The Drought Left Me One Choice: Drive 400 Cattle 120 Miles With an 80-Year-Old Uncle, a City Kid and a Dog

We left at dawn on a Monday in September. Four hundred cows, three riders, six spare horses, my old pickup pulling a camp trailer, and Pistol, my border collie, who considered himself the boss of the entire operation.

The first day, Tanner fell off his horse four times.

The second day, he only fell off twice, and he stopped looking at his phone because there was no signal.

Uncle Boyd rode at the front of the herd like he was twenty years old again, singing old cowboy songs nobody had heard since 1965. Every evening, he cooked beans and cornbread over a fire and told stories about the old trail drives that I’m almost sure were at least half lies.

We made about twelve miles a day. Cows don’t hurry.

On the fourth day, we crossed into New Mexico. Open country, rolling and empty, with nothing but grass, fences and sky.

On the fifth day, Pistol turned three hundred cows away from a rattlesnake den and saved us a disaster.

On the sixth day, Tanner roped his first calf. He stood up in his stirrups and screamed so loud the whole herd jumped.

I’d never seen him smile like that.

On the seventh day, around four in the afternoon, Uncle Boyd pulled up his horse and pointed west.

On the horizon was a brown wall, a mile high, rolling toward us across the plains.

“Dust storm,” he said quietly. “Big one.”