“Wild horses?” Miranda instantly perked up. “Are you for real?”
“Sure am, but don’t get too excited. It seems the company they contract with to gather the horses is involved in a court battle with animal rights activists. Long story short, the activists got a court mandate to video the roundup. Kent asked a few questions about the job, but then turned the guy down with a laugh when he heard the pay he was offering.”
“How much?” Miranda asked, her interest piqued. The location alone would be a cinematographer’s dream.
“The guy said he needed a camera for two days but offered only five hundred bucks for the entire job. Nonnegotiable. Said it’s some government deal. Kent countered that he needed two hundred an hour plus expenses. If you’re willing to work cheap, they might still be looking. He said there’s a hold on the roundup until they’ve hired someone.”
“Are you kidding me?” Miranda squealed. “I’m all over this. Please tell me you have a contact number for this guy.”
“I don’t,” Lexi replied. “But I can call Kent and see if he got the name and number.”
“Can you call now?” Miranda almost pleaded. “I’ll owe you forever for this, Lexi. I’m giddy just thinking about the possibilities.”
“Do you know anything about wild horses?” Lexi asked.
“Well…no. Not really,” Miranda admitted. “But I do know a bit about domestic ones. My grandparents raised cattle in Montana. I used to spend all my summers with them. They are actually how I got interested in filmmaking. It was my grandpa who bought me my first camera. He and my Grandma, Jo-Jo, are the only people who ever encouraged my dream of filmmaking. I really want to do this job, Lex. I owe it to them as much as to myself. This is finally something worthwhile, and what’s it really going to cost me but my time?”
“How about your job?” Lexi shot back. “What are you going to do about work? Call in sick?”
Miranda’s stomach knotted—she hadn’t even thought about that part. “I’d rather just ask for some personal time off.”
“Without notice, Bibi might very well say no,” Lexi countered.
“Then I’ll have to take my chances. I may never get another opportunity like this.”
“Think carefully, sweets. Bibi Newman has a ton of clout in this town. Cross her, and you might never find work again.”
Miranda jutted her chin. “I don’t care, Lex. Making films is what I came out here to do, and I’m damned well going to do it…or die trying.” She just hoped it wouldn’t be dying of dehydration in the middle of the Black Rock Desert.
* * *
Calico Mountains, Northwestern Nevada
Driving out to Nevada a few days ahead of the crew, Keith sought out the local ranchers and inquired after the location of the horses and the water sources. After making camp on the Donnelly Flat, he set out on horseback to scale Donnelly Peak and get a better lay of the land.
Cresting the barren butte, he scanned the equally desolate horizon, devoid of all vegetation but clusters of cactus and scattered thickets of sage. It had been years since he’d spent any time alone in the desert. He’d once loved it, but now the landscape felt as arid and bleak as his own soul.
Tonya had been right when she’d said he’d been “performing” for so long that he’d lost himself. If he was ever going to get his life back together, he needed to leave the rez. She was also right that his only true option was to try to salvage what little remained of his tattered reputation. At least there were people who knew him from before. Maybe Mitch and Beth West didn’t approve of how he’d used his talents, but they still trusted his skills and judgment.
From his elevated position, Keith spotted half a dozen small family bands of mustangs. The knowledge of their fate pulled at his conscience. Tomorrow the wranglers would gather up hundreds of these horses, mainly for the crime of competing for the limited resources that had recently worsened with wildfires and drought.
Was it better to round them up and save them from death by keeping them in captivity? Or was there greater dignity in a quiet death? Which would the horses choose if they knew?
His own father had chosen death over life in a prison.
Suddenly he was thirteen again, standing on the top of Crow Heart Butte, the most famous landmark in all of the Wind River Valley. He and Grandfather had come to scatter his father’s ashes. “This is the site of a great battle,” Kenu said. “It was here that our people fought for hunting rights after the Fort Laramie Treaty granted the Crows the same privileges we’d been given in the Fort Bridger Treaty. After four bloody days of battle, the two great warrior chiefs met in an attempt to end the bloodshed. Washakie of the Shoshone raised his fist to Big Robber of the Crow. ‘You and I will fight to the death, and when I beat you, I will cut out your heart and eat it!’”
“Who won, Grandfather?” Keith asked.
“Chief Washakie was the victor. As promised, he cut out Big Robber’s heart and displayed it proudly on the end of his spear. That is why this place is named Crow Heart.”
“Did he really eat it?”
His grandfather replied with a secretive smile. “No one really knows. When questioned later in his life, Washakie said only that young men do foolish things.” He laid a tremulous hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Your father had the heart of such a warrior, but he let bitterness and hatred take root. That is how he earned his Shoshone name, Kills With Words.”
Keith recalled with a sharp pang the look of desolation in Kenu’s eyes and the tears that trickled down the old man’s weathered face. Placing the urn in Keith’s hands, he said, “Take this, my son. Cast the ashes to the four winds and we will pray that his troubled spirit will at last find peace.”
Looking out over the vast desert plains, Kenu murmured a Shoshone prayer to the Great Spirit. Keith had never forgotten his grandfather’s words. Now he uttered the same prayer for himself.
* * *
The highway became long, straight, and increasingly barren the farther north Miranda drove. Too weary to continue all the way to Gerlach, she’d opted to stop for the night in Fernley, which she later discovered was the last vestige of civilization.
Waking well before sunrise, she continued north through the Paiute Reservation and the tribal headquarters of Nixon, a mere bump in the road. After that, she found herself alone on the highway for sixty miles. Not for the first time, Miranda felt the urge to turn back. She was still amazed that she’d committed herself to trekking into a desert wilderness to film wild horses. Maybe she should be committed. Surely she’d lost her mind.
The route, lined by treeless, grassy mountains that transformed into undulating hills, ran through a narrow valley formed by the dry bed of Winnemucca Lake. She passed through the forsaken mining town of Empire, almost ghostly now with its boarded-up general store and empty houses. A few miles farther up, the highway opened onto a narrow patch of desert leading into the tiny town of Gerlach.
True to his word, Mitch West was waiting for her when she pulled into Bruno’s Country Club Motel. Even if his hat, boots, and faded denim hadn’t identified him, the West Livestock emblem on the pickup truck behind him was a dead giveaway.
“Miz Sutton? We were wondering if you’d really show up. I’m Mitch.” He extended his hand, closing heavily callused fingers around hers. “And this is my wife, Beth.” He inclined his head to a smiling woman in her mid-fifties, dressed much the same as he was in hat, boots, and denim Sherpa jacket.
“Nice to meet you both,” Miranda said.
“We’re set up at the Donnelly Flat, at the western base of the Calicos,” Mitch replied. “You can ride with us in the truck.”
“Can’t I just follow you?”
“Not in that.” Mitch nodded to her Mustang convertible. “The roads are rough for the next few miles, and then there aren’t any roads at all.”
“No roads?” Miranda swallowed hard. “What am I going to do with my car?” She eyed it with misgivings. Although she’d bought it used, it was
still her pride and joy. It was her gift to herself for the videography award. She knew she’d rightfully won it, even though Bibi had taken all the credit.
“It’ll be safe right here,” Mitch reassured her. “I’ve known Bruno for years.”
“You might want to go ahead and make a pit stop before we head out,” Beth advised. “There are no restrooms where we’re going, and not much privacy either. It’s pretty much open desert.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
Mitch was talking on a satellite phone when she came back out. “We’d best head on out,” he said. “The crew’s already on site. Trey’ll be ready to start scouting at sunrise.”
“Trey?” Miranda asked.
“The chopper pilot,” he explained. “He’s also our oldest son. If you’re ready, we’d best get rolling. He’ll be taking off in about an hour, and we’ve got a good forty-mile drive ahead of us.”
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.”
Unable to contain his unease any longer, Keith determined to do some first-hand recon. Although the helicopter did an aerial flyover twice a day, there was no way to discern from the air what would be readily evident on the ground. “I’m going to ride out there and take a closer look,” he told Trey. “Radio me when you’re ready to lift off, and I’ll head straight back to the trap.”
* * *
After driving across seemingly endless desert, the trap site finally came into view, marked by scattered pickup trucks and several horse trailers. In addition to Mitch and Beth, Miranda counted eight wranglers, all male, of various ages. “We have a really great crew here,” Mitch declared with obvious pride. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you around.” He scanned the group with a wrinkled brow. “Donny,” he asked one of the young men, “where’s Keith?”
“He’s our head wrangler,” Beth explained to Miranda.
“He rode out about an hour ago,” Donny replied. “Said he wanted to check on the horses on the north ridge. He told Trey to radio him when he’s ready to lift off.”
After introducing Miranda to the rest of the roundup crew, Mitch led her to the helicopter where the pilot appeared busy with preflight preparations. “Miz Sutton, this is our son Trey.”
“Ma’am.” Trey acknowledged Miranda with a tip of his hat. He was good-looking in a rugged, slightly weathered kind of way. Although probably only about thirty, he looked older.
“Miz Sutton is here to film this gather,” Mitch continued. “Think she could go up in the chopper with you?”
Trey pursed his lips. “I don’t particularly like the flight conditions right now.” His voice was slow and even, but his brow was creased with concern. “Sorry, Miz Sutton, I don’t feel comfortable taking a passenger. We’ve go
t some fog over there reducing visibility.” He jerked his head toward the mountains. “On top of that, the wind’s a bit iffy. If it picks up at all, I’m grounding the bird. Maybe I can take you up later if the conditions improve.”
“I understand,” Miranda said, barely hiding her disappointment. A few minutes later, she filmed the helicopter lifting off and disappearing into the fog-enshrouded mountains.
“This is the main grazing area,” Beth said, “but as you can see, the water here is almost completely dried up.” Miranda did a slow pan of the barren landscape and then zoomed in on the muddy creek bed. “Trey’ll start moving the smaller family bands together into a larger herd, and then direct them toward the trap. He’ll radio Mitch once they get close.”
About fifteen minutes later, a squawk erupted from Mitch’s radio. An incomprehensible buzz of words followed. “Roger that,” Mitch replied and then holstered his radio. “Trey’s only about half a mile out with the first group. Get ready, boys,” Mitch shouted to the wranglers.
Beth pointed toward the mountains. “Just keep your eyes on that ridge over there. They’re gonna come in from that direction. You might want to climb up on the rig.” Beth nodded to the semi parked nearby.
“For a better view?” she asked.
“That too, but also to keep you out of harm’s way. We wouldn’t want you to get kicked or trampled.”
With no further time for questions, Miranda paused her camera and climbed on top of the tractor trailer, where she panned the ridge. Within seconds, the Hughes 500 helicopter popped into view. She followed the maneuvering aircraft with her camera as it dipped behind the band of trotting horses. In fits and starts, the chopper coaxed the animals toward the trap, herding at their heels like an airborne border collie.
“Do you see those?” Beth pointed to a long V-shaped corridor fabricated of T-posts and brown jute. “We call that the wing. It acts as a funnel to guide the horses into the traps.”
Nearing the wing, the chopper began to push more aggressively. Miranda’s pulse raced with adrenaline as the herd approached. The rhythmic whop-whop of the rotor blades was soon joined by a thunderous echo of galloping hoofbeats as the horses picked up speed.
Saddle Up Page 3