Horse Lover

by H. Alan Day

  “Wonder if we could use this wood to build up the corrals back at headquarters,” I said.

  “Not a bad idea,” said John. “But who are you going to get to do the work?” Good question. Available workers in this county seemed scarcer than jobs.

  “Tell you what. You get the horse, and I’ll scrounge up some labor.”

  On the way back to headquarters, I mentally reviewed pending projects. Tear down the sheep barn. Rebuild the road. Change pasture fences. Drill five new wells. Paint the barn. Build up the corrals strong enough to hold wild horses. Fertilize the meadows. All good ranching stuff, all stuff that could get done. So why, while riding across this open country, the wind now at my back, was I sinking into a light-gray funk? A few raindrops hit my hands. Today made a week of overcast skies. Maybe I was sun deprived. Or maybe I was Sue deprived. Or horse deprived. I craved all three—sun, Sue, and my own goddamn horse. If I were riding Aunt Jemima, I’d discuss it with her and she would advise me. Alan, she’d say, just tend to the task at hand and the rest will follow. No matter what the situation, she had a way of setting things right with the world. I set my mind on her for the rest of the ride home.

  Aunt Jemima had been a handful to train. As a young colt, this little grulla-colored mare didn’t like what we were trying to teach her and was slow to offer her trust. Her older sister Tequila, a big, strong, willing cow horse, held a special spot in my string of horses at Lazy B. I was willing to put up with Aunt Jemima’s crankiness because of how much I enjoyed riding her sister. When Jemima got big enough to ride, I assigned her to Rodney, one of the ranch hands, to break. He had a way with young horses. But he had one fault: he liked to ride bucking horses. With her peppery temper, Aunt Jemima would buck if challenged, and Rodney seemed to be constantly challenging her.

  2. Aunt Jemima

  I’d watch the two of them go at it in the corral. “Why do you try to make that mare buck?” I’d say to Rodney. “You’re supposed to be breaking her to be gentle. If you keep making her buck, she’ll learn how to buck harder and harder and then she won’t be good for anything.”

  “Aw, I’m just having fun with her. She can’t buck hard enough to scare anyone,” he’d reply.

  I finally got so annoyed with Rodney’s attitude that I took over riding Aunt Jemima. She was still young, and compared to the four or five horses in my string, much smaller. I saddled her up a couple times and rode her around the headquarters corrals. When she tried to buck me off, I pulled her head up and scolded her. “Jemima, we’re not out here to put on a rodeo. We’re here to work cattle, so get your head up and let’s do our job.” She understood me. It didn’t take long for the bucking to stop.

  I had been on her only twice when I decided to take her out on the range to do what normally would be an easy job. We needed to move a herd of steers to a pasture I recently had leased at the Bilbo Ranch about fifty-five miles away. Due to distance, the moving would be done by truck. The cattle had long been gentled and we just needed to unload them and get them acclimated to the ranch. Aunt Jemima was still a green broke, if that, so the day’s activity would be good experience for her. If it had been a bigger job, I would have opted to ride Saber, my number-one horse that easily could do every job that needed to be done horseback.

  It took two hours to haul our heavy load to the east side of Lordsburg, New Mexico. The crew of five cowboys and I drove the two trailers into open pasture. A forty-foot, single-deck trailer divided into three compartments held the cattle. With a roof made of pipes, it had provided an open-aired excursion for the fifty head of steers. Our horses stood in a much smaller trailer that we unloaded as soon as we parked. Though it wasn’t quite noon, the early summer air felt warm and dry. A thin layer of dust seemed to cover everything.

  As I re-cinched Aunt Jemima’s saddle, I previewed the day with her.

  “Jemima, here’s what we’re going to do. First, we’re going to unload those cattle. They’ll come trotting off the trailer and when they see us they’ll stop. So I need you to help hold them. Once they’re in a nice bunch, we’ll drive them to the water trough by the holding tank so they know where to get a drink. They’ll start walking around and grazing. We’ll make sure they’re comfortable before we head back home. All you have to do is keep your eye on the cattle and we’ll do just fine.” I rubbed her neck. I got the feeling she understood me.

  I climbed aboard and joined four cowboys already on horseback. We formed a semicircle at the back of the trailer to act as a net to prevent the steers from spreading. I could feel Aunt Jemima’s anticipation. She was like a seventh grader getting ready for her first full-court basketball game in the school gym.

  The remaining man, the gate opener, was on foot. The springs of the trailer squeaked as the cattle began shifting and impatient bawls filled the air. He swung the back gates open and stepped out of the way as the first steers burst out like they were running from a bomb about to explode. They didn’t stop once they hit dirt. There was no mistaking they were spooked. The cowboys and I gave ground, trying to stay ahead of them. But there they came at a high run, with the next group right behind them, and the third group right behind them. Within minutes they had broken through our net and were stampeding in every direction, feeding panic to the herd. No one had a chance to think what could have possibly frightened them. The cowboys had spurred their horses into a full gallop. Jemima seemed to know what to do and was in the right place.

  We turned our horses, yelling to each other or using hand signals to communicate over the thunder of pounding hooves.

  “I’ve got these over here.”

  “Get ’em in one group. We’ll bend ’em round and take them back.”

  “Stay ahead of them if you can, boys.”

  Everyone’s adrenaline cranked—cowboy, cattle, and horse. This was exactly the situation in which you wanted to be on a horse like Saber. Here I was on this little bitty horse that had barely been ridden. Instead of running her first full-court press in the school gym, Aunt Jemima had been tossed right into the heart of an NBA game. But there we were, galloping and turning and trying to ring-in steers rippling away from us. Aunt Jemima was fully engaged. It was as if she had a sneak preview at the playbook. I was asking her to do what I would have asked Saber to do. She was rising to the occasion and making a hand.

  For an hour we labored to turn those steers sideways, slow them down to a trot, drive them into a bunch, and bend them back near the water trough. Every one of us galloped several miles to get the job done. The backs and armpits of the crew’s shirts were drenched in sweat and sweat dripped down the horses’ flanks and necks. Only one renegade steer wouldn’t stop. Aunt Jemima and I watched him jump over a fence into the neighbor’s pasture. I could feel her pulling me to go after him. She knew where he was supposed to be and it wasn’t over there. Her work was not yet done.

  I tried to calm her down. “Jemima, he’s too far ahead of us to ever catch him. And you’ll run yourself down if I let you go after him.”

  She didn’t like that answer. She kept her head up and watched him grow smaller. She was telling me she was good for the chase. I could feel that she still had energy. It was my job to figure out how much and not let her overrun. I know the feeling of wanting to do the job right and get it done. She had just proven to me that she was a game player. I needed to honor her request.

  I relented. “Okay, let’s see if we can find a gate.”

  I turned her and she went into an easy gallop along the fence. A gate appeared and I got off, opened it, and remounted.

  The steer looked to be about a mile away.

  “If you think you can catch him, I’m going to pitch you the slack. You pick the pace, Jemima. Take it kind of easy, though, because we have a long way to go.” I hoped she heard my cheers more than my doubts.

  She leapt forward without a spur and the chase was on. She chose an easy, steady gallop. The distance between the steer and us began to decrease. Her endurance and strength amazed me. We we
re covering country, past mesquite and creosote bush. Pretty soon, I heard a second set of hooves hitting the ground and smelled the disturbed dust rising up into the warm air. The gap between the steer and us closed to one hundred yards. My doubts dissipated. By golly, she just might catch this guy.

  The steer jumped off a small bank into a sandy canyon. Without hesitation, Jemima followed.

  “Aunt Jemima, if you can catch him, I’ll rope him.”

  I took my rope and built a loop. Jemima’s gait suddenly changed from smooth to choppy and right then, I knew she had nothing left. She had hit the anaerobic wall. The steer was twenty feet in front of us. I started swinging the loop around my head, aimed for the steer’s horns, and threw it. It floated through the air and settled over the exhausted animal’s head. I yanked the slack and dallied the rope around the saddle horn. Everything came to a complete halt. We couldn’t have gone another two feet. Between Aunt Jemima and the steer panting and my heart pounding, I couldn’t hear the cicadas buzz.

  We sat there and waited for the cowboys to show up. They weren’t far behind.

  “You take this steer,” I said, handing the rope to one of them. “I’ve gotta take care of my horse.”

  I dismounted and stood there, wiping sweat from Aunt Jemima’s neck and shoulders. She stood there, legs splayed, sides heaving. I continued to rub and love on her until her panting slowed.

  “Jemima, you gave me one hundred percent of who you are. You got the job done, baby. You have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen,” I kept telling her. “You’ve made me a friend for life.” After she recovered, I slowly rode her back to the trailer.

  I had arrived in that pasture anticipating the ordinary but left having experienced the extraordinary. It wasn’t the stampede that was unique, or lassoing the steer. Responding to the thrill and tension and adventure of the unexpected is all part of being a cowboy. It defines who you are. What I found extraordinary was the heart of the horse I rode, the effort she gave, an effort few horses ever give. It was an amazing day, the day I fell in love with Aunt Jemima.

  I still loved her to pieces. Maybe I could ship her up to South Dakota after things got settled. I bet she’d relish it up here. In the meantime, maybe John could find me a horse of my own.

  Neither Congress nor the Bureau of Indian Affairs had given us the green light of approval for the sanctuary. I couldn’t call Congress, but I could call Roger Running Horse. “My supervisor told me she’s been so busy that she just hasn’t had time to address your issues. I’ll press her a little harder this week. I’m sure she’ll approve it right away once she sees it.” I tamped down my frustration, said I would check in again, and turned my attention to the ranch’s needs.

  John and I got busy spreading phosphorous on one-third of the hay meadow. If the results turned out to be as good as I hoped, we’d do another section the following year. The soil content within individual pastures varied, an invitation for horses to overgraze the tastier grass and ignore the rest, so we reconfigured the fence lines to create pastures with as much common soil as possible.

  I put the word out around the community that I was looking for some day laborers—a painter for the buildings at headquarters and some hands to start tearing down the sheep barn. John was right. There were more jobs than local workers. I ended up recruiting a painter I knew from Tucson, who also happened to be an alcoholic, but he did good work when sober, which was what he would be if sequestered on the Arnold Ranch. He said okay, he’d dry out for a while, so I flew him up to South Dakota and set him up with a sprayer, fifty gallons of paint, and a case of ginger ale. Two weeks later, he was a new person and so was headquarters. Just looking at the bright-red barn and the white house with green trim made me puff up like a rooster. I returned him to Arizona, then flew in two brothers who had worked on Lazy B, Carlos and Ramon, to tear down the sheep barn. They had hauled half the salvage wood to headquarters when the first of three political apples dropped in the bucket.

  Senator DeConcini’s aide bubbled the news over the phone. The senator had created a rider granting the BLM authority to contract for a wild horse sanctuary, then recruited enough support to tack it onto a bill that sailed through Congress. This was the linchpin of the sanctuary, the authorization we had been waiting for. It was like we crested the ridge, caught sight of the finish line, and starting rolling down the hill. Goddamn, the sanctuary was going to happen. It felt exciting, intimidating, and vindicating. My feet hadn’t even touched the ground before the second apple fell. Within the week, a BLM rep called from Washington DC. Though far less effusive than the aide, he said the bureau was on board but to hold on to my hat, we had details to work out.

  Dayton and I drove up to the BLM office in Rapid City five different times to haggle over those details. The final version of the contract called for us to keep all mustangs we received in good flesh and good health. We were to turn them out on grass as much as possible and, when necessary during the winter, feed them hay. We were granted the power to euthanize sick and injured animals. Each month we were to submit a statement that accounted for each horse, and each month the State of South Dakota would receive payment from the BLM and apportion it to us. I would receive $1.15 per horse per day and Dayton a tad more since his smaller operation was less efficient than our larger acreage. The contract would extend for four years. And the final detail: the BLM agreed to ship three hundred wild horses to Dayton’s ranch and fifteen hundred horses to the Arnold Ranch. Yes, one thousand five hundred unadoptable wild mustangs would take up residence on the ranch I had purchased on a whim. The vision that had been thrust before me was being brought to life bearing my blood and sweat. If you can have an out-of-body experience signing on a dotted line, I did.

  But one detail remained. That third apple had yet to fall. “How about if I set up a meeting with your supervisor?” I said over the phone to Roger Running Horse. He said good idea, especially in light of getting horses soon. Congratulations. How exciting. Blah, blah, blah. He would get on this so as not to delay delivery of the horses.

  Nothing happened.

  I called again. “What the hell is going on?” I didn’t bother to hide my anger. The smiling snake charmer gave me some lamebrain excuse about an urgent situation the supervisor had to attend to. I hung up totally frustrated.

  I could feel panic start to rise. This bureaucratic beast had its jaws wide open, ready to swallow our project. I began to quiz neighbors and consider every possible angle. Do you think we can just go ahead and turn the horses out? Will the BIA fine us if they find horses running on their land? Will they hire cowboys to round them up and take them away? Where would they take so many horses? I decided there was a fly in the ointment somewhere, and one way or another I would have a face-to-face with this supervisor.

  I got in the pickup and set out for Pine Ridge prepared to go on strike and raise hell until I met the supervisor. On an impulse, I stopped at Stan Whipple’s office in St. Francis. When I told him where I was headed and why, he broke out in a big grin and told me to sit down. He handed me a cup of coffee.

  “Your nemesis is gone,” he said. I assumed he was talking about the supervisor. “No, no. Roger Running Horse. He was your worst enemy. Did his utmost to completely block your project. He was transferred out of state to another job.” Stan explained that he and the other employees of the tribe had watched Running Horse weave his treachery but felt their hands were tied. They didn’t want to make the war with the BIA any worse. “I’m sorry, man. We watched him manipulate you, and we couldn’t do anything about it.” This was my first, though not my last, exposure to interagency chicanery. Running Horse never submitted any of our plans to his supervisor and even went so far as to ask the tribe to not approve our request. He was one bad dude.

  3. Entrance to Mustang Meadows Ranch

  A few days later, I presented the sanctuary plans to the supervisor. She gave immediate approval to graze the horses on BIA land. The last golden apple dropped in the bucket. I drove ba
ck to the ranch in a euphoric cloud. I passed the gnarled post. Just before the cattle guard, I stopped, put the truck in park, crossed my arms over the steering wheel, and looked out over the prairie. I tried to imagine mustangs galloping across the hills, ears back, tails outstretched. Having lived my life with horses, I thought it would be easy, yet I couldn’t quite conjure the image. Would they be happy, aloof, crazy? Would they sound like thunder? Would I be right there, riding close to them? Soon enough I’d find out. I put the truck in drive and crossed over onto the ranch.

  That’s when the ranch spoke up. No longer would it be called the old Arnold Ranch. Nor would it be called the Day Ranch. It was begging for its own identity, and what it wanted was Mustang Meadows Ranch.

  “I like it,” I said out loud.

  Mustang Meadows Ranch, the first government-sponsored wild horse sanctuary in the United States.

  Part Two

  7.

  A Stubborn Start

  It was mid-September and I was puttering in my office, accomplishing about as much as an expectant father back in the days when we were relegated to rank vending machine coffee and curled magazines in maternity waiting rooms. Yesterday’s phone call had unleashed waves of that same nervous energy. The voice at the other end said a load of horses was ready to ship out from Bloomfield, Nebraska, and would show up around noon tomorrow. Meaning today. Meaning in two hours. Meaning I had better find something else to ease the jitters.

  I shoved the bookkeeping ledger in the desk drawer and grabbed my hat. A chat with Clyde, that’s what I needed. Earlier I had sent John and Russ out to the West Whitelands pasture to repair a windmill. No sense in having everyone wait around headquarters. They would be back before the horses arrived. The Pitkin kids had tried to talk their way out of going to school, but John reassured them that unloading the horses was no big deal. The mustangs would run down the truck ramp into the corral in minutes. “Besides,” he said, “they’ll be with us for a long time.” But a shadowed rendition of their collective pout crossed his face when I doled out the windmill assignment.