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.