Horse Lover (15 page)

I put my hand on Saber’s neck and led him over to the saddle I had set on the ground. He looked like he was as eager to get out of the corral as I had been to get out of the bunkhouse. I could feel his muscles under my hand, relaxed but alert, ready for action. I saddled up and settled on the worn leather like you settle in a car seat. But this wasn’t a minivan or pickup or souped-up
SUV
. This wasn’t a Lexus or Infiniti or even a
BMW
or Mercedes.

This was a Ferrari.

I had never done an all-out test drive. Every day I obeyed the speed limits. What would it feel like to pull on the Autobahn, shift into eighth gear, and let it go? It would be plain wrong never to answer that question. It was time to see how truly fast my horse could run.

I walked Saber through the empty corrals and into the working lot. The cattle had drifted into siesta mode, bunched in one end of the long corral. I spotted a big, old Brahman cow that I knew was fast.

“Let’s give this gal a chase, Saber.” I was the racecar driver at the starting line, the
F
-16 fighter pilot about to break the sound barrier for the first time. Adrenaline and curiosity revved my blood.

Saber knew what to do. He pushed that cow out of the bunch toward the back of the corral, close to the fence fortified with rows of double barbed wire. She swung her head back and forth, irritated at having to move. Saber jump-started her into a sprint and took off after her. I let the reins go slack, shifting him right into eighth gear. He passed that cow like she was moving in slow motion, pulled ahead of her to turn her back against the fence. He pivoted so hard we angled to the ground, like a water-skier taking a quick turn, elbow and shoulder skimming the water. My lower leg dragged on the ground. Before I knew it, we were sliding across the soft ground, rocketing toward the barbed wire instead of along it. My leg was tucked under Saber’s side, and I was still in the saddle. The sandpaper ground roughed my arm and side. The barbed wire rose toward us like the wall of a racetrack rising toward the driver of an out-of-control car. But where a driver has only the traction of a slick track, we had the traction of soft earth. It slowed us down like sand and gravel slow a runaway truck.

We came to a complete stop. I was in the saddle, but on my side, one leg under Saber and one on top. Other than Saber’s weight compressing my trapped leg, nothing hurt. I lifted my head and assessed our predicament. Saber’s legs had slid under the barbed wire, but he had miraculously stopped just before his belly made contact with it. But I could see the surly wire inches above him, ready to attack at his slightest move and tear into him. The fear that he would try to scramble up gripped me.

“Saber, look, we’re in a fix here,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “It’s not your fault your legs slid out from under you. I ran you too fast and turned you back too hard.” I rubbed his neck. “I’m the one to blame here. But right now, I need you to lay here real quiet and not struggle, because if you struggle, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

I kept petting him and talking to him, assuring him the other cowboys would be out soon. Saber didn’t move one muscle. He just lay there like he was going to take a nap in the sun. I didn’t dare dislodge my leg from under him or sidle out of the saddle. If you go down together, you stay down together. Besides, I knew someone would be headed our way soon. Funny how “soon” can feel like the span between lunch and dinner.

Jim Brister arrived first on horseback. He looked down at us, assessing the situation. “Looks like you got yourself in a helluva wreck here, Al.” He threw down one end of his rope, waited for me to put the loop around my saddle horn. He dallied the rope on his saddle horn and then turned his horse to pull Saber and me out from under the fence. We slid out as smoothly as a deck of cards falling out of a tilted box. Saber lifted his head, pushed his feet into the ground, and snorted. I swung my free leg over him and disengaged from the saddle as he hoisted himself up. Then I found my legs, brushed off the dirt stuck to my shirt, and readjusted my chaps and hat, still perched on my head. Saber pawed a hoof at the ground as if scolding it for betraying him.

“No, Saber,” I said. “I own this one, buddy. Blame me.”

I untied the rope and threw it back to Jim. I waited for the question to pop, the one that hung between us: What happened here? All Jim did was recoil the rope, hang it back on his saddle, and ride off. But under that black hat of his, I thought I saw the tiniest of smirks.

“If you’re rounding up at Robb’s Well, you oughta bring a gun. The biggest buck is running around up there.” My friend Eddie’s excitement palpitated through the phone. He loved hunting season and had a hunting permit on our ranch. I can take it or leave it, but his enthusiasm sparked that competitive edge in me. “You shoot him, hang him in the tree, and I’ll come get him,” he said. Well, that sealed the deal. I got down my rifle and cleaned it, so it would be ready at 3:00 a.m. when the crew and I headed out. I didn’t even have to think twice about which horse I would take.

Sure enough, the next day while Saber and I were scouring for cattle in the remote part of the range down near Robb’s Well, a king-sized buck popped out from behind a clump of greasewood fifty feet from us. He stood for a cautious second, a regal rack of antlers balanced between radar ears. His nose twitched with the scent of enemy. Then off he shot, crashing through the brush.

I had a split second to decide if we were good for the chase. Before I could utter a word, Saber burst into action. “We’re gonna catch him, Saber,” I yelled. I held the reins slack in my right hand and grabbed my rifle in the left. The buck bounded in front of us, tacking around mesquite, springing over rocks, another athlete in his prime. Saber hurtled forward, his hooves thundering against the hollow ground, gaining on the animal. I leaned into the rushing air. Twenty, fifteen, ten more yards and we’d be within shooting range.

“Whoa,” I said. Saber slowed. I took aim. The barrel bobbed in time with Saber’s panting. I couldn’t steady it. There was no way I could get a shot off. The buck didn’t wait.

“Saber,” I said, lowering my rifle, “I hate to ask you to do this, but we’ve got to get him. This time I’ll jump down to shoot.” Saber hadn’t taken his eyes off the racing deer. “Do you think you can catch him again?”

Saber lit out. That deer must have been surprised to hear hoofbeats gaining on him. Saber flew over rocks and brush like he was on an asphalt track running the sixty-yard dash. He ran within twenty-five yards of that deer. I stopped him, jumped off, took aim, and fired. Instead of crumpling to the ground, the deer bounded over a little gully and ran behind a tree, then a rock. I couldn’t track him with the rifle. Goddamnit. My horse had performed and I had dropped the ball. I leaned against Saber and stomped my boot heel into the dirt. But I climbed back on. Saber had run quite a ways, at least a quarter mile, maybe even a half. He was panting but not gasping for air. Dare I ask?

“Saber, can you catch him one more time?”

The horse that never said no took off for the third time. Our last chance. I couldn’t ask him to do this again. We ran up on that old buck so close I could have roped him. A big wash suddenly appeared, and the buck was running so fast that he couldn’t stop and tumbled out of sight. Saber came to a screeching halt. I threw the reins down, hopped off with my rifle, and ran over to the edge. Ten feet below me the buck lay on his side. I took a deep breath, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Saber and I strung that deer over a tree using my saddle rope, and the next day Eddie drove the truck out and collected him.

I always knew where Saber was on the ranch. He was my number-one horse and my best friend. Yes, I loved Aunt Jemima dearly. She had won my heart in her own special way. And I loved my other horses—Blackberry, Tequila. Love is not finite. We are creatures capable of loving many times over, loving all our children, all our friends, all our pets. But every relationship boasts its own set of fingerprints. My relationship with Saber glittered with adventures, but we shared life on a deeper level. If horses can be soul mates, Saber was mine.

When I walked across the pasture, still monotone in the dimness of dawn, to catch him, he gave me a look that told me he was glad to see me and was ready to work. When we herded cattle, I almost could see his mind in action, planning out the next, best play and then with that innate gift of athletic coordination, putting it into action. We thought alike when it came to ranching. We embraced new experiences. Best of all, we respected each other one hundred percent. With mutual respect came true companionship and the magical bond of being best friends.

By the time he was six years old, Saber had reached his prime. After about age sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen, we’d retire our horses from ranch work. Some of them went on to live until they were twenty or even twenty-five. I didn’t put it past Saber to be working cattle into his third decade.

It was an early summer evening, when the sun sits a little longer in the sky. I had turned Saber out in the horse pasture and was at home in my office catching up on some bookkeeping before dinner.

My mother came into the room, her face ashen, tears streaming down her face. She had been driving the Chrysler, returning from town, and was on the part of the main ranch road that ran through the horse pasture for a half mile or so. When she rounded the bend, sunlight exploded in front of her, penetrating the protection of the lowered visor and her sunglasses, robbing her of vision. She didn’t know which horse she hit until she got out of the car. There were five standing alongside the road, as they always were at that point in the pasture. One horse lay in the middle of the road. It was Saber. The impact broke his hind leg at the knee, the one place on a horse that can’t heal.

One of my fast and hard rules is that I never ask someone to do something that I couldn’t do myself. I have broken that rule only once in my life. I asked Cole Webb to put Saber down. I had put down his favorite dog some years back. I would not have been able to hold the gun steady nor see my target as anything but a blur through my tears.

I was in the house when Cole honored my request, my mother and I holding each other, her seeking the forgiveness I already had given and me seeking solace. I’m not sure if I cried for two days or four or six. You never really stop crying over the loss of a loved one. Nor do you stop loving. Love is kind of like the sun. It can be warm and gentle, nourishing every part of you, but sometimes it shines harsh and hard. And it burns. On a ranch, where you live in the palm of Nature, you learn to accept what that hand holds—hardships, heartbreaks, adventures, joys, and love.

14.

Fame Finds Us

I was walking from the Suburban to the doublewide, my arms full of grocery bags. The wild turkeys marched past me, headed toward the ranch road as if setting out on a summer vacation. One of these days I’d follow them, maybe I’d learn something. Right now I needed to answer the phone ringing inside.

“Hello,” I said. The screen door slammed right as the person said his name. “Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“This is Kevin Costner calling.” There was a pause. “Are you the person to speak to about the wild horse sanctuary?”

“Yes, I am. I’m Alan Day.”

“If you have a moment, Mr. Day, I’d like to talk to you about your sanctuary. I’m working on a project involving a lot of horses and you might be of help.”

I didn’t know anyone named Kevin Costner but said fine, I’d be happy to listen. He proceeded to explain that he was an actor and was directing a movie set in South Dakota. It had to do with Indians and would be filmed on the prairie. He asked a ream of questions about the location of the ranch and its layout, then peppered me with questions about the horses.

“Can you control your horses enough to be able to film them?” he asked.

“You betcha,” I said and babbled about how we had trained the horses and could move them in one herd from pasture to pasture. “They’re most cooperative,” I said, ever the proud parent. We had not experienced any more wrecks or mishaps since moving day in May.

Costner said, “Several of the scenes involve an Indian camp and a river and a large group of horses that will be used as the remuda.”

“Well, we have the Little White River that runs through five miles of the ranch and yes, we can control the horses so they could be filmed as the Indians’ ponies,” I said.

“I would like to send you a copy of my script and have you read it to see if you can envision the movie being shot on your ranch.”

I agreed and we hung up. I walked back outside. The turkeys were fat-rumped specks waddling up the last hill of the road before it turned out of sight. A funny feeling settled over me. That had been a strange conversation. I never went to movies. What if this guy wasn’t an actor? What if I was being flimflammed by a hustler? I went back inside and called my buddy Mike Berry in Tucson, the biggest movie buff I knew.

“You ever heard of an actor by the name of Kevin Coogan?” I asked him.

“Kevin Coogan? No, never heard of him.”

“Well, some guy named Kevin Coogan just called me and insinuated he’s some big movie star and is looking to shoot a film up here on the ranch. I’m wondering if he’s for real or giving me a line.”

“Kevin Coogan, huh? You sure that’s his name?”

“Well, yeah. I’m pretty sure,” I said, not feeling so sure. Names and I have never gotten along well. I heard a creak like a chair leaning back and then a hollow slap, like a hand hitting something.

“You wouldn’t by chance mean Kevin Costner?”

“Uh, yeah. I might mean Kevin Costner.” So I misplaced a few letters. Mike assured me he was the real deal and advised me to rent
Field of Dreams
and
Silverado
. I told him I’d have to get a
VCR
first.

A few days later, FedEx delivered a box to the ranch. I settled in at my desk, took my pocketknife, slit the end of the box, and slid out a slim black binder filled with a little over a hundred pages of paper. I flipped it open to the first page.
Dances with Wolves
, written by Michael Blake. Every free moment that weekend, I picked up the screenplay. By Sunday night I had finished it. Even with its foreign notations and directions, the story gripped me. I never read a script and didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I could envision it being shot on Mustang Meadows Ranch, especially the scenes of an Indian camp on the banks of a river with a horse herd nearby. Costner called midweek and I shared my thoughts.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come see your ranch and the horses,” he said.

“Works with me,” I said. We picked a day two weeks out and I filed it in my mental calendar.

I landed my 182 Cessna at the Front Range Airport in Denver and went into the pilot’s lounge where Costner and I arranged to meet. He was bringing his producer, Jim Wilson, with him. About ten people were scattered at tables. Two guys in jeans and cowboy boots sat at one. They were about the same age, both with sandy brown hair and athletic. I wasn’t sure who was Costner and who was Wilson, so I introduced myself.

Ten minutes later, we boarded the plane; Kevin sat next to me and Jim took the backseat. Kevin mentioned that he had never flown in such a small plane. We taxied out to the run-up area. I picked up my well-used checklist from the dash. I had it memorized but didn’t want to appear too nonchalant about piloting, so I went down the list with my finger, checked the steering wheel for free action, cycled the prop, checked oil pressure, checked the mags. Kevin leaned around the seat and said to Jim, “This guy has to read the instruction manual before taking off.” Great, I had a comedian and actor on board.

During the seventy-five-minute flight, Kevin told me more about his vision for the movie. It would be his first effort directing. He felt fully confident that he could do it, but Hollywood questioned his ability and refused to put up the money. Eventually he found funds from an investor in Italy. I well knew the language of naysayers. It has a limited vocabulary of words like “never,” “can’t,” and “crazy,” phrases like “no way, “what’s he thinking,” and the ultimate wet blanket, “it’s impossible.” If I had taken the cynics’ advice to heart, I might own a ranch in South Dakota, but the only horses on it would be a half-dozen saddle horses. Paddling upstream seemed to be my role in life and Kevin seemed to be sharing the same canoe.

We landed in Valentine and hopped in the Suburban. An hour later, I turned the truck off the state road, driving under the sign, Mustang Meadows Ranch, and past the gnarled post. The sun sat like a ripe peach over the horizon and the hills glowed yellow, as if showing off for Hollywood. “This is how I envisioned it,” Kevin said. “This light is perfect.”

We turned the corner of the road, drove past the Pitkins’ house, and parked. “Guys, we’ll have to wait to see the horses and the ranch until tomorrow. How about if I grill some steaks and we have a little dinner?”

“Suits us just fine,” said Kevin. They grabbed their duffel bags and I showed them where they would be staying in the doublewide.

We ate steaks and made a dent in a fifth of scotch. Kevin shared his background and his struggle getting into the movie business. He had an easygoing, affable manner about him.

The next morning, before going out to see the ranch and the horses, we stopped by John’s house for a cup of coffee. I gave a heads-up hello knock like I always did and let myself in. John was sitting at the table with Jordan and Debbie was scrambling eggs.

“Morning,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I brought a few friends for you to meet.” Kevin and Jim followed me into the kitchen and I introduced everyone. To me it was like any other day on the ranch: assess the task in front of you and get it done. Today’s task was to help another man do the best job he could. Debbie sputtered a hello, then froze. John kept looking at her to see if she was going to pass out or stay upright. Later she would tell how she entertained superstar Kevin Costner in her kitchen.

The day was perfect. A brisk breeze, but not enough to dislodge a hat. The greens of early summer. A warm sun. Kevin wanted to know what part of the ranch I owned. How far was it to hotels and restaurants? Where was the Little White River?

“It’s just over the next hill,” I said.

“Good, then let’s park here. I want to see the view as we crest the hill on foot.” He explained this was the scene the cameras would reveal. At the top of the hill, we stopped. He framed his hands into a lens and put it up to his eye. “Perfect,” I thought I heard him whisper. We spent the rest of the morning in the area. Would he have to get permission to film from anyone but me? No, I owned the property. Could he build a camp here? Yes, no problem. How wide was the river? Do you think these trees work in the background? He was gathering information and making serious decisions. I knew the drill.

The ranch seemed to be calling to him. The location, however, did not. Most of the filming is done in the early morning and late afternoon, when the light is best. Having a crew two hours from the shoot would require everyone to get up at about 3:00 a.m. to start doing makeup, load up, eat breakfast, and then make the trek. That’s even early for a cowboy.

It was midafternoon when we drove over to Cemetery pasture, named for the Indian burial mounds on it. I pulled the Suburban up to the crest of a hill. Down below fifteen hundred mustangs grazed. They had become accustomed to the Suburban by now and didn’t pay us much attention. A pheasant cock was far less amused by our presence. The bird started running around one of the mounds, squawking. It, in turn, must have amused Kevin, because he got out of the car and started chasing it and doing the funky chicken dance. Maybe he had concentrated so hard by the Little White that he needed an outlet. Jim and I sat in the truck while he squawked and ran. The wind was blowing in the direction of the horses and carried the bird’s and Costner’s cacophony right into the sensitive ears of the mustangs.

A few horses started pawing the ground. They began to vibrate like a hive of irritated bees, their heads now alert, their tails swishing. Kevin and the pheasant kept up their ritualistic dance. A few of the horses started to run, a signal to the others to pay attention and get moving. Within a minute, the herd was stampeding. Jim and I got out of the truck to watch.

“Costner, look what you’ve done,” yelled Jim. Kevin stopped and looked.

“Oh man,” he said. “What happened to them?”

They made a circle of the entire pasture and slowed down once they didn’t hear any more grating noise. I wished I had a camera to reveal the scene.

The next day I flew Kevin and Jim up to Pierre to meet with a fellow who owned a herd of buffalo. By then, Kevin knew he loved the land, the river, the horses, but he was discouraged about the logistics. He said that he would let me know if they would be using the ranch. He was a man with a job to do and was taking that job seriously and throwing himself into it. If my ranch fit into that job, then so be it; if not, that was okay too. He said he would love to come back and do some horseback riding and hunting on the ranch. I told him the door was always open.

A few weeks later, Kevin called. He had found a site about fifteen miles outside of Rapid City, South Dakota. It would be better for the crew, but he appreciated being able to see Mustang Meadows Ranch. Sure was a gorgeous place. I wished him luck on his project.

In the end I was glad that the movie wasn’t shot on the ranch. A lot of wheels and feet would have trampled the sandy soil in a concentrated area. Surely the grass would have been damaged and who knows what else. I had been concerned about that but reasoned the land would recover post-filming. As it turned out, the movie’s incredible popularity resulted in curious people visiting the site where it had been shot. They came at all hours of the day and on all days. With this continuous traffic, the fragile vegetation couldn’t recover and blowouts formed, giant potholes caused by high winds. I was glad to enjoy the movie and its scenes of beautiful rolling prairie and not have my ranch damaged. Besides, a few months later, in the fall of 1990, the ranch did end up being filmed for a national audience.

I knew Dayton had been talking to the producers of
20/20
, pitching a segment on the sanctuary. It didn’t much interest me, but Dayton was all for public relations. He paid for a chunk of his ranch operations by charging admission for tours and staging fundraising events. The producers bit. They decided to film footage on Dayton’s ranch but also wanted to film the larger herd on Mustang Meadows Ranch. The
BLM
gave their approval in a heartbeat. Positive national publicity about the wild horses rarely came their way.

At first I didn’t share the
BLM
’s exuberance, mostly because we were in the middle of one of the driest summers the Midwest had experienced in some years. Even small puffs of wind sent dust skimming over the ground. The filming would require us to move the horses from place to place. Six thousand hooves running across and disturbing dry pastures wasn’t exactly part of my land management plan. But as the day for filming approached, an enthusiasm for sharing what we had created and now managed began to grow. Maybe some good would come of it. I probably should have worried that national exposure would encourage competition, but we had such a strong relationship with the
BLM
, who could possibly compete with us?

The director and film crew must have placed a special order for the day. The morning air felt cool and fresh and the sky’s palette was a bright summer blue that heightened the greens and grays of the prairie grass. The rolling hills gave little indication that rain had been scarce. The grass rippled. A sense of pride at what we had accomplished with the sanctuary filled me.

John and I thought it wise to check on the horses before the film crew arrived. We didn’t want to be surprised by a sick or crippled horse that might limp in front of the camera and tarnish the glow of all the good things we were doing for the horses. After coffee, we drove out to the pasture adjacent to the corrals to check on the herd. All seemed fine and fit, except that twenty or more head had gotten out of their assigned pasture and stood grazing on the adjacent meadow. How they got out was a mystery, because they probably wouldn’t all jump the fence. Was it our phantom?

We had been experiencing a phenomenon that we named “the phantom gate opener.” Up to this point, it had always occurred in the north part of the ranch. About once a week, during the night, someone would drive across those north pastures and leave every gate open in his wake. We checked on the horses each day and would find a group that had meandered through the gates. This required us to gather them and return them to their proper pasture and make sure the gates were securely closed. An annoying occurrence that never stopped. The phantom gate opener would strike once every week or two. We never did catch him. The horses learned his game, too. The ones that had gone through knew they were in the wrong place and as soon as they saw us would head straight back through the gate to the right pasture with guilty looks on their faces.