The Badlands Boys

By Scott D. Martineau

Two boys develop a lifelong friendship living near Theodore Roosevelt National Park and continue the local tradition, share adventures, and become the Badlands Boys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647012502

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The Badlands Boys

Scott D. Martineau

Copyright © 2020 Scott D. Martineau

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-251-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-250-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

THE HAWKS

THINNING THE HERD

HOME

TO YOUR OWN DEVICES

WRECKS

COMPADRES AND SMALL MIRACLES

REMEMBERANCE

WILD WEST

THE CHASERS

A COWBOY NEEDS A HAT

MEMORY TRAP

WILD CARDS

A COWBOY’S COWBOY

THE MULEYS

THE COYOTES

9-1-1

HORSEPOWER

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank the following people: Dorothy Ann Biggerstaff, Lawrence D. Martineau, Craig L. Martineau, Laurie T. Martineau, Lisa and Jeff Walsh, Corinne A. Nelson and family, Rick, Randee, Rory, Renee, Risa, and also Terry A. Sachs, Derek A. Sachs, and Dana A. Sachs for the original inspiration for the story.

Chapter I

THE HAWKS

April 1982

He stood there looking up at a bright blue sky. A six-foot-one, lanky fifty-seven-year-old with salt-and-pepper brown hair. With his gray felt cowboy hat in one hand, he dabbed his kerchief to his sweaty forehead. He looked up again. He heard them before he saw them. Circling in the afternoon thermals, he guessed, about two hundred feet or so above him. Two red-tailed hawks. A mated pair, large female and a smaller male calling out to each other in their familiar high screeches. They barely had to move their wings in the hot air of a warm North Dakota late-April day.

John McKinnon always got a kick out of seeing hawks on his ranch. Or bald eagles for that matter. You could see just about anything out here in western North Dakota. Except grizzlies of course. They were now in the northern and Canadian Rockies. And mountain lions were getting very rare. John hadn’t ever seen a live one. Although he saw a dead one when he was a small boy in town with his dad, Wallace. A game warden had one in the bed of his pickup, shot by a rancher about twenty miles east of Killdeer. That must have been about 1932, when John was seven.

You might see a black bear, but the coyotes were what you had to be wary of, going after calves. The screeching hawks made John look up again and he thought back to the spring of 1956, when Lizzie was ten.

One of the calves had wandered away from its mother and John and his daughter Lizzie had gone riding out to look for it. They found it pretty close to this area he was standing at now, in fact. Lizzie looped a length of rope over the calf’s neck, along with a small cowbell. They started back to the ranch with John walking in front of their horses. Lizzie tugged the calf to get it going. Her long brown hair tied in a ponytail, this cute little tomboy could handle it.

Dad? she asked.

Yeah, hon? They walked.

Is this your favorite place?

Hmm, he said.

Mom says your favorite place is out here.

Well, I guess this is a good spot…but my favorite spot is being next to your mom. Then John winked at Lizzie.

Will you have your ashes scattered out here when you pass away?

John stopped walking. What brings that up!

The grampa of one of the kids at school passed away, and they spread his ashes in the Pacific, where he liked to sail.

John nodded. Oh, mom and I talked about that. We’ll be over in Rosewood Cemetery. By the church. Most of the family’s there. The wind kicked up, and as they started up again, John tugged down on his cowboy hat. Besides, with this wind, I’d probably just end up some place in Minnesota anyhow.

Lizzie continued her thought, If I can, I think I’ll come back as a hawk.

John thought for a second. If that’s what you want to do, you could probably do that.

The wind swirled dust up around his boots and that brought him back to 1982. He looked at his horse, Chief, grazing on some short grass, with leather hobbles on his front hooves. Nice bay, ten-year-old quarter horse gelding, standing sixteen hands high. Then he noticed his hired hands working a stubborn fence post into a posthole and doing a little cussing and grumbling too. Whitey Morris and Andy Barnes, both in their midthirties, and buddies for years. But good hands. Whitey asked, Where do you think the boys are now?

Andy calculated in his head a moment, Well, the way Jake drives, I’d say they were past the Bighorns by now.

Andy looked at John. Looks like he’s back among the livin’. Whitey looked over John’s way. Ya gonna help today, John? John tugged his hat back on and walked over to the fellas. Did you guys notice all the hawks today? John grabbed a level and eyed the post they’d worked on. He started to whistle to himself. The guys looked at each other and shrugged, then got back to work.

CHAPTER II

THINNING THE HERD

Jake Adams, thirty-nine, sat behind the wheel of the Ford 350 pickup. He glanced in the side mirror, eyeing the empty two-horse trailer being towed behind. He looked over at his son Will, fifteen, reading the Wyoming road map, wearing a straw cowboy hat, and then at the back seat where his youngest son, nine-year-old Tommy, wearing his old ball cap, stared out his window, looking at the passing country and petting his female border collie, Riley.

The assignment for the group of three wandering cowboys was thought up by Jake’s mother-in-law, Mary McKinnon, the boys’ maternal grandmother.

Mary had read in a magazine about the Bureau of Land Management, or BLM, along with the Department of the Interior having an adoption program for the wild horses and burros of the American West. These animals had escaped from ranches and farms in various Western states, and these animals, and their succeeding generations competed with domestic cattle for a limited amount of available range land grasses.

For a small price of $150, and if you have a decent set up to keep and care for the well-being of the horse, after a year, the horse or burro is officially yours.

The adoption event Jake and the boys were heading to was being held in Riverton, Wyoming. There was an honor farm there where incarcerated inmates in good standing cared for and trained the mustangs. When they got there, Jake parked his rig with the others and Tommy walked Riley on a leash. Tommy gave the nine-year-old border collie a treat as he put her back in the truck.

Jake got some information papers from a volunteer describing the horses and where they were from, and they walked among the corrals looking for a good match. They came across a group of five horses from the Pryor Mountains of southern Montana. Two horses stayed in back of the others. Numbered 417 and 418, they looked pretty healthy. Both were dark brown, with black manes and tails. One was a few inches taller than the other. Jake read they were five- and four-year-old geldings. The taller five-year-old had a small white patch on his nose. Tommy gave out a whistle and the horses pricked up their ears. The four-year-old moved up a step, curious about the boy at the fence.

What do ya think, Will? Jake asked.

They look good, Will replied.

Tommy? Jake inquired.

I like ’em, Tommy said.

After Jake had filled out some forms and paid an official with a credit card, he went to get the truck. Two wranglers brought the horses out and walked them to another corral. After Jake backed the trailer up, Will got two halters and lead ropes out and the wranglers put them on the horses. They loaded up without a problem and after a few thanks and good lucks, they were on the road again. A few hours later, as they headed north toward Billings, Jake told the boys that the Pryor Mountains, where the horses were from, were off to the west.

Do you have any names picked out yet? Jake asked.

Will looked up from his road map. Yeah, mine’s Cowboy.

Jake nodded in agreement. How about yours Tommy?