agreed to ship three hundred wild horses to Dayton’s ranch and fifteen hundred horses to the Arnold Ranch. Yes, one thousand five hundred unadoptable wild mustangs would take up residence on the ranch I had purchased on a whim. The vision that had been thrust before me was being brought to life bearing my blood and sweat. If you can have an out-of-body experience signing on a dotted line, I did.
But one detail remained. That third apple had yet to fall. “How about if I set up a meeting with your supervisor?” I said over the phone to Roger Running Horse. He said good idea, especially in light of getting horses soon. Congratulations. How exciting. Blah, blah, blah. He would get on this so as not to delay delivery of the horses.
Nothing happened.
I called again. “What the hell is going on?” I didn’t bother to hide my anger. The smiling snake charmer gave me some lamebrain excuse about an urgent situation the supervisor had to attend to. I hung up totally frustrated.
I could feel panic start to rise. This bureaucratic beast had its jaws wide open, ready to swallow our project. I began to quiz neighbors and consider every possible angle. Do you think we can just go ahead and turn the horses out? Will the BIA fine us if they find horses running on their land? Will they hire cowboys to round them up and take them away? Where would they take so many horses? I decided there was a fly in the ointment somewhere, and one way or another I would have a face-to-face with this supervisor.
I got in the pickup and set out for Pine Ridge prepared to go on strike and raise hell until I met the supervisor. On an impulse, I stopped at Stan Whipple’s office in St. Francis. When I told him where I was headed and why, he broke out in a big grin and told me to sit down. He handed me a cup of coffee.
“Your nemesis is gone,” he said. I assumed he was talking about the supervisor. “No, no. Roger Running Horse. He was your worst enemy. Did his utmost to completely block your project. He was transferred out of state to another job.” Stan explained that he and the other employees of the tribe had watched Running Horse weave his treachery but felt their hands were tied. They didn’t want to make the war with the BIA any worse. “I’m sorry, man. We watched him manipulate you, and we couldn’t do anything about it.” This was my first, though not my last, exposure to interagency chicanery. Running Horse never submitted any of our plans to his supervisor and even went so far as to ask the tribe to not approve our request. He was one bad dude.
3. Entrance to Mustang Meadows Ranch
A few days later, I presented the sanctuary plans to the supervisor. She gave immediate approval to graze the horses on BIA land. The last golden apple dropped in the bucket. I drove back to the ranch in a euphoric cloud. I passed the gnarled post. Just before the cattle guard, I stopped, put the truck in park, crossed my arms over the steering wheel, and looked out over the prairie. I tried to imagine mustangs galloping across the hills, ears back, tails outstretched. Having lived my life with horses, I thought it would be easy, yet I couldn’t quite conjure the image. Would they be happy, aloof, crazy? Would they sound like thunder? Would I be right there, riding close to them? Soon enough I’d find out. I put the truck in drive and crossed over onto the ranch.
That’s when the ranch spoke up. No longer would it be called the old Arnold Ranch. Nor would it be called the Day Ranch. It was begging for its own identity, and what it wanted was Mustang Meadows Ranch.
“I like it,” I said out loud.
Mustang Meadows Ranch, the first government-sponsored wild horse sanctuary in the United States.
Part Two
7.
A Stubborn Start
It was mid-September and I was puttering in my office, accomplishing about as much as an expectant father back in the days when we were relegated to rank vending machine coffee and curled magazines in maternity waiting rooms.
But one detail remained. That third apple had yet to fall. “How about if I set up a meeting with your supervisor?” I said over the phone to Roger Running Horse. He said good idea, especially in light of getting horses soon. Congratulations. How exciting. Blah, blah, blah. He would get on this so as not to delay delivery of the horses.
Nothing happened.
I called again. “What the hell is going on?” I didn’t bother to hide my anger. The smiling snake charmer gave me some lamebrain excuse about an urgent situation the supervisor had to attend to. I hung up totally frustrated.
I could feel panic start to rise. This bureaucratic beast had its jaws wide open, ready to swallow our project. I began to quiz neighbors and consider every possible angle. Do you think we can just go ahead and turn the horses out? Will the BIA fine us if they find horses running on their land? Will they hire cowboys to round them up and take them away? Where would they take so many horses? I decided there was a fly in the ointment somewhere, and one way or another I would have a face-to-face with this supervisor.
I got in the pickup and set out for Pine Ridge prepared to go on strike and raise hell until I met the supervisor. On an impulse, I stopped at Stan Whipple’s office in St. Francis. When I told him where I was headed and why, he broke out in a big grin and told me to sit down. He handed me a cup of coffee.
“Your nemesis is gone,” he said. I assumed he was talking about the supervisor. “No, no. Roger Running Horse. He was your worst enemy. Did his utmost to completely block your project. He was transferred out of state to another job.” Stan explained that he and the other employees of the tribe had watched Running Horse weave his treachery but felt their hands were tied. They didn’t want to make the war with the BIA any worse. “I’m sorry, man. We watched him manipulate you, and we couldn’t do anything about it.” This was my first, though not my last, exposure to interagency chicanery. Running Horse never submitted any of our plans to his supervisor and even went so far as to ask the tribe to not approve our request. He was one bad dude.
3. Entrance to Mustang Meadows Ranch
A few days later, I presented the sanctuary plans to the supervisor. She gave immediate approval to graze the horses on BIA land. The last golden apple dropped in the bucket. I drove back to the ranch in a euphoric cloud. I passed the gnarled post. Just before the cattle guard, I stopped, put the truck in park, crossed my arms over the steering wheel, and looked out over the prairie. I tried to imagine mustangs galloping across the hills, ears back, tails outstretched. Having lived my life with horses, I thought it would be easy, yet I couldn’t quite conjure the image. Would they be happy, aloof, crazy? Would they sound like thunder? Would I be right there, riding close to them? Soon enough I’d find out. I put the truck in drive and crossed over onto the ranch.
That’s when the ranch spoke up. No longer would it be called the old Arnold Ranch. Nor would it be called the Day Ranch. It was begging for its own identity, and what it wanted was Mustang Meadows Ranch.
“I like it,” I said out loud.
Mustang Meadows Ranch, the first government-sponsored wild horse sanctuary in the United States.
Part Two
7.
A Stubborn Start
It was mid-September and I was puttering in my office, accomplishing about as much as an expectant father back in the days when we were relegated to rank vending machine coffee and curled magazines in maternity waiting rooms.
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