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

A dust storm on the open plains is like a blizzard made of dirt. You can’t see. You can’t breathe. Cattle panic and run.

Four hundred panicked cows can scatter over twenty miles.

“We’ve got maybe ten minutes,” Boyd said. “Get them into the draw.”

There was a dry creek bed about half a mile ahead, a low draw with high banks. If we could get the herd down into it, out of the wind, they might stay together.

We rode harder than I’ve ever ridden in my life.

Pistol ran circles around the herd, nipping heels, pushing stragglers. Tanner rode the left side, screaming and waving his hat like I’d shown him. Boyd rode in front, leading the lead cows toward the draw.

The storm hit us just as the last cows went down the bank.

Everything went brown. Then dark. The wind screamed. Sand hit my face like needles. I pulled my bandana up and couldn’t see my own horse’s ears.

“Tanner!” I yelled. “TANNER!”

No answer.

I couldn’t see him anywhere.