Horse Lover (18 page)

That thought had never even occurred to me. I was just doing my job. But now, as I was doing it, I stood face to face with someone intent on using this tragedy to stoke his career ambitions rather than balancing the scales of justice. Locking me up behind bars was just the fuel to fan his campaign flames. I felt like I was being profiled and convicted before being tried. But what ground did he have for charges?

“John, did you feed those horses every day?

“Hell yes. You know we feed them every day.”

“And are you feeding them the full ration of thirty pounds of hay per day?

“Yes, of course. We never miss a day.”

“Well goddamn, he’s punching at air.”

We ate a quick lunch at the house, then loaded the pickup with chainsaws, boards, ropes, chains, and other tools we might need. John drove the big blue Ford tractor with the front-end loader attached, and we convoyed across the frozen prairie. The fresh dusting of snow on the road wouldn’t sit still in the wind. We bumped along the icy ground, the wipers smearing tiny flakes across the pickup’s windshield. Thankfully the clouds were not predicted to drop much snow. Three gates and thirty minutes later we entered the leased pasture, the scene of the supposed crime.

The pond lay over a few hills and to the left. The dark silhouettes of eight hundred less fourteen horses dotted the meadow. We had not discussed moving the herd. Even with the drowning, no rancher would have moved horses in the middle of winter away from a meadow with blocked-up hay and fresh water.

John and I walked out onto the semiclear ice. Dark, eerie shapes lay under its surface. I could make out blurred manes and tails, legs bent at odd angles, horses layered on top of each other. The side of one horse tilted downward like a submarine going under, its head out of sight. We walked, looking through the ice like you look through a glass-bottom boat. I thought of Candy and the waves from one panicked horse. Imagine thirty, forty, or perhaps, as John suspected and a neighbor reported, several hundred horses fighting for their lives in frigid waters. God, it must have been pure pandemonium for what—five, ten minutes? For a moment I heard the hollow cracking of ice and the panicked snorts, the high-pitched whinnies pleading above the turbulent splash of water. Then stillness. Even with the wind howling its grief, there would have been that stillness. I had experienced that stillness once and would never forget its empty sound.

We unloaded the truck. I fired up a chainsaw and pushed the screaming blade into the ice near the rump of the horse closest to the surface. Cutting around it was easy work. Lifting the animal-embedded ice block proved trickier. First, we had to get a chain around some part of the horse. That meant dunking our arms up to the elbow in the icy water so we could finagle the metal links around a leg, a neck, a hip. The ice had refrozen to two feet thick, but water slopped up and over our boots. Once the chain was secure, we could attach it to the tractor and pull. Sometimes we needed to pry a body part lose from the ice or another horse with a board or set the board at an angle below the horse so we could leverage it onto a clear area. There, we’d chip away ice chunks around the carcass, then drag it to shore. Slipping and sliding and sweating, we improvised and became more efficient as we went. We didn’t dismember one horse.

Four hours later, we hauled the last horse ashore. I had accumulated a lifetime quota of this job. Using the tractor’s front-end loader, we stacked six horses in the trailer behind the pickup. Enough afternoon remained for John to transport them to the vet. He headed out the back way, not bothering to return to headquarters to change his wet jeans. In the cowboy handbook, personal comfort takes the backseat to getting the job done.

I climbed in the tractor cab and blasted the heat. Maybe someday I’d wise up about buying ranches in this climate.

Debbie, bless her heart, invited me to dinner again. The hearty smell of beef stew and the kids’ chatter about their first day back to school seeped like fresh springwater into the part of me that had drained since leaving Arizona. We all gathered to watch the local news. It concluded with a story about Mustang Meadows Ranch. Here we go again, I thought. But the newscaster slid a surprise in front of us. She said the station was retracting its story about the wild horses being mistreated. Upon further investigation, it was determined that the horses received regular feed and water but had accidentally broken through thawing ice. These are the ravishments of winter on the plains, she said, a travesty that couldn’t be avoided. She looked appropriately solemn.

What constituted “further investigation” beat me. As far as I knew, in the past twenty-four hours the wind hadn’t blown in any reporters, detectives, or strangers to dig up new information. This mystery I welcomed; it didn’t threaten handcuffs. Maybe the county attorney had tuned in to the broadcast.

Later that evening in the doublewide, the phone rang. Expecting it to be Sue, I was surprised to hear a neighbor’s voice. He extended condolences about the drowning.

“I saw the story on the news, and it irritated me a good piece. I know you boys are out there feeding those horses every day. So I went and called up the station and told them just that. I’m pretty sure there’s a few other folks around here did the same thing.”

Gotta love neighbors coming to the rescue with a phone call. I didn’t need a more temperate climate. This one had more warmth tucked in it than I realized.

The vet completed the autopsies the next afternoon, and John drove back to fetch the carcasses. The vet told John that the report he would turn into the county attorney would say all the horses had hay in their stomachs and a layer of fat over their backs. John unloaded the six next to the other dead horses at the edge of the pond. Now fourteen mangled horses needed to be disposed of. The
BLM
owned the horses; it was their call what to do with them. I had been keeping the manager of the Sturgis office abreast of events. He knew what kind of program we ran on Mustang Meadows Ranch and, despite the fifteen minutes of sour publicity, offered me the agency’s full support. I rang him to share the vet’s findings.

“Well, darn, if that isn’t finally some good news.”

“No kidding,” I said. “But now we have to do something with the carcasses. They’re lying out there next to the pond.”

“What do you suggest we do with them?” he asked.

I had been grappling with this conundrum earlier in the day. The last thing I wanted was for some politically motivated person to send a shutterbug out to sensationalize the utterly gruesome pile of horses in a photo story with my name smeared across the front of it. “I suggest you tell me to bury them and to do it as soon as possible.”

He didn’t skip a beat. “Alan, you need to bury those horses and do it tomorrow, if not sooner.”

I called the county attorney next. “The
BLM
has instructed me to bury the horses and I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be doing that tomorrow morning.”

“That’s tampering with evidence, Mr. Day. I could have you arrested for that,” he said, still prancing around like a cock sure of winning the fight.

“Well, then you best take it up with the
BLM
, because they own the horses. Or get yourself a cease and desist order because I’ve been given orders by my contractor and I aim to follow them.”

“We may need to come out and dig them up if we need evidence.”

“Then you do that, but right now, I want to get them buried. There’s no humane reason to keep them above ground.”

I felt like I had called his bluff. I owned the ranch. I signed the
BLM
contract. And now I was being proactive and calling the shots. Still, I didn’t trust the man for a minute. He might just show up.

I knew exactly where to bury the horses—on the land adjacent to the leased pasture where they had drowned, between the first set of hills in a fairly level swale. Other than a concrete foundation, the remnant of a small barn or maybe a cowpoke’s home, it was pure prairie. John had moved the horses out there already and offered to help dig the hole, but I didn’t want to drag him any further into this mess. The buck stopped with me, and this part was all mine. I suggested he hang around headquarters. If the county attorney showed up, he could give him a lift in the pickup out to the pasture. “Offer him a cup of coffee first,” I said.

I hopped on the backhoe and started the trek out to the pasture. There was no heated cab but the bright sun warmed my face. The white hills rolled before me flecked with the tops of dormant grass. When I crested the last hill, I could see the pile of horses below, legs and heads at odd, ugly angles.

It took me a good hour to dig a hole large enough to bury all fourteen. I deposited the horses in the hole and pushed dirt over them, then smoothed it out perfectly flat. But I needed a burial marker. The concrete foundation had been built using two-by-two-foot slabs, and the backhoe scooped them up like a piece of cake. It was just about lunchtime when I set the last concrete slab in place. I took one last look at my handiwork. Yep, it was a proper grave, and this proper grave was one that wouldn’t be easy to dig up.

I called the
BLM
to debrief them. The rep patted my back. He paused for a moment, then said, isn’t it something that those horses got all this attention, and the Native American guy who ran out of gas on a county road near Sturgis and froze to death in his car about the same time the horses drowned never received so much as a mention from the media?

I never heard from the county attorney again, nor did any television reporter or animal rights activists wave the cruelty to animals flag in my face. The incident died and was buried in the grave of county lore. Except for a little worm that snuck out seven months later.

On a quiet August evening, humidity hanging heavy on the air, the phone rang. The man on the other end introduced himself as the sheriff in the horse-drowning incident. His term had expired and he decided the time had come to move to a warmer climate. He was considering Arizona. He hoped to supplement his retirement with a job as a night watchman or some sort of security personnel. Did I know anywhere he might apply? I gave him some suggestions and names. He thanked me, then said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you the rest of story about those horses.”

He went on to say that the county attorney had requested a report from him about the drowning. But the county attorney said, “I want to write it and you to sign it.” The sheriff said no. “I’ll do the investigation and I’ll write the report and sign it.” His investigation consisted of talking to eight neighbors to determine what kind of ranchers we were. Did we starve our horses? Were they fed and watered every day? Did we ever abuse them in the corrals with whips or out on the pasture? Every single neighbor said no, those boys take pride in treating the horses nicely. They have them on fresh feed. They put up several thousand tons of hay each year and feed it to the horses all winter. He said his investigation convinced him that there was no abuse.

“I told that to the county attorney,” he said. “Really pissed him off.”

So the attorney’s attempt to land a big fish flopped before it hit dry land. Maybe I had dodged a bullet. Maybe the county attorney’s case would have sunk before it sailed too far into the court system. At least this time the hand of justice didn’t hold any trick cards. As I would learn, that didn’t always prove to be true.

Part Three

16.

Horses of Many Colors

I told Russ to top off the motorcycles with gas and then fix the fence in the meadow. I’d do the morning rounds out on the Whitelands pasture. The horses had been grazing there for the past two weeks, and I wanted to examine the grass and also see if the phantom gate opener had been at work again. But first I needed to check on Sally and Blue.

Sally saw me walking toward her corral and met me at the fence. A small sorrel, she plopped her nose on the top bar hoping to be petted. “You are a glutton for loving, aren’t you?” I said, brushing her long mane out of her eyes and rubbing on her. She angled her back within my reach. In the adjacent corral, Blue stood patiently awaiting her turn.

The
BLM
had granted us permission to select a few horses from the herd and try to break them. It took a bit of wheedling. They held firm against my pleas, saying that our guardianship didn’t permit us to do that. Every time we went out with the herd, two horses stepped out front to greet us.

“Why not bring those two in and see what happens?” I argued. “I want to get in their minds. See what they like and don’t like. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

The
BLM
finally conceded and said we could break those two if we later turned them back into the herd. John and I gathered them, the mare that Megan named Sally and a blue roan filly we simply called Blue.

I gave Sally a pat on the rump and walked over to do due diligence with Blue. She pushed her nose into my palm. The horses had been in the corrals for a week now. I wasn’t sure how either would respond to being brought in, but they acted like they had submitted a transfer request and were pleased as punch to have it honored. They willingly accepted a halter and lead rope, even more so than many domestic horses, and within a day, could be led into the barn, where they learned to eat grain out of a manger. I was tickled they were mirroring the respect and care we had shown them since their arrival at the ranch.

“I’ll get back to you later, girl.” Blue bobbed her head against my arm as if she didn’t want me to leave. “I’ll introduce you to Alan Jr. He’s coming up later today for a week.” I had told Al about Sally and Blue and he offered to break them during his visit. Blue pawed an acknowledging hoof and meandered off toward some hay strewn on the ground. I went to find a motorcycle.

The June morning offered up the scent of healthy plants and a hint of impending summer humidity. I chugged through the pastures at the leisurely pace permissible on a Saturday. I turned the dirt bike south and proceeded up a hill thinking the herd might be on the other side. The horses liked to hang out where the sun spent the afternoons. Sure enough, there they were. I braked to a stop and put a foot down. My eye had developed the habit of settling on horses I had come to know. Happy always landed on my radar screen first. With his bright black-and-white splotches, he stood out, handsome and stately, regardless of where he grazed, which tended to be at the outskirts of the herd. Almost every visitor at the ranch commented on him. Even the
BLM
reps who visited quarterly knew him. “Happy’s looking good,” they would say. Did his coloring make him a pariah among his peers or did something inside him, a feeling of uniqueness or the desire to be a loner, push him to the edge of his community? If he had been human, he might have chosen to live off the grid or explore the world alone, a backpack his only possession. The last time the cowboys and I moved the herd across the Little White, Happy meandered upstream, enjoying the fresh water. When I went to gather him, he willingly obliged, a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face. “You’re a funny guy,” I said to him.

I revved the motor. Not too far from Happy, a gray mare lifted her head. “Watch her,” I said to John the last time we moved the herd. “She’ll know which gate we want to use.” Before we even assumed our positions to round up, she started trotting toward the exact corner gate we planned to go through. Somehow the memo got to her early, and like an efficient manager, she got everyone up and going. If I could, I would have given her a raise. She made our job easy.

I took off down the hill. The horses started to move away from me like ripples in a pond. I parked the cycle near the fence and the ripples stopped. I had intended to putt through the herd, but the day encouraged me to stretch my legs and walk. The horses always appeared calmest when approached by foot, and I loved stepping into their world. It was like stepping into a friend’s house. Furnishings, photos, colors can reveal otherwise hidden dimensions of a person. Even smells—of cats or dogs, of pot roast cooking or freshly baked pie cooling—speak to you. My boots treading the floor of the horses’ home, their conversational snorts, grunts, and farts around me, spurred me through a portal into their dynamics. I felt the bonds between families and intercepted the glares between adversaries.

“Good morning,” I said to a chestnut mare and her baby. Many of the horses were starting to put on summer weight. The meager grass clumps were evidence of their appetite. Horses ambled away from me, still shy or nervous. A palomino walked parallel to my path. I stopped to see if she would approach, but she wasn’t quite ready. I wandered through the maze of colors and battle scars, greeting the pretty and the pretty homely.

Not wanting to miss Alan Jr.’s arrival, I climbed back on the motorcycle and sat for a moment to let the experience imprint my memory. In the distance two coyotes slunk along the fence line. They wouldn’t attack. They took the easy road. Wait for horses to die, strip the carcass overnight, and leave ghost-white bones behind. More than once, coyotes had devoured the hip where the
BLM
branded a number. We were required to remove this number from our master list and notify the
BLM
. In that case we could report only “one unidentified horse dead.”

On Monday, Al started breaking Sally. I watched him ride her around the corral. Amazingly, she never tried to buck or run off like many a domestic horse would try doing. Although she didn’t argue about having the weight of a man on her back, she looked a bit awkward and uncomfortable with him on board. After a few days, I tried riding her. She did okay. I thought maybe we could ride her occasionally.

Although Blue was as gentle to handle as Sally, she never followed us around the corral to be petted. Alan rode her twice. The day before he left, he walked into the corral and started petting her. He was standing by her shoulder and reached down to rub her belly. This must have startled her for some reason. Her hind foot shot up and kicked him with amazing force. Alan went sailing across the small corral. He never saw it coming and neither did I. He wasn’t hurt, just stunned. He returned to Tucson the next day and no one ever finished the job of breaking her.

After he left, a bomb dropped.

Jerry Norbert phoned me that morning. “You know the Flathead Lake area of Montana?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve never been there but hear it’s a gorgeous spot.”

Norbert said that someone in the
BLM
had decided to spruce up that area. The lake had a large island, named Wild Horse Island, and this dreamer envisioned making fishermen and tourists very happy by showcasing a painted mustang on the island.

Norbert said, “The trailer will pull up on Wednesday. Can you have Happy ready to load?”

All I could think of to say was, what in the hell are you thinking? So I didn’t say anything. For a moment.

“Are you telling me you’re deporting Happy to an island in some godforsaken northern part of Montana?”

“Ah, yeah. That’s pretty much what I’m saying.” Norbert sounded like he recognized the absurd in the proposition. Geez, how did he put up with his job?

I dug for information. Who thought this up? What was the
BLM
trying to accomplish? Were they going to take other horses away? He didn’t know, or wouldn’t reveal what he knew. I threw the empty shovel aside. By contract, the
BLM
had the power to do anything they wanted with the horses. They owned them all.

“I’ll have him ready,” I said, a cloud of shock descending.

“Sorry, Al,” said Norbert and hung up.

On the appointed day, I loaded Happy into a
BLM
trailer. He didn’t argue but, once inside, shook his head like he was trying to clear out confusion. Or maybe a bad memory of being shipped on the road. I hoped not. I wanted him always to be happy. Maybe going to a remote island was his destiny and he had been preparing for being alone while here at the ranch. Take it easy, I told the driver.

Years later I met some people who talked about fishing on Flathead Lake. I asked if by chance they had a seen a black-and-white paint, a big horse, on the island in the middle of that coldwater lake. They shook their heads no. Knowing Happy, he probably chose to hang out in the middle of the island as far away from humans as possible. For all I know maybe he’s still hanging around. In my daydream, I envision him there, noble as ever.

Being different can bring you trouble or it can bring you rewards. I’ve watched it play out both ways.

I had just finished currying Aunt Jemima when Sarah came running into the barn.

“Dad! Dad! My friend Shelly called, and she’s going to a really big regional jumping show in Salt Lake City. Can I go? I really want to go.”

For the past few years Sarah had been competing in and regularly winning jumping shows in Arizona, but recently her twelve-year-old eyes had been searching for an advanced level of competition. Well, she had just found it. The show, however, lasted fourteen days. I couldn’t take off that amount of time, which meant Sue would chaperone. After parental negotiations that went on for weeks, Sue and I figured out how to fit the trip into our schedule.

I had bought a bargain two-horse trailer for hauling Blondie and Squaw to the various shows. It was as beat up as the old pickup I drove around the ranch, a real Grapes of Wrath contraption with big patches of bare aluminum showing. I decided to paint the trailer to dress it up a notch. Bad decision. I knew nothing about painting vehicles. Since I didn’t own a spray gun, I painted with a brush. Rather than restoring its original white color, I chose a dull blue paint. The thin paint dripped and ran. Every brushstroke showed, as did every dent, none of which I had bothered to fix. Rust marks and white paint peeked through the blue.

Sarah and Sue flew to Salt Lake while I trailered the two horses the twenty-four hours it took to drive there from Lazy B. I left at 5:00 p.m., drove all night, and arrived at 5:00 p.m. the next day. I pulled off the freeway to stop for fuel and to find a few ranch roads that had adjacent pastures where I could walk the horses and give them water. I met up with the girls at the hotel they had booked and turned the trailer and horses over to them. I had a lot of work to do at the ranch so the two of them had to deal with the show. I crashed for twelve hours before flying back to Arizona.

After the first day of the show, Sarah called, upset.

“Dad, all the girls here are fancy. Everyone drove up today in
RV
s that are as big as a bus and they live in them right on the grounds. And the trailers have all this shiny chrome and their horses are so pretty. They’re almost all thoroughbreds, and they’ve been kept under the heat lamp all winter and have short, shiny hair and shellacked hooves. And Dad, the worst part is those girls are making fun of me.” Sarah started to cry.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“When they saw our old beat-up pickup and ugly trailer and then Blondie and Squaw with their long winter hair, they started saying things like, ‘Did you get your horses from Roy Rogers?’ and then they started calling Blondie ‘Trigger.’” Sarah choked back a sob. “Even worse, they made fun of Blondie’s brand. Not one other horse has a brand.”

When Allen Stratman delivered Blondie, he had already branded her quite prominently, and of course Squaw bore the Lazy B brand. “I know we’re not going to win the hunter classes.”