the spot where a fence was being erected. He heaved a long sigh. He was a grizzled old veteran, his skin sunbleached and weathered like the leather hat that sat haphazardly on his head. He looked over at his partner.
"Damn shame, that is..." he said, motioning toward the fence.
"Yup. Remember when you couldn't have put a fence there 'cause there was so many cashalo around here? It'd be trampled near instantly".
His partner Matt G was younger but just as battle weary. He had a scar on his face from his first week on the job, a large and unwieldy cashalo charged him and bashed him up pretty bad. He had considered quitting right there but Ole Grayday convinced him otherwise. He shifted his weight on his horse.
"C'mon, let's take this old war horses over to McCarthy's Creek and wet 'em down" said Matt.
"Whatever".
They steered their horses over to the creek and gazed out at Nautica Ranch. Once, years ago, the ranch had been teeming with cashalo (Cash Buffalo). There were so many wandering around you couldn't keep track. Then the hunters came, killing more and more cashalo without letting any of them recover or letting them reproduce. After years of non stop killing, the cashalo had all but vanished. The few that remained were not very desirable. They were tough to kill and there wasn't much meat on them. The hunters had started turning on each other, fighting over the few cashalo that were worth killing.
Ole Grayday mused out loud.
"I remember when this place was PACKED. ALL cashalo, as far as you could see. We could eat like kings for days courtesy of one large cashalo. We'd take our time, make sure we did it gently. We'd spend hours cooking the meat and storing it away. Now they strip them like pirhana. Savages..."
Work was drying up for professional cashalo rustlers like Matt and Ole Grayday.
"Hey Grayday, you ever think of heading over to one of the tuffalo ranches?" Tuffalo (Tournament Buffalo) were looked down upon by the cashalo hunters. Tuffalo tended to be much smaller, harder to strip clean. It took forever to deplete a tuffalo. Cashalo hunters wanted big game and large hauls, not small packets.
"Fuck that" he said. "I'll go to fuckin' Rivers first".
Rivers was the last of the golden hunting grounds that was anywhere near where they were. Matt and Grayday often spent weeks up there chasing game. Even there the hunting was getting tough and the scores getting smaller.
The tuffalo ranches were thriving though. They had plenty of meat, it was just smaller and less filling. You had to slaughter a lot more tuffalo to eat the same as you could have before. Matt wished the hunters had been more patient, had taken the time to help young cashalo grow and prosper rather then slather them with steak sauce as soon as they got big enough. No one wanted to nuture a cashalo. Even other cashalo hated their young. Whenever a calf would wander too close to the big game they would be beaten or shocked into running away.
The horses finished drinking and the two old sage ranchers looked at each other.
"Want to head over to Myers Ranch?" asked Ole Grayday.
"I guess."
The two horses trotted off toward Ridge Road. The faint voices of the two veterans could be heard on the breeze as they swapped stories of days gone by.
"That fuckin' bull hit a two outer on me!"
