Full Authourity of the Law

A Warden is warned against inspecting a particular field, but doesn't listen.

The sun hung low over the rolling hills of Willow Creek, painting the fields in shades of gold and amber. Old Man Jenkins, a weathered farmer with a face like a topographic map, was mending a fence near his barn when he heard the crunch of gravel under tires. A dusty government truck pulled up, and out stepped a game warden, crisp in his starched uniform, badge glinting like a challenge. His name was Harold Vance, a by-the-book officer known for his unyielding devotion to regulation and a temper that could flare faster than a brushfire.


“Afternoon,” Vance said, his voice clipped as he adjusted his hat. He flashed his badge, holding it up like a holy relic. “I’m Warden Harold Vance, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m here to inspect your property for compliance with state and federal wildlife regulations. You got any issues with that?”


Jenkins leaned on his pitchfork, squinting at the badge. He’d dealt with wardens before—most were reasonable, but this one had a gleam in his eye that screamed trouble. “No issue at all, Warden,” Jenkins said, his voice slow and deliberate. “You’re welcome to poke around any field you like. Check the creeks, the woods, whatever you need. Just one thing—stay out of the far field, way out yonder.” He pointed to a distant patch of land, barely visible where the horizon dipped. “For your own safety, I wouldn’t go there.”


Vance’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Safety?” he scoffed, stepping closer. “You trying to hide something, old man? Poached deer? Illegal traps?” He thrust the badge closer, so close Jenkins could smell the polish on it. “Do you know what this is? This badge gives me authority—full authority—to inspect any field, any property, any time I see fit. No exceptions. You understand me?”


Jenkins didn’t flinch. He’d seen bluster before, and this warden was all hot air and ego. “I understand just fine,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. “You do what you gotta do.” He turned back to his fence, hammering a nail with a little more force than necessary.


Vance, red-faced and bristling, stormed off toward the far field, his boots kicking up dust as he muttered about “backwoods yokels” and “obstruction of justice.” Jenkins watched him go, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head and went back to work, but he kept one ear open, listening.


The far field wasn’t like the others. It was a wild, untamed stretch of land, bordered by a sagging barbed-wire fence that Jenkins hadn’t bothered to fix in years. It wasn’t crops or poaching that made it off-limits—it was Brutus. Brutus was a 2,000-pound Brahma bull, a hulking beast with a temper to match his size. Jenkins had bought him cheap at an auction, figuring he’d be a good stud for the herd. What he hadn’t counted on was Brutus’s sheer hatred for anything that wasn’t a cow. The bull had chased off coyotes, spooked delivery drivers, and once sent a nosy surveyor scrambling over a fence with his clipboard flying. Jenkins had warned folks to steer clear, but some people, like Warden Vance, just didn’t listen.


Ten minutes later, a scream tore through the quiet evening—a high, desperate wail that could only come from a man staring down his own mortality. Jenkins dropped his hammer and took off running, his old knees protesting but his instincts sharp. He knew exactly what was happening.


When he reached the far field, the scene was almost comical—if it weren’t so dire. There was Vance, sprinting across the uneven ground, his hat long gone, his uniform streaked with dirt. Behind him, Brutus charged, head lowered, hooves pounding the earth like war drums. The warden’s face was a mask of pure panic, his arms flailing as he dodged left and right, trying to outmaneuver a creature that outweighed him by a ton.


“Help me!” Vance shrieked, spotting Jenkins at the fence. “Make him stop! Call him off!”


Jenkins cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice carrying over the thundering hooves. “Show him your badge, Warden!” he shouted, barely containing a laugh. “Show him that fancy badge of yours! Ain’t it got full authority?”


Vance, too terrified to register the sarcasm, fumbled at his chest, actually pulling the badge from his pocket as if it might ward off the bull like a cross to a vampire. He waved it frantically, yelling, “Stop! Federal officer!” Brutus, unimpressed, lowered his horns and picked up speed.


Jenkins sighed, knowing he couldn’t let the fool get trampled, no matter how tempting it was. He climbed the fence, grabbed a coil of rope from a nearby post, and whistled sharply—a signal Brutus had learned meant feeding time. The bull slowed, snorting, his massive head swinging toward Jenkins. That gave Vance just enough time to scramble over the fence, collapsing in a heap on the other side, gasping for breath.


Jenkins tossed a flake of hay into the field to keep Brutus occupied, then strolled over to the panting warden. “Told you to stay out of that field,” he said, offering a hand to help Vance up. “Brutus don’t care much for badges.”


Vance, still clutching his precious badge, glared up at Jenkins but said nothing. His face was red, his pride in tatters. He brushed himself off, muttered something about “filing a report,” and limped back to his truck. As the engine roared to life and the truck peeled out, Jenkins chuckled, shaking his head.


“Full authority,” he muttered to himself, watching the dust settle. “Ain’t nobody got authority over Brutus.”


And with that, he headed back to his fence, the sun dipping below the horizon, the far field quiet once more—except for the contented snorts of a bull who’d made his point.