Saddle Up (4 page)

“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.

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 got 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.

“Look over there.” Beth pointed to the end of the wings. Miranda zoomed in tight on a horse that was stomping and tossing his head. “He's the Judas horse. His job is to bring them in.”

Beth indicated four wranglers positioned in pairs behind the jute wings. “When the horses enter the trap, the wranglers'll jump out and shut the gates. Once the horses settle down, we'll sort and load them into the trailers. The whole process usually takes only a couple of hours if nothing goes wrong.”

Breaking into a contagious canter, the horses produced a ground-quaking reverberation she could feel even from her perch on top of the truck, and raised a cloud of dust large enough to obscure her view of the mountains. As the front of the herd approached the wings, Mitch's radio squawked again, but Miranda couldn't make out the words over the stampede. A moment later, the high-pitched buzz of a twin engine plane joined the chaotic cacophony of galloping horses.

“Shit!” Mitch kicked the ground. “It's happening again.”

“What's wrong?” Miranda asked.

“There's a Beechcraft Baron on Trey's ass. This is all about to go FUBAR.”

Miranda zoomed in on a photographer leaning out the plane window, snapping pictures as it swooped down in front of the horses, a maneuver that effectively split the herd down the middle. She quickly panned back to the wrangler who'd released the Judas horse. The fretful animal bolted, charging to the front of the fractured herd in an attempt to lead it into the catch pens, but only half of the herd entered the trap, while the others galloped wildly past.

The plane dipped low to the ground and flew past the trap. The pilot flashed a triumphant smile and gave the crew the one-finger salute.

“Son of a bitch!” Mitch cursed. “I hope you got that on film.”

“As a matter of fact I did,” Miranda replied. “What are you going to do?”

Mitch gave a fatalistic shrug. “The damage is already done. There's nothing we can do now but report the license number.”

The scene that followed was pure pandemonium. The captured horses reared and rammed themselves against the steel panels in an effort to join the runaways, and a few tried to climb over the top of the pen. One, a black stallion, even made it halfway up. Miranda cried out in alarm as he crashed backward onto another horse. “Can't you stop him?”

“There's nothing we can do,” Mitch said. “That plane's interference has put their fight-or-flight instincts into high gear.”

“Won't they hurt themselves?”

“Hopefully not,” Mitch replied. “All we can do now is try to control the chaos.”

The same horse made another attempt, this time with a running start that sent him soaring over the six-foot panel. “Holy crap!” Miranda cried, thrilled that she'd still had her camera going and had caught it all. “I can't believe he cleared it!”

Mitch sighed, watching the horse's dramatic escape with a bemused look. “Most of them don't want to run anymore, but there's always an outlaw that'll fight for his freedom.”

“Will you go after him?” she asked.

Mitch shook his head. “No. That renegade's not worth all the trouble he'll cause. He's a fighter. He'll be okay out there on his own. As for the rest of this bunch, they'll calm down pretty quick once that plane's gone. Mustangs are smart. They usually figure things out fast. As a rule, they don't waste their energy once they know they can't escape. We just have to wait it out.”

“What about the ones the plane chased off? Are you going after them?”

“We've got no choice,” he replied. “There's almost no water left for at least fifty miles and very little forage remaining where the water is. It's going to be really hard on the oldest and youngest ones, because they're the weakest. We'll have to try and bring them all back in.”

“What'll happen to them if you can't?”

“It's real simple, Miz Sutton,” Mitch said. “If they don't come back, they'll die.”

* * *

“Easy, brother,” Keith soothed the restless animal. The agitated gelding tossed his head and jerked on the bit in his growing anxiety to join the galloping herd. The rising dust obscured Keith's vision, choking him as he watched everything fall apart. He shook his head on a curse as the horses began scattering helter-skelter. For a few seconds he debated joining the wranglers that were mounting up to flank the runaways, but it was just no good. At this point they'd only be able to catch up with the ones that were too weak to keep up with their herd mates. No, the only way to gain any control would be to take command as the leader.

“C'mon, little brother. I'm counting on you.” Squeezing both heels into the horse's flanks, Keith urged his horse forward. The animal hesitated only a millisecond before diving straight down the near-vertical drop.

* * *

“I thought you said you didn't use any riders for the horse gather,” Miranda remarked.

“We don't,” Beth replied with a puzzled look. “We only use the Judas horse to lead the mustangs in.”

“Then I guess your Judas horse has found himself a rider. Look up there.” Miranda pointed to a lone horseman poised on the bluff overlooking the trap. Seconds later, he came charging straight down the cliff to join the runaway band, just like the iconic scene from
The Man from Snowy River
. “Oh. My. God. Do you see that?” she exclaimed. The rider was crouched low over his horse's withers and riding hell for leather after the runaways, eating yards of ground with every stride.

“I'll be damned,” Mitch murmured from behind. “It's Keith.”

Her pulse accelerated as he began to gain on the lead horse. She'd never seen anyone ride like that. Well, not quite. She'd seen only
one
person ever ride like that. Miranda zoomed in on the wrangler and did an instant double take.
It can't be.
Her racing heart skipped a beat. But it
had
to be. It'd been well over a year since she'd seen him, but she'd recognize
him
anywhere.

After two hours of hard riding, Keith returned at the head of twenty-odd lathered and heaving horses. Even after claiming the lead, he'd still managed to bring in only about half of the runaways. He could only hope the chopper had gathered up the ones that had scattered into the mountains.

He'd no sooner dismounted than Mitch appeared, clapping him on the shoulder. “That was some damned fine riding. I've never seen anything like it.”

“I was just the passenger.” Keith shrugged. “The horse did the real work.”

“Those mustangs were pretty spooked. Once frightened like that, they're damned hard to get control of.”

Keith grinned. “Don't I know it.”

“Trey brought in a few more while you were out chasing that bunch down,” Mitch continued, to Keith's relief. “He says there are still about a half dozen older and weaker ones that he didn't dare push, but if we don't bring them back in, some aren't going to survive the night.”

“They're also gonna be especially vulnerable to predators, as exhausted as they are,” Keith said. “There're plenty of mountain lions in these parts to make a meal out of 'em.”

“Are you willing to ride out again after the stragglers?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah. I'm willing,” Keith said.

Mitch squinted at the sky. “We're losing daylight fast.”

“They can't be too far,” Keith reassured him, “but I'll make camp if I have to.”

“I'll send Dave and Donny with you,” Mitch said. “I'll leave a pen and a stock trailer behind. Round up what you can but, if we don't get them all by tomorrow, we'll just have to call it a loss.”

Keith was tying his bedroll behind the cantle of his saddle when Mitch reappeared a few minutes later.

“I just thank God we got all this on video,” Mitch said. “At least we have documentation that it wasn't our negligence or ineptitude that caused this cockup. Speaking of which, I don't think you've met Miranda Sutton yet.”

It was only then that Keith noticed the woman standing in the background with a video camera. He noted the reddish-gold curls escaping from her ball cap and his pulse quickened. He'd seen very few women with hair like that. Of all people.
It can't be her.
She lowered the camera, and his gut churned. It was
her
all right. What the hell was she doing here? And what were the chances of running into Bibi's protégé in the middle of the desert? Was he cursed?

“Miranda.” Mitch waved her over. “This is Keith Russo, one of the best horsemen you'll ever meet. That ride you saw down the cliff was proof that I don't exaggerate.”

Their gazes locked. Keith said nothing, just speared her with a hard, unblinking stare. Her eyes widened in recognition. Then her face flushed. After a second or two, she licked her lips and tore her gaze away, a sure sign of a guilty conscience.

“Miss Sutton and I are already acquainted,” Keith replied stiffly. “Why is she here?”

Mitch's puzzled gaze shifted from Keith to Miranda and back again. “Is there a problem, Keith?”

“There's a problem all right,” Keith replied. “I don't trust her, and you shouldn't either.”

“Why do you say that?” Mitch asked, deep lines creasing his brow.

Keith's jaw tightened. “She ruined my reputation.”

“Really?” Mitch remarked. “How?”

“What are you talking about?” she rejoined. “All I did was shoot some video.”

Keith gave a derisive laugh. “Your video completely destroyed my credibility.”

“I don't like what you're insinuating,” she said. “I was simply doing my job, just like you do with these horses. If you have issues, you need to take it up with Bibi. She was the producer and editor.”

“I have objections all right.”

“I'm truly sorry for that,” Miranda said. “But it still has nothing to do with me or my job here.”

“The hell it doesn't.” Keith addressed Mitch again. “Ask her why she's really here, Mitch. Has she said what she intends to
do
with this video?”

Miranda jutted her chin. “I'm
here
on a federal judge's order to film the wild-horse gather. I'm also here because I saw an opportunity to make a worthwhile film. I don't have a political agenda, if that's what you're implying.” She turned to Mitch. “I'm afraid this is going to be really awkward. Is there someone else I could ride with?”

“What is she talking about?” Keith demanded.

“She's riding out with you when you go after the strays,” Mitch said.

“No way.” Keith shook his head. “I'm not taking her, Mitch.”

Mitch cocked his head. “'Scuse me?”

Keith glowered back in resentment. “Said I'm
not
taking her.”

Mitch scratched his chin. “Sorry, Keith, but that's not your call. If those horses die, the public will crucify us. We need hard proof that we did all we could to save them.”

“I've got enough on my hands without worrying about a clueless tenderfoot,” Keith grumbled.

“I'm not clueless,” she snapped.

“Yeah, right.” Keith snorted. “I don't need you slowing us down. We're going out on horseback. We ride long and hard. And if we don't find all the horses right away, we're going to have to make overnight camp.”

“I can handle it,” she insisted. “I know how to ride a horse, and I've camped out before.”

“In the middle of a desert?” he asked.

“Well, no,” she confessed, “but it's not like I'm going alone.”

“This isn't Girl Scout camp, Miz Sutton. There's no tent, no cot, and no bathroom facilities. It's gonna be a bedroll on the hard ground.” Noting the uncertainty in her eyes, he continued, “There are also predators—coyotes, black bears, and mountain lions, not to mention Gila monsters and six species of rattlesnakes.”

Miranda swallowed and turned to Mitch. “Gila monster? Is he making that up?”

“Nope,” Mitch said. “It's a large venomous lizard that lives in the desert.”

“The desert is a dangerous place, Miz Sutton,” Keith continued. “People get lost out there.
People die.
”

As obdurate as ever, she appealed once more to Mitch. “I still want to go. How can I show the reality of this situation if I don't get it all on film?”

Mitch sighed. “She's right, Keith. Our reputation is on the line here. I told her she could go, and I'm not going to renege. I don't know what all went down between the two of you, but I'm used to trusting a person until they give me good reason not to.”

“I just did.”

Keith spun away with his pulse roaring in his ears. He'd warned Mitch. There was nothing more to say. If he had any sense, he'd send her deceitful ass packing.

* * *

Miranda watched Keith stalk off stiff-backed and fuming.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” Mitch asked.

She exhaled with a sigh. “It's a long story, but I'll give you an abbreviated version. I was a grad student when my boss, Bibi, sent me to film this…er…equine exhibition. After looking at my camera work on it, the producer thought it would make a good short film, but apparently Keith didn't like how the film portrayed him.”

“Didn't he have any say in it?” Mitch asked.

“Not really,” she said. “Once a release is signed, the producer has the right to use the film however they see fit. I promise you, all I did was the camera work. I had nothing to do with the editing or post production. That was all Bibi.”

“Don't fret none about him,” Mitch said. “Maybe he ain't happy about this whole situation, but he won't let any harm come to you out there. I can promise you that. I've known Keith since he was the twins' age, and his family even longer than that. His mixed heritage got him a little confused for a while, but ain't nobody better with the horses. He's the best damn wrangler we've got.”

His words were meant to reassure, but uncertainty suddenly knotted her stomach at the prospect of riding into the desert with a man who obviously despised her. “But what if an accident or something unexpected happens?”

“I'll be sending Dave and Donny along with you. They all carry rifles, and Keith has a satellite phone. If there's any real emergency, they'll call in the chopper.”

The thought that Keith carried a rifle was hardly comforting. She glanced back at him watching her from a few yards away. If looks could kill, she'd already be lying dead on the ground. Maybe he'd just shoot her and dump her lifeless body in a canyon. She'd have to make certain to ride behind him.

“Part of the cowboy code is to trust the ones you ride with,” Mitch said, correctly reading her concerns. “If you're having second thoughts, it might be better for you to go out with Trey in the chopper instead. He's going to do another flyover to see if he can account for the rest of the missing horses.”

“Under the circumstances, that might be best,” Miranda reluctantly agreed. “I wanted to get some aerial footage anyway.”

“Good,” Mitch replied, looking relieved. “I'm real glad we got that resolved.”

* * *

After scarfing down some sandwiches washed down with Gatorade, Keith, Donny, and Dave rode out toward the mountains, but the trio hadn't gone more than a couple of miles before coming upon two old mares with heaving flanks and sweat-coated skin, guarding a foal that was in similar shape. Keith dismounted and handed his reins to Donny, hoping it wasn't too late to save them. The first mare, a palomino pinto, laid her ears back in warning at his approach, but she was too exhausted to put up any real fight. He crouched beside the weakened foal, a near clone of the mare, right down to its markings. The animal nickered to its mother and then struggled to gain its feet, but the effort was too much.

“Easy, little man,” he softly crooned, pressing a flattened palm against its neck. With his other hand he pinched the layer of skin at the colt's shoulder between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted the skin away from the muscle and twisted, frowning as he mentally counted the seconds.
Damn.
The tented skin should have snapped back after a second or so. Keith rolled back its upper lip to reveal whitish-tinted gums. “Shit. This colt's in some serious trouble.”

Dave rose with a grunt to pull his rifle out of its scabbard.

“No.” Keith raised a hand. “We're not shooting him. Not yet.”

“It's only humane,” Dave protested. “There's nothing we can do for him out here.”

“Doesn't Mitch keep IV fluids on hand?” Keith asked.

“I s'pose there's a coupla bags in our emergency vet kit, but that's all the way back at the camp. By the time we fetch the supplies, it'll be too late. It's a waste of time, Keith. He's too far gone. Just look at him. He can't even stand, let alone walk.”

Keith set his jaw. “Then I guess we'll just have to find a way to carry him.”

Dave regarded him incredulously. “And just how are we s'posed to do that? He's got to weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“Simple.” Keith stood and retrieved the satellite phone. “I'm calling the chopper in.”

“To carry the horse?” Dave asked. “That's crazy.”

“Why? They airlift people, don't they? This foal won't make it if we don't try,” Keith said. “The bird's already in the air. All Trey needs is our GPS position to land it.”

“Look, Keith, they use special helicopters for rescue operations. We don't have any of that. What do you expect Trey to do? Fly with a horse in that tiny cockpit?”

“It's a really small horse,” Keith argued. He silenced Dave's next protest with a dark look as he dialed base camp. “Mitch, it's Keith. No, we're all okay, but we've got a foal that's in a real bad way. I need you to send the chopper.”

Mitch groaned. “How big is it?”

“'Bout two hundred pounds. We need to transport him. He's gonna die if we don't get some fluids into him ASAP.”

There was a long pause before Mitch answered. “This'll have to be Trey's call.”

“I understand that,” Keith replied. “You'll call him?”

“Yeah. It's crazy as hell,” Mitch replied, “but I'll call him.”

“Thanks. I owe you.” Keith disconnected the call.

“He's really sending the chopper?” Dave asked.

Keith smiled for the first time in three days. “He's sending it.”