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
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
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