I stood in the middle of the Little Miami River with a horse in each hand; we were savoring the cool flow of water around our legs. We were just short of our destination in the Waynesville area of Ohio and after 20 hours straight driving the horses and I were a bit shaky. My cat and dog were safe in their carriers and my thoughts were free to roam. The horses and I stood in silent wonder of the water in the middle of the Little Miami.

      
       It was the beginning of September 2010 and we had just high-tailed it out of the desert country of southeast New Mexico. I had been working a big spread about 60 miles north east of the city of Carlsbad, famous for its caverns and mining interests. The V-Steeple Ranch was seventy square miles of upper Chihuahua desert; a mix of poorly maintained private and BLM lease land that pastured 600 head of cattle. They were tough cattle in a tough land.

       Water was of course critical in the desert, and the water system for keeping the cattle alive was working, but just barely. Only a third of the available “drinkers” had water in them.  I was determined to get the water working to capacity for both me and the cattle.

       I saddled the big bay horse, “Kenny”, and headed out to the target pasture at first light. We followed a water pipeline toward its source; a huge tank at an oil and gas pumping yard about 15 miles southwest of ranch HQ. The target pasture was so named because it was once a target range for WWII fighter aircraft. Every once in a while I would come across a concrete dummy bomb that had been dropped years ago.

       I was glad to be on ole’ Kenny, he was a long legged crossbred and big in stature and stride. He wasn’t worth a damn for roping. But he sure could eat up desert miles, no matter how hot it got. After passing four dry drinkers, I became worried. The cattle would head for the earth tanks. These are large areas dozed out to collect rain water. Good during the short monsoon season, but as summer heat bears down they become a muddy trap. I reined Kenny west and headed for an earth tank about three miles through desert mesquite and dunes, looking for cow signs as we went. I eased the bay horse down off the ridge that surrounds the earth tank; I could see a cow mired in the mud.

       As I rode up I could see signs she had been trapped for some time. The mud around her was wallowed out and there was a substantial pile of dung at her backside. She was buried to mid belly, her chest and haunches were all I could see. The only signs of life were her labored breathing and eye roll as I approached.

The hot desert sun had taken its toll on this poor cow; she was dehydrated beyond help and destined to die where she was. She looked at me with death in her eyes, and I with tears in mine. I lifted her head and pushed the point of my knife through the skin of her throat in search of the carotid artery from which to bleed the misery from her. I cursed myself for not packing a pistol with me as the knife gave the sensation of cutting boot sole, so dry was her skin. The artery found and severed, her blood pumped like thick hot motor oil over my hand and knife and onto the mud that would become her tomb. She gave up the ghost with a relieved sigh as I pushed her eyelids closed. I got up and rode away from that place of mud and blood and tears.

       Three weeks later, with the desert behind me, I’m standing in the middle of the Little Miami River with its life giving water flowing around me. The horses chortle softly through their nostrils, and I smile at Ohio’s cool wet welcome.