The Last Rancher
/David Watson
An ominous alert tone blared on the television. Carl looked up from the breakfast table. Scrolling under the Monday morning news, the Montana Department of Natural Resources and Conservation (DNRC) was broadcasting a message. “Ranchers in the Paradise Valley area should be vigilant for grizzly bears migrating out of Yellowstone Park. Sow bears with new cubs had been reported in the southern part of the valley near Gardiner. Report any sightings to the DNRC…” Carl ignored the rest. It was the same message the DNRC sent out every spring. He went back to reviewing the list of supplies he needed for his month stay at their mountain cabin during calving season.
His wife Olivia was watching too, but now directed her stare onto Carl. “Well,” she said, “do you have the number?”
“What number?”
“The DNRC number, to report grizzlies out of Yellowstone.”
Carl waved his hand. “They say that every year. I’ve never seen a grizzly on our place.”
“Well do you have it?”
Carl dropped the pencil and sighed. He turned toward Olivia. “You don’t need to worry, I…” but his voice fell away when he saw her usual fair complexion blazing. He pushed his chair out from the table and stood. “Olivia…?”
She shook her head. “So irresponsible, so uncaring...”
Carl gazed at his wife. The last thing he wanted was to get in an argument before leaving. “I have the number,” he said. He picked up his cell off the table. “It’s in my phone.”
Olivia twisted away with disgust. She took her lunch out of the refrigerator, shoved it into her carry bag, and then swung around and faced Carl. Her eyes narrowed. “You promised to tell the boys your decision before you left for the mountains. Have you?”
Carl squirmed in his chair. Two years ago, he had agreed to let their sons, Caleb and Tristan, start up a fly fishing shop after graduating from college. He figured it would last a year at the most. But he hadn’t realized his boys’ ingenuity, and their commonsense approach to running a business.
Their shop, in the tourist town of Red Lodge one hundred and fifty miles to the east, had turned into much more than a place for local fisherman to pick up supplies. Thanks to the Internet, orders for their custom-made rods and flies came from around the world. Their store’s success had left the boys with more work than they could handle and now wanted Carl and Olivia to sell the ranch and join them.
Carl felt the muscles in his stomach tense. He didn’t answer.
Olivia let out an exasperated gasp as she opened the back door. Her voice was sharp.
“What on earth is so important about this place? It’s just a pile of rocks with hardly enough dirt to scratch out a living. The boys see it for what it is. Why can’t you? ” She slung her bag onto her shoulder, turned and slammed the door as she left.
Carl had every intention of chasing after her, of sweeping her into his arms, and telling her he was sorry. He listened to her Corolla rumble to life and the car’s tires spin into the soft gravel as she raced down the drive toward the highway and to her job in Livingston. He listened until the world fell silent and sank onto the kitchen chair.
#
Carl spent the day doing odds and ends until he could no longer put off the inevitable. He backed the trailer to the paddock to load the string of horses he would need. He unhooked the trailer’s aluminum walkway and banged it onto the ground. The sound brought his favorite, Sego, a thirteen-year-old chestnut gelding, out from behind the barn. Carl watched with concern as his usually high-spirited horse plodded toward him.
He opened the gate and let his eyes travel over his horse’s contour. Something looked off. Sego’s shoulders were slumped. Carl ran his hands over the horse’s back probing for pain, but found nothing.
“What is it boy?” With uncharacteristic affection, Sego turned and pressed his head gently into Carl.
Carl sighed and gave his horse a pat. “Let’s get to the mountains. We could both use the fresh air.”
#
The view of the Gallatin mountain range, forming the western edge of Paradise Valley, filled Carl’s view as he drove along their drive. The morning sun breaking over the Absoraka Mountains behind him cast its golden light onto his alfalfa fields. Halfway to the highway his cell phone buzzed.
Carl pressed the brakes slowing the truck and trailer to a stop. He fished his phone from his pocket. Olivia’s name lit on the screen. “Hello,” Carl said as he pressed the button to receive the call only to realize it was a text. He opened the message.
“Sorry I got mad…give the boys’ idea a thought…please be careful…love you.”
“Love you too,” he texted back.
He stared out the open window at the lush green alfalfa filling the flat of his ranch. He listened to the irrigator’s methodic swishing and watched the arcing streams of cold mountain water cascade onto the eternally thirsty plants.
He turned his gaze toward the ranch’s buildings, the barn with the cupola he and the boys had stripped and painted only a few years before, the hay sheds and the white plank fencing of the horse paddock. He saw their house with the wraparound porch and his boys’ old treehouse in the giant cottonwood overlooking Olivia’s garden.
He rubbed the stubble on his face. If he sold the ranch, he’d be giving up the land his father and grandfather ranched, the land his great-grandfather homesteaded. Could the boys really want that?
#
He drove south through the valley and just outside Gardiner turned onto an unmarked dirt road. The single tract road left the valley and immediately fell into a repeating pattern of climbing switch backs. The Ford’s engine strained to pull the weight of his horses and Carl began to worry his old truck wasn’t going to make it when the road leveled off onto the small flat where the cabin stood perched.
It was dark after he got the horses settled and even though the day had been a warm one, nightfall brought a chill in the air. It was cold inside the cabin and Carl lit a fire in the wood-burning stove. The place seemed small when his family was young. They spent a lot of time living there together. But tonight as he whipped pancake batter for his dinner, the cabin felt cavernous.
After eating, he walked over to the bookshelf and grabbed the picture of Olivia with Caleb and Tristan at her side. It was taken when the two boys were in grade school. He stared at Olivia’s slender figure, her high cheek bones and her dark curly hair. She still looked the same after all the years. Maybe a few grey hairs and worry lines around her eyes, but she was the same Olivia.
He set the picture back onto the shelf and saw the Bible laying flat with a piece of paper protruding from its pages. He opened the book. The paper marked the fifth chapter of Matthew. He unfolded the slip of paper and saw Caleb’s handwriting. It said, “Next time, I’ll tell you what Professor Hintz said about Jesus and his Sermon on the Mount.”
An uncomfortable ache bit into him. Caleb had been a history major in college. His fascination with a class studying the historical significance of the Bible had inspired him to share his findings with Carl and Tristan in the evenings when they spent summers home from college. Caleb never got around to sharing what he had learned. Carl carefully folded the paper, put it back in its place in the Bible and laid it onto the shelf, when his cell phone buzzed. This time it was a text from Caleb.
“Tristan and I are coming up for the weekend to talk about our offer. Mom’s coming too.”
Carl, ignoring the talk about making an offer, let out a joyous whoop. It had been a couple years since they’d all been together in the mountains. Carl texted back, “I can hardly wait. Bring your saddles and one for mom too.”
#
It was a bright sunny morning as Carl went to the lean-to that housed the horse’s hay and tack. He pulled out the supplies he needed for the day’s work, a bridle, saddle, lariat, a reel of barbed wire in a leather bag and the Whitney single shot that belonged to his granddad. He shoved wire cutters, cattle ear tags, a bottle of soap, long plastic sleeves, obstetrical chains and handles for delivering calves and the bear repellant spray Olivia had insisted he take into one pouch of his saddlebag. He filled the other with his water bottle, a small cooler for his lunch and the vaccines he might need for newborn calves. Almost forgetting, he pulled out a handful of rifle shells from a box on the shelf and dropped them into the pouch with the bear spray. Occasionally he used his granddad’s Whitney to shoot gophers and it was a humane way to put a cow out of her misery. But for the most part, he never used the gun.
Sego raced in circles as Carl opened the gate to the corral. The rest of the horses uninterested stood munching hay at the feeder. Sego pranced up to Carl. Carl smiled. “Back to your old self I see.”
Olivia had texted Carl the weather report before she left for work. It called for rain and possibly snow showers by the afternoon, though one couldn’t tell from the deep blue sky and the warming morning sun. Still, he knew the sky was deceiving in the mountains, and strapped his rain gear to the back of the saddle.
Sego took off at a brisk pace. The leather saddle squeaked with Sego’s long strides and it took little time getting to the pasture where the herd had spent the night. Carl and Sego made quick work tagging and vaccinating four newborn calves before they headed off for a day of checking fence.
They steered toward the southern border of his land—the rugged timbered section with deep ravines—knowing his sure-footed horse could handle the rough terrain. As Sego settled into a steady pulsing gait, Carl fell back into the thought that plagued him during the night. It was going to be difficult convincing the boys that selling the ranch was a mistake.
He knew they loved the land as much as he did. Not once did they complain about the long hours baling hay or working cattle in the rain and snow. They had always been his shadow even in high school when they should have been chasing girls or playing sports.
Carl grabbed the saddle horn as Sego knifed down the side of a ravine, then hurried his pace to climb out. Carl sighed. If only life could be like it was for his dad and granddad. Help was plentiful back then, cattle prices were good and they didn’t have to worry about health care costs, taxes and insurance. If he agreed to sell the ranch, it would be the end of the line, the end of their way of life. The thought sent a pain into his side. He shifted in the saddle to relieve the discomfort. But a way of life didn’t pay the bills.
#
They passed the day climbing through the rocky, pine shrouded ravines, and found a couple places where the barbed wire fence had been pushed down, most likely from a moose passing through. They were at the farthest corner of his land, high on a ridge when Carl saw the black clouds billowing over the nearby Emigrant Peak. Even with Sego it was a good hour ride back to the cabin. He cursed himself. He hadn’t paid attention.
As if on cue, a hard wind rushed through the surrounding trees. A flash of lightning ricocheted off the mountain causing Sego’s hair to stand on end. “Easy boy,” said Carl. He jumped to the ground, slipped on his rain gear, climbed back into the saddle, and the two broke away from the fence onto a deer path leading down the mountain.
A torrent of rain burst from the heavens and rolled across the mountainside. Carl sat low in the saddle as the wave of giant raindrops crashed over them. Lightning flashes lit the landscape like a giant strobe light. Thunder resonating off the mountain shook the ground Sego was trying to traverse. Still, Sego never wavered, never panicked, but kept a steady gait down the rocky trail, through the forest of tall pines swaying in a chaotic frenzy, toward the cabin.
The main thrust of the storm had passed by the time they reached the pasture with his cows. Carl bent his head against the steady wind driving the icy rain into his face. Though he was anxious to get home, the rancher voice inside told him to check his cows first. He laid the bridle onto the side of Sego’s neck and started a large circle around the pasture. They found several newborns hunkered on the ground, protected by their labor-weary moms, but Carl let them be. He’d work them in the morning.
He turned Sego onto the trail leading to the cabin when he heard a low bellow, the telltale sound of a cow straining in labor. Sego’s ears perked. For a second Carl thought about ignoring it. He was cold and tired; maybe she’d have it on her own. Sego stomped his foot. Carl closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re right boy, we’d better check.” Without any coaxing, Sego turned off the trail and headed toward the sound of the cow.
Carl spotted her under a small pitch of aspen. She was a black-baldy on her side struggling to deliver. He eased Sego close, and fashioning a makeshift halter with his lariat, slipped it over the cow’s head before she took notice. He tied the other end to a stout branch, slipped off his rain jacket and rolled his sleeves. He went around to the back of the cow. What he saw, or what he didn’t see, caused his face to contort into a scowl. Nothing was showing, no feet or head like he had hoped. He took the bottle of soap from his saddlebag and a long plastic obstetrical sleeve. He pulled the sleeve onto his hand and arm. After gently lathering the cow’s vulva with soap, he slipped in his gloved hand. Her vagina was dry, not moist like it should be and though he had extended his arm nearly to his elbow, he couldn’t feel a calf.
Carl cussed under his breath then bent low, lay flat on the wet ground and extended his arm further past his elbow until he reached a mass of hair and muscle wedged in the cow’s pelvis. A sense of dread and helplessness seized his thoughts. The calf was coming breech, rear end first with no feet, nearly impossible to deliver without calling the vet and doing a cesarean.
He pulled out his arm and sitting on his haunches debated the options. There was no doubt Doc Schelling would come if Carl called, even on this crummy night, but he didn’t feel any movement. The calf was surely dead. Doc wouldn’t do a cesarean on a cow with a dead calf—she’d never make it.
Carl stood and walked over to Sego. As he reached into the saddlebag for a clean sleeve his fingers touched the smooth cylindrical shells at the bottom. He grasped one with his fingers, jabbed its pointy tip into the palm of his hand and pulled it out. How easy it would be to get this over with. A ten minute ride and they’d be home and out of the crappy weather. He looked at the cow in misery; the side of her face was bruised and swollen from banging against the ground as she strained in vain to deliver. She let out a loud bellow, lifted her head, then let it fall hard onto the ground.
A crack of thunder shuddered the mountainside. Carl dropped the shell back into the saddlebag. He grabbed a clean sleeve and walked around to the back of the cow. He gave her vulva a fresh lather of soap and lying onto the cold ground, reached his hand deep inside. It seemed a remote possibility, but if he could only push the calf’s rump forward, he might create enough room to slip his hand around and grasp a leg. If he found a leg…at least he had a chance.
His fingers reached the calf’s tail. He braced his feet into the dirt, pressed his hand on the calf’s tailhead and pushed. To his surprise the calf moved forward, but before he could slide his hand through the opening, the cow contracted, forcing the calf back into her pelvis. He waited for the cow’s contraction to ease, then pushed again. The calf slid forward and he forced his hand forward around the calf and grasped a tiny clawed foot. At the same moment the cow, sensing something had changed, sent a forceful contraction crushing his arm against the cow’s sharp pelvic bone. She bellowed as she strained, the intensity of the contraction ratcheting up, the force causing her rectum to relax and release a shower of watery manure cascading over his back.
He ignored the cow shit soaking through his shirt and fought the urge to let go. The cow’s contraction abruptly eased. It was the reprieve he needed. He pushed the calf forward again, grasped the tiny foot, and straightening the leg, pulled it out of the cow’s vulva.
The rain had turned to ice pellets. They pinged against the leaves of the aspen like sand paper rasping against raw wood. He scraped the manure from his back, lay back behind the cow and reached in for the other leg.
Sego stood in front of the beast stomping his foot into the dirt. His head bobbed as he let out a low whinny. “Almost got it boy,” said Carl.
He pushed against the calf’s rump again, and with a quick thrust he seized and extended the second leg. With the calf finally in the right position, a surge of energy swelled in the laboring cow. Before he could right himself, she jumped to her feet and with a lightning quick kick sent the full brunt of her hoof into his chest. The blow sent Carl flying backward. His head smacked against the trunk of an aspen. The now aggressive cow whirled around with intentions of killing Carl.
She charged. The little slack in the rope came taut, causing her to flip herself. At the same time her uterus contracted. The combined forces propelled the dead calf through her vagina and onto the ground. Before she could regain her footing, Carl scrambled to his feet and yanked the lariat off her head. Sego jumped to Carl’s side and with a quick step into the saddle’s stirrup, he was on his horse and the two slipped away through the brush.
Away from the crazed cow, Carl pulled Sego to a stop and stepped out of the saddle. He rubbed at the painful knot forming on the back of his head. He wiped the manure, blood and fetal fluids from his face, and touched at his chest, feeling the indentation the cow’s hoof had left in his flesh. It hurt too—maybe a broken rib. His hands trembled as he gingerly pulled on his rain gear.
Dusk was settling over the mountainside. The air held an uncomfortable stillness. The thick clouds had momentarily peeled away revealing Emigrant Peak. It towered like a forbidden castle into the sky. Carl’s teeth chattered. As he stared at the mountain, he couldn’t shake the feeling the land he had grown up on, the land he knew so well, was a now foreign place to him. It was as though he had never ridden its paths, forged its streams, climbed its ridges or peered into its forests.
He fumbled in his saddlebag for his cell phone and flipped it open and saw the missed calls. The names Olivia, Caleb and Tristan popped onto the screen. It wasn’t right, him being alone in the mountains, it wasn’t right. He flipped the phone shut and climbed onto Sego.
He dug his heels into the horse’s flank. “Get up,” he shouted, his voice anxious. There was a sudden urge tugging at him. He wanted to get to the cabin where he had good cell service. He wanted to call his family. He needed to hear their voices.
Sego walked at a fast pace, but it wasn’t fast enough. Carl took the leather end of his bridle and swatted it over Sego’s rump. The horse hurried into a lope.
Sego was in a full gallop as they crossed a small meadow and into a thick stand of pine and aspen, the narrow patch of forest before reaching the clearing with the cabin. Dark clouds had buried the mountain again and ice pellets hammered as Sego dove onto the trail. Only a few yards down the path, Sego’s ears perked. His head jerked high into the air. Without warning, he pulled up, his legs locked, his feet sliding before coming to an abrupt stop throwing Carl over the horn of the saddle and onto Sego’s neck.
“For God’s sakes,” shouted Carl. He scrambled back into the saddle. He kicked his heels into Sego’s flank. “Let’s go damn it.” Sego reared back. Carl whipped the rump of his horse with the long ends of the bridle. Sego bucked and pranced before taking a step forward. Carl couldn’t believe it. What the hell was wrong? In less than a hundred yards they’d be out of the forest. Another hundred and they’d be to the… He strained to see the end of the trail. He rubbed his eyes, blinked and shook his head. He should be seeing the cabin’s lights, but he wasn’t.
A breeze rustled the trees, loosening water droplets clinging to the branches and showered them onto Carl and Sego. Carl shifted his weight in the saddle. Nothing was right.
Sego came to another abrupt stop and this time, none of Carl’s coaxing could move his horse. It was as though he was frozen in place. Carl had had enough. He eased off the reins and was about to jump off and lead his spooked horse, when a gust of wind brought a foul smell. It was distinct, like of a rotting carcass. At the same instant a loud crack sounded to his right. Carl felt Sego’s neck muscles tense as a dark shadow rolled out of the trees onto the trail directly in front of them.
Carl’s mind ticked off the shadow’s possibilities: a fallen tree, a cow away from the herd. But in the time it took him to blink, he knew it was none of these. The shadow rose above Sego on two legs, opened its jaw flashing white enameled teeth and roared.
Carl clung to the saddle as Sego reared back and lashed out, striking the bear, a grizzly, with his hoof. The blow caused the bear to stumble. Carl recovered his position in the saddle. The bear charged again. This time Sego was too slow to regain his defensive posture and before he could rear back to strike, the grizzly threw a slashing blow across the narrow part of his neck ripping Sego’s carotid. A jet of blood sprayed over Carl’s face. Sego whinnied, tumbled backward and fell hard to the ground pinning Carl.
Carl screamed. The bear pounced, its powerful jaws clamping the horse’s throat before Carl could react.
In a protective reflex, Carl moved his hands and arms to cradle his head when he touched the can of bear repellant spilled from the saddle bag. He gripped it, tore off the safety latch and grasping it with both hands, discharged its contents into the bear’s face.
The grizzly stumbled back a step then took off into the forest.
Sego thrashed as he exsanguinated onto the ground. Carl braced his hands against his horse’s body trying stop the force bearing on his legs. In a final gasp, Sego kicked out with his hind quarters driving Carl’s right leg into an impossible angle and snapping it. A burning sensation raced up his spine, gripped his mind in a clamp squeezing away his consciousness.
#
Icy raindrops pattered onto Carl. His eyelids fluttered open. Disoriented, he felt the dampness of the ground, a cold stillness to the air, and a strange throbbing in his legs. He moved his hands to probe the source of his discomfort and discovered a hairy beast lying square on top of him.
“Sego,” his voice croaked. Carl pushed, trying to free himself from under his dead horse, but his legs were pinned. Reaching for anything to pry himself, he grasped the rifle still in its scabbard, thrust it under the horse and lifted. Sego’s body wouldn’t budge. Carl’s heart pounded. He gasped for air. His mind swirled in panic.
He pounded his fist into the ground. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t Carl Levinson. He had to think. He had to compose himself. He took a long breath, regained his sanity and remembered his phone.
He reached into the saddlebag, found the phone and flipped it open. A wave of hope fell over him. Little bars on the screen indicated he had reception. Three new text messages blinked. He clicked open the first. It was from Olivia. “Where are you?” sent at 9:30pm. He looked at the cell’s clock – it was nearly midnight.
The phone flickered and Carl shook it. Its light popped on again. The battery signal flashed. His phone was going dead. He typed in a reply, “Bear attack…need help…on trail to pasture.” He pressed the send key. The screen flashed sending…sending…and went dead.
Carl shook it, but there was nothing. He licked his dry lips. The bitter taste of Sego’s blood lit on his tongue. He tried to spit it out, but his mouth was parched. He groaned to himself. How many times he had preached to his sons, pay attention to the world around you, and it might save your life someday. Sego knew about the bear, he had done his best to warn Carl. Yet, his stupidness, his impatience, Carl had ignored it. Now his horse was gone and maybe…maybe…
A faint pop, a twig cracking in the forest, caught Carl’s attention. He strained to listen. One minute, two minute and another pop sounded and another. It was still in the distance, but it was a sound he recognized—someone or something was walking toward him.
Carl reached for the can of bear repellant—empty. He pulled the rifle out from under Sego’s body and groping in his saddlebag found a shell. He loaded it into the gun’s chamber.
He listened. The forest seemed empty, then another pop and maybe this time it was closer, but he wasn’t sure.
He raised his eyes to the sky. There was no moonlight, no stars to guide his eyes. It was as if he was inside a coal mine.
He clenched the gun and as he waited for whatever approached, he heard a different sound. It was a low thumping noise. This he didn’t recognize. Was his mind playing tricks? He closed his eyes and opened them, but the sound was still there. It was louder now, each thump echoing a dull thud off the mountainside. A flash of bright light shot out across the treetops above him. He pulled himself onto his elbows trying to glimpse the source of the sound, the light, but as he lifted his body a feeling of cold-emptiness ached in his head.
He eased himself onto the ground. He took in a deep breath trying to shake the feeling, but it only made it worse. His eyes felt like iron weights. The rifle slipped from his hands. There was a loud ringing in his ears before the world around him fell into silence. A vision swirled.
There was a horse walking toward him. Was it Sego? He wasn’t sure. The horse moved close. He could feel its warm breath. It leaned over draping its lead rope onto Carl.
Loud voices, strange voices he didn’t recognize, broke the empty silence spooking the animal. Carl tried to calm the horse he was sure was his. “Sego…Sego,” he heard his voice call out. The horse whinnied, moved close once again and lowering its head gave Carl a gentle shove on the chest. Carl felt the weight pinning him to the ground abruptly shift and his body float into the air. The horse whinnied again took a step backward and turned to walk away.
“Sego,” Carl yelled. Why was he leaving? Carl reached out to stop his horse. He grabbed Sego’s lead, but the rope slipped away through his hands.
The End
Author’s Note: “The Last Rancher” centers on how major life changing transitions can be difficult, especially in the farming community. I’ve seen the consternation and grief when a farmer realizes the time has come for a change. Add the deep bond farmers and ranchers have with their animals, and the decision becomes all that more painful.
David Watson is a recently retired large animal veterinarian from southern Wisconsin. His story ideas sprouted during the countless hours he spent traversing country roads to see his patients. After years of taking notes, he started writing his stories that are reflective of his life experiences and his curiosity about the world around us. His short stories have appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Review and The Antigonish Review.
