Free Horse Lover by H. Alan Day Page A

set these 35,000 acres atop the 45,000 acres of the Rex Ranch, which sat atop the 198,000 acres of Lazy B. For the next five miles, this agrarian monolith loomed in front of me, weighed down with cattle, investors, debt, and uncertainty. I could no longer see the grass waving or the hills beckoning. Trepidation wormed through my confidence like some nasty alien in a video game gobbling up all the good guys. I pulled into the yard feeling slightly sick. A cloud cast its blobby shadow over the truck, floated toward the faded barn, and disappeared behind it.
    Oh my God. What had I done?
    I had been raised on lectures portraying debt as evil, yet here I was dancing with the devil himself. I slumped in my seat like a guy who just became engaged to the love of his life and contracts an acute case of marriage remorse.
    A patch of sunlight spilled through the windshield, warming my fingers still curled around the steering wheel. Somewhere deep inside, resolve poked its head out. Fearless, it grew. I grabbed onto it. I had endured droughts, lost money on cattle, even crashed an airplane and almost died, but those receding tides never left me high and dry. They always returned and deposited good fortune at my feet. I’d dig in my heels and see this journey through to the end. My horse Little Charlie Brown use to do that—dig in his heels. Remembering him inspired and calmed me.
    He was a little guy, a bay horse with white stockings, not very tall but solidly built. A white streak ran the length of his nose and dribbled down one nostril. He had a gentle demeanor but could be as lazy as a teenager. Except when he got around cattle. Then he became all business. If he and I rode behind a herd of cattle and a cow slowed down, he’d follow that cow, reach down, and bite her right above the hock. If I didn’t pull him off, he would raise her leg and hold it up like a bulldog. The cow would bawl in pain and try to run forward. With Little Charlie, you could make good time driving cattle because they knew if they didn’t hotfoot it, they’d get chomped on. But he’d never bite a baby calf, only nudge it.
    His real talent, though, was his unbelievable strength. I’d saddle him up, throw my rope around a bull, a tractor, or whatever needed moving, then dally up and tell Little Charlie to pull. He could drag a full-grown bull from one corral to another. I learned that the best way to load a recalcitrant cow or horse into a trailer was to run a rope from the stubborn animal through the trailer, back to front, then dally it to Little Charlie. He’d crouch his back end and push with all fours like he was going for the gold in tug-of-war. The animal in tow practically popped into the trailer. He should have been named Samson. Where he got that strength, and for his size, I don’t know. Some athletes are wired a certain way; some horses are too. You always knew what Little Charlie could do for you, and he did it day in and day out. I had this ranch dallied to my inner saddle horn. Could I drag it with me?
    That night, to celebrate the closing, I took the Pitkin family to the Peppermill Steakhouse just over the border in Valentine, Nebraska, where we stuffed ourselves full of prime rib that practically melted in our mouths. John told stories about the ranch with his kids chiming in details. I told stories about ranching in Arizona that left them shaking their midwestern heads. With laughs and giggles, we embarked on an adventure that seemed to have chosen us randomly and united us in the heartland of the country. I had inserted myself in this family and the Sand Hills. I needed to own up to that and not let them down. With the fortitude of Little Charlie Brown, I could do it. By the time we left, I couldn’t wait to see what lay over the next hill. I never expected it to lay so far east.
    In Arizona no one bothers to look twice at a cowboy. I could walk through Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix wearing my favorite black Stetson and leather boots