Getting here was more important. Eat later.”
“Haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Good, you need to lose some weight.” She glanced at his belly. “Never mind, you’re skinny as hell.”
Jack slid to the middle, knees against the dash.
Erika climbed in, grabbing the chips off the floor. “Here, food. Which way?”
He pointed north and ripped open the bag.
Claire Prescott settled in, crossed her arms, and frowned, her eyes on the landscape.
Erika pulled the pickup onto the road, headed north.
“All this is managed by BLM, so again, it’d be best to talk to them,” Jack said.
Claire nodded. “Are you sure we’ll see horses?”
“No guarantee, but I saw some an hour ago.”
She nodded, brow furrowed.
“How far?” Erika asked.
“The next high point with a view. Should be able to see for miles.”
The road climbed higher. Erika took a couple of bends and Jack pointed to a turnout. She pulled to a stop and killed the engine. In the foreground, an ocean of sagebrush. Scattered outcroppings and buttes. In the distance, the plateau, rising up to meet the sky. The mouth of the canyon, to the east, only a sliver from this angle. The river, emerging from it, sweeping through a bend, flowing east. Its confluence with another river—from this angle, possibly larger—beyond the hamlet of Las Piedras. Other creek beds cut paths toward both.
“Where do we look?” Claire asked, distracted by the view.
Jack gestured west, across the entirety of the landscape.
“I see a band,” Erika said, pointing left. “There. Not too far.”
A scattering of cattle, and beyond them a knoll, and on it, horses, more than half a dozen. A big grey stud, three or four mares and their young, juveniles and foals. They picked at the ground, moving slowly, the stud watching over them.
Claire stared. “Beautiful. Anything significant about this location? Water?”
“Not much,” Jack said. “We’re in a drought.”
“That’s terrible,” Claire said. “Are they suffering?”
“Remember they’re wild. This is wild country.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’re not livestock. No one’s taking care of ’em.”
“What about the cattle?”
“Unfortunately, the same may be true for them. Most ranchers pulled their cattle, but not that guy.” Jack shook his head. “Even range improvements, stock tanks for example, don’t help much at times like this, but most ranchers are responsible. They take care of their cattle. Horses? . . . uncontrolled populations . . . can cause lots of damage. In a drought, they can die, but maybe not until after they’ve caused their damage.”
“How do you know they’ll cause damage? Didn’t they just get here?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“So you haven’t studied their effects?”
In the distance, a horse—ears back—nipped at another, causing it to back away. It ducked a charge, then stopped outside the group.
“What’s happening? Males challenging each other?”
“I think those are females.” Jack said. He pointed. “The stud’s the big grey over there, but the mare with her ears back, she’s established her dominance over the others. She’s dishing out reminders.”
“Will that one leave?”
“Not likely. She’ll stay with the band. She’ll cope. They’re social, gregarious animals.”
“Beautiful,” Claire said.
Jack exchanged looks with Erika. “Yes,” he said. “But, they have to be managed. Otherwise, they can cause lots of damage.”
“You’ve said that, but I’m told I should take agency arguments with a grain of salt,” Claire said, not looking his way, but twisting a brown strand of hair. “We received advice from a new advocacy group, Wild Horse and Burro Babes. They seem to have money and clout, and to have their act together. Frankly, some of their arguments are hard to ignore.” She pointed. “I’d like to go down there.”
“They won’t stick around.”
“That’s okay. I’d like to get a sense of what this land’s about.” Prescott headed off road, into the desert. She slipped on a cap, casting shade over pale, delicate skin.
Jack and Erika followed.
Twenty minutes later, walking toward the breaks of a creek, they came to an outcropping of sandstone. Slick rock, sloping toward the drainage. Claire veered across the rock.
“I thought you said there’s a drought.” Standing on rock still wet, Prescott pointed at solution holes brimming with water, some several feet wide. “Drought looks over to me.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but we did have rain in here somewhere,” Jack muttered. “Caused a flash flood. Maybe this very creek. Hit the river with a wall of water.”
“Any damage?”
“Coulda killed a few people.”
“I see,” Claire said, dismissively. She spun around, looking. “So, I don’t see reason to be convinced there’s a problem. Horse population. Drought. Any of it.”
“Look at the range,” Jack said. “No grass.”
She appeared to study the ground, then something in the distance. “Let’s move on.”
Beyond a rise, they came to a stock pond, one possibly dry a few hours earlier, now full. Just off the slickrock, hoof prints punctured the mud at the edge of the water. Cattle and horse. Manure piles, some old, most above the water line, wet from rain. The fragrance of freshly wet rabbit brush, growing at the edge of the rock, dampened the smell of urine and manure.
“I want a picture of this,” Prescott said, pulling a camera from a cargo pocket. She approached the water. “Can the two of you stand in the picture? It’ll give me scale and perspective.”
Jack glanced at Erika. Why not?
They stepped onto the mud, avoiding manure, stopping a few feet from water. They spun around.
“That’s fine,” Prescott said. She snapped several shots.
