Horse Lover (21 page)

“How do you want me to invoice you?” I asked.

“Oh, we talked it over,” he said, “and we decided we don’t need to pay you on this one.”

This guy just lit a match and was waving it way too close to a flammable tank. “What’s your justification?” I asked.

“You had to vaccinate the horses so they were in the chute anyway. We don’t think it necessary to pay double for work you’re already doing.”

I burst into flames. “This is not the way I do business. We’ve always been honorable with each other and stuck to our verbal agreements. You agreed over the phone to pay me. You know it and I know it. And if you’ll take one goddamn minute to think about it, you’ll realize it’s pretty stupid to stiff me because there are ways of getting paid. I can stop reporting dead horses. Before you’ll know it, I’ll have a herd of twenty-five to fifty phantom horses that you’ll be paying me for. Plus, I have the master list that matches each microchip to a horse. I’m the only one who has the list. But if you won’t pay me, I might as well tear that list up, right?”

No answers were forthcoming; I was stonewalled and stymied. Why would an agency alienate the guy taking care of their property?

I ended up getting paid. My herd of phantom horses grew just large enough for me to recoup my fee. I hated playing the game that way, but I wasn’t going to be taken for a ride. We kept the scanner in the range truck, though all it did was collect dust.

Did that incident inspire the
BLM
to move the horses to a different ranch? I couldn’t make the call on that one. Perhaps the Oklahoma crew had more friends in the
BLM
than I did. My dealings with the agency occurred almost exclusively at the South Dakota level. Perhaps they lobbied their congressional representatives. Golly, should I have been doing that? Once Dayton and I had our contract and Mustang Meadows was receiving high marks, I didn’t think future lobbying was necessary. If John Hughes won the horses by lobbying, I took my hat off to his ability.

I decided to bounce the situation off of Sandra. From the inception of the sanctuary, I had made it a point not to seek my sister’s opinion or involve her in any of our escapades. She immediately knew my options of recourse. The government has a court of law, she explained, that hears cases involving inane bureaucratic maneuverings. If I sued the
BLM
and won, I might get the bid overturned and be able to keep the sanctuary. She could help me go about the process of starting a lawsuit if that was the route I wanted to take. I said I would let her know if I needed assistance.

I rolled around the option for a few days. Did I want to spend the next two or three years in court suing the hand that was feeding me? I had never sued anyone. There would be lawyers and fees, anger and negative energy. If I won and there were people who didn’t want me to be in the sanctuary business, they probably would continue to try to make my life hell. Plus, by that time I certainly wouldn’t have the goodwill of the
BLM
. I decided that I was far better off not to tangle with the government.

On June 30, 1993, the sanctuary contract officially transferred to the Hughes group in Oklahoma. On July 15 I mailed an appeal letter to the
BLM
. Two weeks later a reply arrived in the mailbox. It was dated July 27, 1993.

No one ever mentioned the regulation that required an appeal be submitted prior to the bidding process. If I had known about it, I would have written the appeal the minute I received the bid solicitation. I couldn’t discern whether this was an egregious oversight or a premeditated one. Or neither. Nor did I know that there were three sanctuaries in operation. Dayton Hyde had one, but we had contracted for the same eighteen hundred horses. Were we considered two separate sanctuaries? And where was the third? Had Hughes already been caring for wild horses? Or was some other rancher doing that?

I had been cut out of the
BLM
’s line of communication. At one time that line had been wide open and as a result, a wild horse sanctuary was born. Now I couldn’t get answers to simple questions. I was on an island as remote as the one Happy lived on. The only thing I knew for certain was the time had arrived to say goodbye to the wild horses.

20.

At the End of the Day

I didn’t even have to say “whoa.” Aunt Jemima knew to stop at the top of the hill. The sea of prairie sparkled under the late September sun and a stiff breeze swirled its autumn scent. The summer rains had fed the soil well. The land offered a daily feast to the cattle grazing in the swale below us.

We now had nine hundred heifers. Although their presence pleased me, it did not fill the space the horses had occupied. Every day phantom mustangs and I rode through that space. Some days I saw Happy hanging on the outskirts of the herd or the palomino sisters and their look-alike foals feeding on the grass. Other days I listened as fifteen hundred horses gathered into a herd and followed me, our combined weight thudding against the soft earth. Always, I felt the horses’ presence. I missed their families, their intelligence, their offer of friendship and trust. Their absence made the fertile land feel barren. More than once, I pulled out my handkerchief to wipe my wet face.

The horses had started shipping out in early August. They went out as they came in—forty per truckload. Almost daily, we led a group of mustangs into the corrals and waited for the call telling us when to expect the driver. Jerry Norbert came down a couple of times to check in on the proceedings. During his last visit, he said, “In all fairness, Al, I have to tell you there are some folks at the midlevel of government who think you used your sister’s influence to get the sanctuary. They think you’re a silver-spoon boy. Might be they wanted to yank out that spoon they thought was in your mouth.” I didn’t bother to ask him any questions. I was holding true to my decision not to muck around for rumored adversaries. At the deepest of levels, I knew it was healthier to rise above the fray. I had positive, productive places to put my energy. Past experiences had taught me to retain the sweetness and specialness of what was lost, learn from that loss, then move on. The future always would hold out new adventures to grab onto.

Soon after the last truck skimmed over the ranch road, a local realtor called representing the Rosebud Sioux Indians. The tribe was making a considerable profit on its casino and was interested in buying back land it originally sold to whites. Would I be interested in selling the ranch? I would consider it if it met my business goals. Much to my surprise the tribe’s offer matched my original business plan: to sell the ranch when it doubled in value. It appealed to my sense of justice that the Native Americans would reacquire land so valuable to their culture. After the papers were signed, the elders invited me to be part of their traditional ceremony to celebrate the event. I felt deeply honored and did the best I could dancing and smoking a peace pipe.

Since no one in the tribe knew about grass management, the tribal council wanted to hire me to teach their people about land stewardship. I was thrilled to be able to share what I had learned during my ranching career. We worked out a deal where I would lease the ranch at a low rate for five years and work with the tribe. I entrusted the running of the ranch to John Pitkin, my star student, so I could attend to business on Lazy B. About twice a year, I flew up to South Dakota for a few weeks and enjoyed working with the Rosebud Sioux and the land, though the ranch never felt the same as it had when the mustangs lived there.

Wild horses had dominated my life for almost five years. The cosmos had smiled on me and gifted an opportunity so magnificent I couldn’t refuse it. After the mustangs exited, I had to make peace with it in order to move forward without regret and hate. Knowing that I had created something novel and innovative and had done it well gave me a deep-rooted satisfaction. I had loved more horses than I ever thought possible. We recognized each other as friends, lived through easy times and hard times. The mustangs taught me to pay attention to the little things in life, to empathize more with the animal kingdom, to trust my instincts. Without a doubt, I was a better man for knowing them. The
BLM
could ship the horses to Oklahoma, tear up my contract, and take away my monthly check, but I owned experiences and memories. At the end of the day, no one could take those away from me.

“Time to go, Jemima,” I said. She took off at an easy gallop down the hill. For a moment I heard the horses’ whispers—snorts and nickers, the pawing of hooves. I gave Jemima her head and she galloped faster. The whispers grew into a crescendo of pounding rhythm, the rhythm of a thousand hooves hitting the ground in utter freedom. Fifteen hundred wild horses rode with me through the thick grass, beneath the arcing blue sky.

Long may we run, I thought. Long may we run.

In glory, beauty, and wonder.

About the Authors

Alan Day
is the former owner of the Mustang Meadows Ranch near St. Francis, South Dakota; Rex Ranch near Whitman, Nebraska; and the Lazy B Ranch in southern Arizona. With his sister, Sandra Day O’Connor, he coauthored
Lazy B: Growing Up on a Cattle Ranch in the American Southwest
.
Lynn Wiese Sneyd
is a published author and owner of
LWS
Literary Services.
Sandra Day O’Connor
served on the U. S. Supreme Court from 1981 to 2005.