As I stood and watched the process, I noticed a furrow in the dirt running from in front of the squeeze chute to a gate at the opposite side of the corral. At first I didn’t understand why the furrow would be right there, but then it dawned on me that the depression was from a horse being dragged out of the chute. And the only reason a horse would be dragged out is if it died. The vision of the three dead heifers at Lazy B came flooding back to me.
The vet took a break and I walked over to him.
“I see you had to drag a few out of here,” I said, pointing to the furrow.
“Occasionally we lose one,” he said without looking up.
Right there, I placed my bet on the table that a herd of wild horses could be trained without being traumatized. I had done it with cattle, I would do it with horses. Same movie script, different actors. We could transform their fear, get them to cooperate and follow directions. Once trained, we would show them the gate, and they would go through it. We would show them the alley, and they would file in like well-behaved grade school students and wait their turn. We would vaccinate them and turn them out of the squeeze chute calmly. They would not view us as the enemy and the scene would be devoid of this palpable stress. There was no reason to spoil an animal’s spirit with force and fear. I resolved then and there that I would help these captured horses and give them the next best thing to the life they had once known. That voice inside of me was right. It was time to work with wild horses.
A week later I flew up to South Dakota. Al Jr. and I sat on the porch of the doublewide watching the prairie tuck itself in to sleep. Al had fallen in love with the ranch and everything about it. When I asked him if he could envision a sanctuary on the land, he said, “It’s a crazy idea putting wild horses out here. But if anyone can pull it off, it’s you, Dad.”
The flock of wild turkeys waddled into sight, crossed the ranch road, and headed for the elm tree. One by one, they spread their wings and flapped into the tree. Since my first night on the ranch, I had watched them go through this routine. I wondered if they slept on the same branch every night.
“Hey, I want to show you something,” my son said, getting up from the step. I followed him across the lawn. Only a thin line of light hung on the horizon. “Stand under the elm and look out over the pond,” he said. I moved next to the trunk and pressed a hand against its rough bark. Al stayed back. I was about to tell him to come take in the view when he clapped three times. The tree rustled, like sheets in a bed. I heard the drops hit the ground before I felt the warm liquid slide down the back of my neck.
“What the . . .” I was covered in turkey poop.
Al burst out laughing. “Gotcha.”
I pulled out my handkerchief. Now how on earth did he figure that one out? It was one of those questions that never got answered.
5.
Two Cowboys Corral Congress
The banking gears continued to grind through the loan process. I was trying to be patient, but by golly, it was hard. Since we had not heard from Roger Running Horse I decided to drive to his office, hoping to speed the process along. He met me with his usual big smile and a warm greeting. “My supervisor is on vacation but she should be back soon and we’ll get those plans in front of her before long,” he reassured me. I left his office mildly disappointed but with hopes of future approval.
I couldn’t start making improvements on the old Arnold Ranch until it officially became the new Day Ranch, so in the meantime, in an effort to learn the trade secrets of Sand Hills ranching, I spent quite a little time chatting with neighbors. I wanted to determine what normal hay production should be. The Arnold Ranch produced one ton per acre, which for the area was substandard. I submitted soil and hay samples to a lab and discovered that the three thousand acres of hay-producing meadow were deficient in phosphorous and the hay was low in protein. Horses would require healthy hay. They also needed stronger corrals and more drinking water on the range. I was eager to get going on these projects. Finally, the phone rang. On a windy day, with silver-lined clouds scudding across the South Dakota sky and the sunflowers of mid-September in bloom, I signed on the dotted line.
On the drive back to the ranch, I inhaled the sweet scent of freshly cut fields and thought about the horses. I now had a home to offer them, a safe harbor where they could roam and graze. Tomorrow John and I would start remodeling that home. Even if the horses never came, the place needed major upgrades. I turned onto the dirt road, hit a pothole, and bumped my head against the pickup’s roof. Yeah, the road. Better get on that one soon, too, or the horses would have to unload at the edge of the state highway and hoof it to the ranch.
I bounced past the gnarled old fence post and the start of the ranch, my ranch. I was the caretaker now, the one responsible for every pothole, fence post, and blade of grass. I had set these 35,000 acres atop the 45,000 acres of the Rex Ranch, which sat atop the 198,000 acres of Lazy B. For the next five miles, this agrarian monolith loomed in front of me, weighed down with cattle, investors, debt, and uncertainty. I could no longer see the grass waving or the hills beckoning. Trepidation wormed through my confidence like some nasty alien in a video game gobbling up all the good guys. I pulled into the yard feeling slightly sick. A cloud cast its blobby shadow over the truck, floated toward the faded barn, and disappeared behind it.
Oh my God. What had I done?
I had been raised on lectures portraying debt as evil, yet here I was dancing with the devil himself. I slumped in my seat like a guy who just became engaged to the love of his life and contracts an acute case of marriage remorse.
A patch of sunlight spilled through the windshield, warming my fingers still curled around the steering wheel. Somewhere deep inside, resolve poked its head out. Fearless, it grew. I grabbed onto it. I had endured droughts, lost money on cattle, even crashed an airplane and almost died, but those receding tides never left me high and dry. They always returned and deposited good fortune at my feet. I’d dig in my heels and see this journey through to the end. My horse Little Charlie Brown use to do that—dig in his heels. Remembering him inspired and calmed me.
He was a little guy, a bay horse with white stockings, not very tall but solidly built. A white streak ran the length of his nose and dribbled down one nostril. He had a gentle demeanor but could be as lazy as a teenager. Except when he got around cattle. Then he became all business. If he and I rode behind a herd of cattle and a cow slowed down, he’d follow that cow, reach down, and bite her right above the hock. If I didn’t pull him off, he would raise her leg and hold it up like a bulldog. The cow would bawl in pain and try to run forward. With Little Charlie, you could make good time driving cattle because they knew if they didn’t hotfoot it, they’d get chomped on. But he’d never bite a baby calf, only nudge it.
His real talent, though, was his unbelievable strength. I’d saddle him up, throw my rope around a bull, a tractor, or whatever needed moving, then dally up and tell Little Charlie to pull. He could drag a full-grown bull from one corral to another. I learned that the best way to load a recalcitrant cow or horse into a trailer was to run a rope from the stubborn animal through the trailer, back to front, then dally it to Little Charlie. He’d crouch his back end and push with all fours like he was going for the gold in tug-of-war. The animal in tow practically popped into the trailer. He should have been named Samson. Where he got that strength, and for his size, I don’t know. Some athletes are wired a certain way; some horses are too. You always knew what Little Charlie could do for you, and he did it day in and day out. I had this ranch dallied to my inner saddle horn. Could I drag it with me?
That night, to celebrate the closing, I took the Pitkin family to the Peppermill Steakhouse just over the border in Valentine, Nebraska, where we stuffed ourselves full of prime rib that practically melted in our mouths. John told stories about the ranch with his kids chiming in details. I told stories about ranching in Arizona that left them shaking their midwestern heads. With laughs and giggles, we embarked on an adventure that seemed to have chosen us randomly and united us in the heartland of the country. I had inserted myself in this family and the Sand Hills. I needed to own up to that and not let them down. With the fortitude of Little Charlie Brown, I could do it. By the time we left, I couldn’t wait to see what lay over the next hill. I never expected it to lay so far east.
In Arizona no one bothers to look twice at a cowboy. I could walk through Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix wearing my favorite black Stetson and leather boots without attracting so much as a glance, but standing in the baggage claim of Dulles International Airport outside Washington
DC
dressed in the same attire, I attracted some blatant body scans. Usually when I traveled here once a year to visit my sister, Sandra, and her husband, John, I did so sans western regalia. The itinerary of this trip, however, demanded an identity statement. The thing about cowboy hats is they don’t pack well.
The Wild Horse Division of the
BLM
had sprung a new mission on Dayton and me. The higher-ups had indicated that a wild horse sanctuary was more than a good idea; it could be a practical solution to the problem of what to do with unadoptable wild horses living in holding facilities. We thought we were headed down easy street until they advised us they didn’t have the power to authorize such a venture. “You’ll need to get approval from Congress,” a representative from Washington stated during a meeting in South Dakota. Congress, huh? Did the
BLM
really need the approval of its boss, or were the good folks in the agency sending us down the yellow brick road on a bogus journey? It was more likely they didn’t want to stand up to Congress so they handed us the script and set us on stage, a tactical cover-your-ass move. But certainly the
BLM
folk wouldn’t underestimate a cowboy, would they? Because a cowboy does what it takes to get the job done, even if that includes personally soliciting politicians.
As luck would have it, Dayton’s flight from Oregon was landing twenty minutes after mine. We had agreed to meet near the exit to catch a cab, but signs indicated three exits for taxis and the place was busier than a pub on payday. I stood by a large column and watched for a familiar face in the flow of people.
An older woman passing by leaned over to her husband and pointed behind her. “Did you see that guy back there in the white cowboy hat?”
He looked over his shoulder. “No, why?”
“I think he’s famous. I swear I’ve seen him in a movie.”
I looked behind them and, sure enough, bouncing above the crowd was a white cowboy hat with Dayton beneath it.
“Hey partner,” Hawk said, slapping me on the back. “Been waiting long?” I could see how someone might mistake him for a movie star. Put an eye patch on him and he could be John Wayne playing Rooster Cogburn.
“I use to have a pair of them boots,” said the cab driver, throwing our luggage in the trunk. “Did a bit of wranglin’ up in Montana.” He explained that was before an injury shoved him off the ranch and pushed him east little by little, farther and farther, until he hit salt water. His nose had a jaunty bent and a scar smiled across the bottom of his chin. He became our captive audience during the rush-hour drive downtown, listening to all the reasons why the government should sponsor a wild horse sanctuary. We had become pretty good at outlining our argument, but a last-minute practice couldn’t hurt. We were no longer in laid-back South Dakota or Arizona. Did busy congressmen and -women give you an hour, half hour, or ten minutes?
“Best of luck to you,” said the driver. He set my duffel bag on the sidewalk. “Hell of an idea. I’d sign on to wrangle with you if I could.” He shook my hand. Was that a standing ovation for our dress rehearsal? I handed him the fare and a healthy tip.
That night over scotch, we reviewed our agenda. We had three days to corral Congress and so far had a whopping four appointments. The empty blocks of time stood out starkly on the calendar, yet they felt more like a blank canvas than a white surrender flag. What pictures would be painted on them had yet to be determined. With over five hundred politicians on our call list, odds were they would be colored with interesting conversations and characters.
Buzzing through congressional offices the next day proved to be a far bigger high than I anticipated. There’s something about being a citizen and tapping into the inner workings of government that gives you a different sense of identity. As a rancher, I responded to animals and land and, to some extent, government. Stepping into the heart of national government with the intent of influencing felt like stepping into something far larger than any ranch I had ever managed.
Our quest for the golden legislation started with a senator Dayton knew from Oregon. He listened attentively to the high points of the sanctuary plan—saving the government money, easing the burden of wild horses on the
BLM
, giving eighteen hundred unadoptable horses a place to live—and extended his support. The representative from Oregon with whom we next met did the same.
The next stop was former Arizona senator Barry Goldwater’s office. I had attended the University of Arizona with his son, Mike, who was a good friend of mine. Barry, of course, knew Sandra from their days of crossing political paths in Phoenix. How much pull he would have with Congress, having retired about two years earlier, I had no idea. Barry whistled when he heard the number of horses we might be allotted. He had photographed wild horses on the Navajo reservation and would love to do the same up in the Sand Hills if we ended up with the sanctuary. He would do all he could to help our expectations come to fruition.
After lunch we hit Senator Dennis DeConcini’s office. Along with Barry Goldwater, DeConcini had been a huge supporter of my sister when she went through congressional questioning before being appointed a Supreme Court justice. I hadn’t seen him since Sandra’s inauguration. I had not asked Sandra to contact him on our behalf, nor to contact anybody else, because I knew better than to do that, especially for a personal project like this one. But I did appreciate having a history that opened the door.
“Take a seat and I’ll let the senator know you’re here.” The receptionist pointed to a partially occupied row of chairs across from her desk.
Dayton and I watched people come and go. A young aide whizzed by balancing white paper bags and a tray of drinks. “Hey, real cowboys! Find a parking spot for your horses?” The receptionist rolled her eyes.
“You did tie up the horse to the parking meter?” Dayton said, looking me in the eye.
“Sure did,” I said. “Did you feed the meter?”
“Hell no. I thought you did.”
I shrugged. “Nope.”
“Hope that stallion doesn’t kick the attendant who gives him a ticket. Last guy ended up with a few broken ribs.”
A woman sitting across from us glanced up from her magazine. The receptionist giggled.
“Alan, good to see you again.” Senator DeConcini made us feel like we were walking into his office on a red carpet. We gave him the lowdown on the sanctuary, and he exuded the same excitement as Goldwater. “Listen, I want you to make this office your headquarters,” he said. “My staff can help you make appointments and you can use our phones. I’ll add a rider on a bill we know is going to pass and I’ll make some calls to get the cooperation we need for this to go through.” We had just been offered a pot of gold. DeConcini suggested we lunch in the senators’ private dining room and ushered us on the underground train reserved for senators that runs between the Capitol and the senate building. After a brief tour of the Capitol, he wished us well and said he’d be in touch.
The next forty-eight hours became a blur of meetings and conversations, most in offices, some in hallways. I had worn-out the heels of cowboy boots on dirt and gravel but never on concrete and marble. Dayton was the appointed poet, painting the plight of wild horses in word pictures and describing the ranches where they would run free. I detailed the sanctuary’s business plan. Not one politician found fault with the sanctuary or refused to support it in the form of a future vote. One of my favorite meetings was with Representative Ben Nighthorse Campbell of Colorado, who later became a senator. He owned a ranch and had raised quarter horses; we spent almost two hours swapping horse stories.
Our final meeting ended up being with the head of the Bureau of Land Management’s Bob Burford. We had been dealing with lower-level individuals in the Wild Horse Division and so needed to do a sales job on the higher-ups and hoped they would be at the meeting. But they were not present when we arrived. We exchanged pleasantries and got acquainted with Burford.
“Let me call in some people interested in your project,” he said. “They know you’re here and are eager to meet you.” Bingo.