Sagebrush Sedition. Warren J. Stucki

      “No—no,” Ruby stammered, turning a bit red. “I’m sorry about that, Doug.”

      “Not a problem for me. I just wish there was more I could do.”

      “Well,” Ruby replied, taking a sip of beer, then changing the subject. “How many of my calves you think we missed?”

      “I don’t know, maybe three or four. Would’ve had less if I was a better roper,” Roper replied, rubbing the stump of his missing finger.

      “Been meaning to ask, what happened to your finger?”

      “Nothing,” Roper said, finishing the Coke and setting the bottle aside. “When I was twelve or so, I was calf roping at the little buckaroos rodeo. Caught my calf all right, but when I whipped the rope around the saddle horn, got my finger caught up in it. The horse then put on the brakes and the rope snapped taut with a hundred and fifty-pound calf hurling to a stop on the other end. Well, my finger just popped off—like an assassin using a piano wire.”

      “That’s why they call you Roper?”

      “Yeah,” he said, fingering the stump. “I guess, it’s what you might call a sarcastic nickname.”

      “Kids can be cruel.”

      “Well anyway, it stuck; it’s not so bad.”

      Ruby sighed and stood up. “Well, we can’t get ‘em all, country’s too damn rough.”

      “They may be a little bit wild, but they’ll still be here when we come back in the spring.”

      “Any we leave now will join the wild ones.”

      “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Roper said. “I got fifty head or more of the wild ones that hang out in those canyons over by Indian Gardens, you know, on the west side of the mesa.”

      “You ever try roundin’ them up?”

      “Next to impossible, herding cats is easier.”

      “I’ve got thirty or forty,” Ruby stated, “big ones, mean ones. Can’t get ‘em off either, Lord knows I’ve tried. They’re no damn good the way they are. Eat my grass. Been thinking about selling hunting permits.”

      “Like a deer hunt?”

      “This would be a lot harder than hunting deer,” Ruby said, shaking her head for emphasis, “straight up and down terrain and a hell-uv-a-lot more dangerous. When cornered, those wild bulls’ll charge. Gore you or your horse. The only danger in deer hunting is some California greenhorn might shoot you or the possibility of getting lost.”

      “You’re not serious?”

      “I’m hurting, Doug,” Ruby insisted, “and if I lose this allotment, I’m going to have to find some creative ways to make money.”

      “You’ll be back here next fall,” Roper contended, “mark my words.”

      “Yeah, maybe,” Ruby said doubtfully, “but I honestly think they’ll try and drive us out—if they can.”

      “They can’t. Remember the proclamation said there would be grazing.”

      “Forget the damn proclamation. Proclamations can be amended. They do it all the time.”

      “Well, at least we’ll have some input. Committee work starts on Monday. We’re doing some preliminary leg work.”

      “Oh,” Ruby said, failing to mask the displeasure in her voice. “I almost forgot.”

      “Somebody’s got to work within the system.”

      “Well, put in a good word for me,” Ruby said sarcastically. “Unlike you, if they ask me to remove my cattle from my allotment, I’ll have no where to go, ‘cept broke.”

      “Even though I have two allotments, they’re both inside the monument. My perch is just as shaky as yours.”

      Ruby started to say something then changed her mind. Instead she began gathering the paper trash and empty cans.

      “Hello, the camp!” Someone yelled from off to the left, on the other side of a thick stand of junipers. “Is that you Roper?”

      “Yeah!” Roper hollered back. “Who’s there? Skinner?”

      “Yeah,” Skinner Jacobson called back as his palomino gelding patiently worked around the thicket and through the waist high sagebrush. “Howdy, Rubles,” he grinned. “You’re looking might pretty as usual.”

      “Skinner,” Ruby said, then nodding at the gelding she added, “nice horse.”

      “Best I can tell, there ain’t no holes in her,” Skinner agreed.

      “You want a beer?” Ruby asked.

      “Sure pretty lady.” Skinner dismounted, grinned then stripped forward both ends of his mustache to a perfect point. “Unless’n you got somethin’ harder?”

      “Nope,” Ruby answered, taking his reins and securing his horse. “It’ll have to be beer.”

      “What you doing up here?” Roper asked, getting up to shake Skinner’s hand. Lately, every time Roper saw Skinner he was amazed at how much he looked like the legendary General George Custer.

      “Same as you. You seen any of my strays?”

      “Nope,” Roper said. “Don’t usually get yours this far south. I often get a few of Ruby’s ‘cause we border, but I’ll be moving my cattle to my Tank Springs pasture. If I see any of yours, I’ll let you know.”

      “A little early, ain’t it?” Skinner asked, accepting the beer from Ruby. “Did that new Manager ask you to move?”

      “No—there’s not much feed left,” Roper replied, shaking his head. “No point in grazing down to the roots, the grass won’t come back.”

      “Trying to stay on their good side, huh?” Skinner said, then took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

      “No, not particularly,” Roper continued, “but if we show them we’re responsible range managers, maybe they’ll pretty much leave us alone.”

      “Don’t count on it, college boy,” Skinner said.

      “Well,” Roper said undeterred, “you’ve got to admit it’s a pretty bad drought. Haven’t had more’n five inches all year.”

      “That’s why they call this here place a desert,” Skinner said, “it’s supposed to be dry. But if’n I’d know’d the feed would go this fast, I would’ve raised more hay.”

      “Yeah,” Ruby sighed, “but takes water for that too.”

      “Guess that leaves only one choice, take ‘em to the auction in Salina and give ‘em away,” Skinner complained, shaking his shaggy blond head.

      “Good luck, cause that’s what you’ll be doing,” Ruby said. “With the price of beef now, you might as well just shoot ‘em.”

      “With this drought, everyone’s been selling,” Roper said. “That drives the prices down.”

      “No shit, Cowboy,” Skinner said, sneering. “Nothin’ like stating the obvious.”

      “Also, beef’s not selling like it used to,” Ruby added.

      “This here no red meat craze has nearly blow’d me away, “ Skinner said. “People’s acting like if’n they eat red meat today, they’s goin’ have a stroke or heart attack by tomorrow. It’s all so much bullshit.”

      “Well, I’m open to suggestions,” Roper said, everting his palms in a show of frustration. “What’ll we do?”