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Several intuitions sent Daniel the first signals that he was about to become part and parcel of a powder-keg situation. First, an inner voice, projected telepathically by an unseen force, whispered words of wisdom in his ear: “Danny me lad, these immediate surroundings have a crackling aura of danger” (Daniel attributes this, and a thousand other such instances, to an ever-present and constant companion, his Guardian Angel. A plausible reasoning I’d be fearful to doubt ). As Danny so aptly states it: “I have such a helper, you do, and everyone else too.” No sir, I’m not goin’ against his beliefs!

Secondly, the pavement around Narrows Elementary shook somethin’ fierce, like a tornado touchin’ down in Kansas. Had one been handy, a seismograph would’ve registered a 3.5 on the old Richter scale.

Thirdly, Daniel actually felt a putrid breath on his shirt collar, and a feeling of impending doom sent hairs rising along the nape of his frail and unguarded neck.

Fourthly, a nearby resident, hysterical to no end, screamed from her porch: “Watch out! Trouble in the form of a rampaging bull is headed in your direction and rapidly closing the gap!”

Daniel, being a grateful soul, is quite aware that a debt of eternal gratitude is owed to that observant lady. There can be no doubting that life, limb and the pursuit of happiness were spared because a concerned citizen remained calm, cool, collected, compassionate and caring.

All these factors combined to make Daniel yell: “Momma Mia, a crisis is upon me! I’m in jeopardy!”

Turning, he found himself looking at proof. For there, just 50 feet down Mary Street and coming like a cyclone, was not just MERE trouble, but BIG trouble! The massive 2,000 pound Hereford presented a truly terrifying sight ( this particular breed comes equipped with horns; no other bulls have these death-dealing weapons. Daniel says his luck always runs thusly ).

Mr. DeWeese knew instant defensive measures were called for, else he would surely meet his MAKER this day ( This story, as has all others appearing in this space, was researched thoroughly. Old and yellowed files were pulled from closets and dusted off. I visited dozens of barnyards and pasture fields, leafed through the Farmers Almanac !8 times. I journeyed to the world-renowned stockyards in Omaha and Chicago…nowhere did I find a shred of evidence that would indicate a single human has ever survived the charge of an enraged bull. Not one person has ever been so lucky ).

Daniel’s quick mind formulated a plan of defense in under 2 seconds, which w3as really all the time he had. Bulls, despite their tremendous weight and bulk, are surprisingly fast afoot. The callous critter had covered 40 feet in two bounds. Now, with huge head lowered and vicious horns positioned, wholesale carnage was about to begin…

The engineer at the controls of time-freight No. 84 looked out at “the Falls of New River,” then said to his brakeman: “I have the oddest feeling.”

“Sure wish you hadn’t said that,” his buddy replied. “This run can’t end too soon for me. Since leaving Bluefield I’ve been experiencing omens and premonitions.”

Their strange tenseness wouldn’t be soothed along this stretch of track. Just around 2 more bends this train crew would become part of a horrifying experience, a sickening event that would remain etched into their memories forever and accompany them for their remaining days on Earth.

Some might call it a nightmare…

A 2,000 pound bull charges with a full head of steam, gives a sudden and violent upward thrust of it’s huge head. Obvious conclusions can be drawn when such an action occurs…any and all objects in his path are gonna’ be widely dispersed with great velocity and for considerable distances.

Aware of the imminent danger, Daniel was more than a little worried and voiced his concern: “I must step nimbly aside, or else git clobbered.”

Daniel’s wagon suffered the brunt of the initial onslaught. Piercing horns splintered the rear of the flimsy vehicle. That destruction was followed by a series of events which were at the same time alarming, and a scene straight out of comic opera. Wagon and 11,378 apples soared up, up, up into the stratosphere, reaching their zenith fully 40 foot above every overhead wire in the neighborhood . At which time the inevitable “law of gravity” comes into play, causing a dizzying downward spiral of vehicle and fruit from the heavens.

The world is constantly changing, and thus remains in a constant state of confusion. One can no longer speak with confidence on any subject. Things might work this way today, but perhaps in an entirely different manner tomorrow.

That is, except for one small matter. And here I can speak with authority. Ladies and gentlemen, any object of rounded shape, apples for instance, will act predictably when placed on sloping terrain. The damned things are gonna’ roll downhill!!

I’ve conducted numerous tests concerning this in every conceivable setting, even under ye olde laboratory conditions. Never, not even once, have I seen an apple, orange, lemon, ball or any other circular object roll uphill! Not of their own volition.

Thus 300 pounds of winesaps went rollin’down Mary Streer toward Wolf Creek.

Daniel’s amazing agility again served him well. With the quickness of a jungle cat he’d stepped out of harms way, catching only a glancing blow from a muscular shoulder as the belligerent beast swept past. Still, this slight brush had been sufficient to send him reeling backward, perhaps a tad off balance.

The bull had missed his primary target, settling for a wagon instead. But in the dim-witted thinking of male bovines he did some thinking: “Doggone it, my eyesight must be failing. I can’t impale a human, or even a durn duck.” However, this fight had just begun. Turning on a dime, the terrible tempered brute was coming back to resume his relentless attack.

Selling produce is an honorable way to earn a living. But Daniel had long dreamed of staging a comeback to his first love…the man has always had itchy feet, circus fever ran in his blood, the carnival beckoned. Even after all these years back in Narrows the smell of sawdust and the magic aura of the Big Top had never really gone away.

El Toro was coming again as a blur. Looking on calmly, Daniel sensed the opportunity of a lifetime. He seized it by taking a red bandana from his hip pocket.

Danny was no longer standing on Mary Street in Narrows. This was Madrid, Barcelona, Seville…this was show-biz, and show time is now!

The mad bull tried desperately to make contact with the despised red rag, but failed miserably. Daniel was much too agile, and made El Toro look silly.

As a tidal-wave crashing on a beach the imagined roar of thousands swelled and reached his ears: “Ole, ole, ole!”

The barriers at Stockpen Crossing came down, red warning lights began flashing. Norfolk-Southern time-freight No. 84 was approaching. Train whistles have been heard at this place for 90 years.

But none before had sounded like this one…

Matadors use fiery red capes to goad angry bulls into charging, and soon thereafter a ritualistic and bloody sacrifice takes place in the dusty ring. These flowing garments cost thousands of dollars each, and are the pride and joy of El Toro.

But come now, lets face reality and some cold hard facts. It’s common knowledge that poor folks seldom have professional equipment to work with. In trying to make their miserable lives a mite more endurable, needy folks spend entire lifetimes scrounging, borrowing and begging those materials which might help in accomplishing that cherished goal.

This usually consists of gear already overly-used, rusted, broken, badly bent, fallin’ apart at the seams or just completely worn out. In short, we poor ‘uns are a bunch of “makeshifts” who must utilize any and all pieces of junk that might be readily available.

That’s why Daniel grabbed from his pocket, not an expensive bull-fighter’s cape, but the aforementioned tattered and torn red bandana. Hellsfire man, a crimson handkerchief gets a bull riled up just as quickly as a costly cape used by Spanish toreadors!

Daniel stepped back one pace as Toro neared, a beautifully designed and well-executed movement which left nothing but fluttering bandana and empty air for cruel horns to stab.

Again and again the enraged animal tried to find a soft target, but to no avail. Toro had never before encountered a human quite so wily and nimble afoot.This two-legged enemy knew every trick, was truly the “artful dodger.”

Charging full- speed at hated man is tiring work, requires a tremendous amount of energy. Frustrating too, especially when a bull is denied the exhilarating pleasure of impaling the detested foe because he can’t catch him.

Bulls, like all other dumb brutes, are incapable of “sustained thought”, completely devoid of reasoning. The big yokels just can’t carry out an assignment, or see any worthwhile project thru to a successful conclusion.

The chance encounter between two rugged combatants on Mary Street ended as abruptly as it began. A dumb Hereford looked around at strange surroundings, couldn’t recognize a single landmark. The beast didn’t know where he was, where he’d been, and most assuredly had no idea where the trail might lead. Erased from his memory was the melee of 5 seconds before, completely forgotten.

So the bull left Daniel standing, retraced his steps down Mary Street and turned right on Memorial Boulevard. In 3 minutes he frightened Old Satan outta’ several people, crossed Main Street and trespassed thru property belonging to Muncy Electric Co. He decided to take a breather at VFW Post 6000 on Tannery Hill.

The station-master at Narrows train station looked at his billing-clerk and muttered: “Time-freight No. 84 is just across Wolf Creek trestle.”

And so it was. The crewmen sensed an ominous presence aboard their diesel engine , a chilling, stifling presence. Their intuitions were well-founded , for The Grim Reaper was a passenger.

A murky Saturday morning, and in just 3 minutes a terrible fate would claim it’s predetermined victim. For you see, a Pale Rider called Death rode this train…

Our roguish bull had an uncanny knack for finding abandoned railroad tracks. The sweat-lathered critter stood now at the VFW home, near rusted tracks which were long-ago used to transport cement, boards, brick, nails and other building materials to New River Lumber Company.

And something else once moved over those derelict rails. Namely, the hides of his slaughtered kindred. Their sleek pelts were destined for Snowflake Tannery, a huge industrial complex which, several decades ago, had buildings crammed into every square foot of “Tannery Hill.”

Who knows? Perhaps the skin of Toro’s great-great-great-grandmother rolled over these very tracks during World War I. And then unceremoniously dumped into vats of tanning liquid at a leather-making facility. Maybe the bull stood for a moment in revered silence , his primitive brain recalling fond memories of kinfolk who had crossed The Great Divide many moons ago and are now grazing where the grass is greenest…moo cow heaven.

On the other hand, surely any thought of leather could fuel the rage in

a bull already consumed by the stuff. I’m fully convinced this is true, therefore never wear shoes when crossing pasture fields where bulls might be grazing. Heed this advice, follow a few simple rules before entering that field…pull them brogues off and tip-toe gingerly through the meadow. Barefooted!! Easy instructions to obey, and will allow ya’ to live a richer, fuller and much longer life.

These “ghostly tracks of yesteryear” slope gradually down from Tannery Hill , connecting with Norfolk-Southern’s mainline at the eastern corporate- limits of Narrows. Our bellicose beast, having a fetish for metal rails, chose to follow gently sloping route.

At that same instant windows began rattling at Narrows Depot as 3 diesel engines of time-freight No. 84 thundered past.

Toro reached the mainline tracks, and at that time made a fatal decision. Facing west from where his meandering had begun, the belligerent beast bawled: “I’m goin’ that way.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong! The overgrown dummy should’ve headed east toward Bluff City.

Bulls are territorial by nature. They stake out a piece of real-estate and claim that area as their very own. Woe be unto the interloper that dares intrude onto that turf.

Hearing a vaguely familiar noise, the mean bull looked down the track to see a sight even more hated than man. A damned detested Black Angus was coming hellbent straight for him. And a big ‘un he was!

Well now, that there stranger would hafta’ depart from this turf. The Hereford would teach the Angus a lesson never to be forgotten. Between the rails he jumped, lowered a massive head and the battle was joined.

“Holy Moses,” the engineer yelled. “What’s that up ahead?”

The brakeman, already in an agitated state, shot back: “Either it’s a bull, or a greatly exaggerated cow!”

The engineer threw his train into emergency. But too late. Much, much too late…

A one-ton bull runs down a railroad track at a relatively slow-paced 20 miles per hour. From the opposite direction comes three diesel engines , gliding deceptively over the iron rails at 50mph. Each of these units tip the scales at 390,000 pounds, for a combined weight of 585 tons. Add to those figures 150 railroad cars, each heavily-laden with cargo. Unfair indeed, an incredible mismatch.

The inevitable collision occurred, and as we’ve already determined, the odds were stacked mightily against poor Toro.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not going into a long-winded harangue concerning the outcome of that gory crash. Surely an in-depth description isn’t necessary. Besides, recalling that moment of mayhem is more than I can endure. Nor do I think young readers should be subjected to reading material so vivid and ghastly in nature

Suffice to say the end came quickly, mercy was showered on the great animal. No last minute gasping for breath, no tortuous throes or muscle spasms, not one death-rattle sounded in his throat.

A vibrant, magnificent beast one minute, a mangled heap of hamburger the next. Unfit for human consumption, or so I believe ( moguls in the meat-packing industry might think otherwise ).

A special train arrived at the tragic scene in mid-afternoon, a huge carcass hoisted aboard and promptly hauled away to the nearest Alpo factory.

Except for an unknown train crew and Daniel, few people remember that valiant animal. It’s like he never existed, never walked the face of the earth. Forgotten.

And maybe it’s likewise with us. You and I, and every member of the human race. We’re born into this depraved world, spend about 75 quick years here in what’s nothing more than a “staging area.” Compared to the scale of eternal time, a fleeting millionth of a blinking eye.

Then it’s all over, and at the end Presidents and paupers alike plead for 24 additional hours to remain among the living. But deals can’t be cut in this place, and we pass on to the next levels. One of these is far beyond the clouds, the other way down yonder.

A hole is dug, a coffin lowered. Shovels of clay come falling down, and the very small rectangular area of barren ground gets a facelift with new sod. A cycle that began in dust, ends in dust.

Reality sets in about 24 hours after the last mourners drift away. A life has been spent on an obscure third planet from the sun …and changed nothing. Planet Earth remains, maybe weeping…perhaps smiling. Another puny human has come and gone, a miniscule grain of sand on an infinite shoreline.

Except for the Creator and surviving mothers who collaborated to bring us here, we’re forgotten. No one remembers you came this way. And in our callous and corrupt modern-day world, no one even cares…

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

March, 1990