Saddle Up(9)

Miranda popped her trunk to collect her gear—her new Black Magic cinema camera, a case of bottled water, and a few other necessities she’d shoved into a backpack. She wasn’t sure how long the shoot would take, but had prepared for several days.

Beth eyed Miranda’s pack skeptically. “Is that all you have? Where’s your video gear?”

“It’s all right here.” Miranda patted the outer compartment. “I have a mini cinema camera. It’s perfect for this project.” The camera was a videographer’s dream come true, the latest technology and totally portable. She’d drooled over it for months until it went on sale at a price she could afford. Miranda closed her trunk with a shiver, wishing she’d packed a heavier jacket.

“If you’re cold, I’ve got a thermos of coffee in the truck. It’ll help warm you up,” Beth offered.

“I’d love some.” After Miranda climbed into the truck, Beth handed her a Styrofoam cup. Mitch joined them in the cab a moment later. “This place looks so familiar,” Miranda remarked. “I feel almost as if I’ve seen it before. Is this the same desert where The Misfits was filmed?”

“Nope,” Mitch said. “That was a couple of hours south, near Dayton.”

“Is it an accurate portrayal?” Miranda asked. “Did they really capture horses that way and sell them for dog food?”

“Yes. It’s sad but true,” Beth replied. “They used to chase them down by airplane, rope them, and then make them drag tires until they dropped. It’s why our practice of gathering by helicopter has such a stigma attached to it. The animal rights people think we’re doing the same thing—running the horses to death. In truth, it’s the most efficient and humane way to gather them.”

“We’re dealing with a real bad situation up here,” Mitch said. “I can’t stress enough that we need to get this thing done quickly. We have to finish this job before hundreds of horses die.”

“I don’t understand how it got to this point,” Miranda said. “If drought is the problem, why not just bring in some water?”

“The group that’s suing us already tried that,” Mitch replied. “They brought in twenty thousand gallons of water, but the animals wouldn’t go near the stock tanks. There’s some that died of dehydration just yards away from the water. It just goes to show that these people might have good intentions, but they’re clueless about how wild horses think.”

“Incredible.” Miranda shook her head in shock and dismay.

“Maybe our system isn’t perfect,” Mitch said, “but we’ve been doing this for almost thirty years and take great care in how we handle the animals.”

“How did you get started?” Miranda asked.

“My family’s homestead back in Wyoming abuts several hundred thousand acres of BLM land that’s been home to wild mustangs for generations,” he answered. “We started gathering the horses back in the very beginning, when the BLM first began the mustang adoption program. They needed wranglers to catch the horses. We already knew the geography and the animals. It seemed a good fit. Our family’s been doing it ever since.”

“I read about the last wild-horse gather up here a few years ago. Were you involved with that one too?” Miranda asked.

“Yes,” Beth replied. “It was one of the largest removals we’ve ever done, over twelve hundred head. There were some that got hurt in the process, and some that died through no fault of ours, but we got accused of all manner of inhumane treatment toward the horses. We got several death threats over it. Even had to change our phone number.”

“That’s why we’re happy to have you film this gather,” Mitch said. “It’s as much to protect our reputation as it is to satisfy the judge.”

Approaching the mountains, Miranda directed her lens to the wide-open expanse of desert, slowly panning the landscape, hoping to capture the magical play of light and shadow as the first rays of dawn stretched out over the rocky outcroppings. She gasped at her first glimpse of the sun cresting the horizon, casting the multitoned Calicos in an awe-inspiring mosaic of pink, orange, and red.





Chapter 5


Keith climbed on top of the corral panel for a better look at the horses. All of the ones they’d gathered had shown signs of severe dehydration. After being given food and water, four were later found dead, and six others were showing signs of water intoxication. The few horses that were stable enough had been transported to Palomino Valley, but none of this bunch had been up to the rigors of long-distance transport.

With their roundup operations suspended, he was growing restless and uneasy. Animals were dying because the government had waited too long to authorize the roundup, and now that some were dead, the courts had suspended operations while they investigated the dead horses. All of which was only going to lead to dozens, if not hundreds, more dead horses.

He gazed into the mountains with a heavy heart. With so many special-interest groups involved, the animals were getting caught in the middle. Would they all end up dead because of damned politics?

“How are they looking?” he asked Trey, who was doing his preflight check.

“Not too good. I’ve been watching two groups real close. The first is only about a mile away to the west, and the other is about eight miles northeast, heading toward Soldiers Meadow. I doubt they’ve wandered very far since last night.”