Last Chance Cowboy. Cathy Mcdavid

Gavin a trio of photographs. “These are from a roundup I participated in this past spring on the Navajo Nation outside of Winslow. We brought in over eighty head of horses and seven burros.”

      He examined the photos, two of which were aerial shots taken from the inside of what he assumed was a helicopter. The herd of horses, bunched together in a long line, resembled a rushing river as they galloped over a rocky rise and down the other side.

      It must have been a majestic and thrilling sight. He could almost hear the pounding of their hooves and feel the ground shaking beneath him as they thundered past. When his great-grandfather had first settled in these parts, mustangs not unlike these had made the valley their home. To have seen these horses on the Navajo Nation would have been like witnessing a living and breathing piece of history.

      He flipped to the next picture, and his heart sank low in his chest. In this one, taken from the ground, the horses had been crowded into corrals and were milling restlessly. A few bit or kicked their neighbors. A mare tried valiantly to protect her young foal.

      “It’s not right, putting the horses through this.” Gavin hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until Sage answered him.

      “I know it looks bad. But if we hadn’t removed the horses, most of them would have died. Rainfall last winter was half of our annual average. All the area’s water sources had dried up.”

      He studied the photo closer, noting the poor condition of the animals. Underweight, undersized and lackluster, pest-infected coats. It was fortunate the BLM had stepped in when they had. Still, removing animals from their natural environment didn’t sit well with him.

      “Was there no other way to help them?”

      “We tried filling tanks with water. The horses were skittish and refused to drink.”

      Hearing the girls’ animated chatter, Gavin and Sage looked up.

      Cassie led Chico from the stables to the small corral beside the arena where Ethan was teaching a class of about a dozen beginner students. They trotted in a tight figure-eight pattern as their parents watched, either relaxing in lawn chairs or standing along the fence.

      Isa sat astride Chico, her fists clutching the reins, her feet barely reaching the stirrups of Cassie’s youth saddle. Rocking from side to side as he walked, the old horse clopped slowly along, his hips appearing more prominent because of his swayed back. Blue brought up the rear, tripping over his front paws in his attempt to keep up.

      Sage watched them, her expression intent.

      “Ethan learned to ride on Chico,” Gavin told her.

      She didn’t appear to hear him.

      “Isa will be fine.”

      He was about to repeat himself when Sage suddenly turned around and blinked as if orienting herself. Wherever she’d been the past minute was a million miles from the ranch.

      “You want to postpone this?” Gavin’s patience had worn thin. According to Sage, they only had a week to capture the mustang, and he resented wasting time.

      “No.” Picking through the papers again, she removed a typewritten report and passed it to him. “Not everyone agrees with the bureau’s program of capturing feral mustangs and burros. And I won’t argue with you, it’s an imperfect solution. But I also believe we’re doing the right thing. Saving and preserving a part of America’s heritage, not destroying it.” Her voice rang with unabashed passion.

      It was something Gavin understood. He believed in the same thing himself.

      After skimming the report, he opened his file and took out the map he used to mark the mustang’s territory. Spreading it open on the table, he pointed to the X’s.

      “These are the various places I’ve spotted the mustang in the last four months. You can see, he keeps to the same territory.”

      “Which is near the ranch.”

      “Within three miles, though he’s come as close as half a mile. I imagine he’s drawn to our horses.”

      She murmured her agreement. “Where does he get his water?”

      Gavin was glad her attention had ceased wandering. “There could be springs, but this is desert country. I’ve never seen any water in the mountains except after heavy rainfall, which, as you said earlier, has been less than average of late. I’m pretty certain he drinks at the golf course.” Gavin showed her the location of the country club on the map.

      “You’re kidding!”

      “They maintain a small reservoir on the back end to feed the ponds on the course and for water in case of a fire. The maintenance people have reported all kinds of wild animals drinking there. Javelina, bobcats, coyotes and even a few deer.”

      Sage perked up. “Do you own any ATVs?”

      “Two. Why?”

      “We can use them to round up the horse.”

      “No, we can’t. Motorized vehicles are prohibited on the preserve. And even if they weren’t, they make too much noise. He’d hear us coming a mile away and take off.”

      “How else are we going to capture him? We have to be able to herd him in the direction we want.”

      “Like my grandfather and great-grandfather did. On horseback.”

      She shook her head. “That won’t work. It’ll take too long.”

      Her complete dismissal annoyed Gavin. “It’s that or on mountain bikes.”

      “I hope you’re joking.”

      “Look, Sage. I’m not the BLM. I don’t have helicopters at my disposal.”

      “Do you know someone with a small plane?”

      “Even if I did, I wouldn’t enlist their help.”

      “I’ll contact my office. Maybe they can obtain permission from the state for us to use your ATVs.”

      So much for her little speech about protecting and preserving America’s heritage.

      “Forget it. The only way we’re going after this horse is the same way ranchers have for generations. With ropes and on horseback.”

      Their gazes connected and held fast. Hers had cooled considerably but revealed little. Gavin was certain there was no mistaking what was going through his mind.

      Sage broke the silence. “How exactly are you proposing we go about it?”

      “Have you ever heard of a Judas horse?”

      “Yes. But I’ve never seen that technique put to effective use.”

      “There’s a box canyon in the south end of the preserve. Here.” Gavin tapped the map with his index finger. “We’ll construct a small pen at the base of the canyon and put a couple of our mares in there. Preferably ones in heat.”

      “How will you construct the pen? Won’t you need to haul fencing in?”

      “We’ll run a rope line. Use any natural materials in the area. We can pack in food and water for the mares, enough to last overnight. If all goes well, the next morning the mustang will be in the canyon with the mares. There’s only one way in and out.” He circled the narrow opening to the canyon.

      “How many of us will there be?”

      “Me, you, Ethan, Conner, he’s a local cowboy who helps us out part-time, and possibly my partner.” Gavin wished he could include his dad but the older man hadn’t ridden in years.

      Sage returned to the map. “So, we could position two riders at the entrance of the canyon, preventing the mustang’s escape, and the other three could trap and rope him.”

      “That’s the plan.”

      “It might work,” she relented with a