From there, they kept culling, trimming 50, 60, then 70 percent of the 250 head they stocked during wet years. In July, they weaned the calves they'd usually keep until October, and sold them off too. They're hoping, if worst comes to worst, to hold on to a core herd of 40 or 50 young cows, to avoid the astronomical buy-in that everyone predicts — think $2,000 replacement heifers.
But even that's looking less and less possible. In the last few weeks, some of the tanks they use to water their cattle have given out. The water well feeding the concrete reservoir, which in turn feeds the water troughs the cows drink from, has weakened. They're hauling water in a 1,600-gallon, trailer-mounted tank, filled from the garden hose and the city water tower. A cow needs about 40 gallons of water a day when the temperature edges up to the 100s. They're hauling 3,000 gallons a week out to the cows. Figure in the cost of diesel burned trucking it across the pastures, the full work day it consumes, the wear and tear on the pickups, and you begin to understand why ranchers pray the tanks hold out.
Brandon Thibodeaux
Brandon Thibodeaux
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On pastures north of town, there's plenty of water, but termites are devouring what's left of the dead grass. Stansberry has seen few white-tail fawns this year, and he doesn't expect a turkey hatch, or for the quail to run. Every animal, every industry, suffers.
"There's nothing you can do to make it better," Gabe says. "You have no idea when, how or what's coming. You have to make the decision to sell or hold stock. You could sell everything, and it'll rain next week and keep on raining. Then you have to buy back in and it costs three times what you sold it for."
It's a decision that keeps his father up at night.
"You lay awake, trying to figure which is the best move you can make, and you don't know," the elder Stansberry says
If there were nothing more at stake than his own herd, his own operation, he would have sold completely out by now, he says, aiming to buy back in during better times. But it isn't his herd alone anymore. Because right behind his son sits a fifth generation of Stansberry. Question is, should he keep his grip, or does he let go?
"I'm not gonna be able to do it much longer," Stansberry says.
How does a rancher know when to quit? When he has emptied his savings account for hay bales and feed to get his cows through the winter, and the bank does the math and decides not to loan another cent? When his stock tanks go dry, and the cost of hauling water becomes too great? When his cows look like the bunch beneath a catwalk at the Wichita Livestock Sales, hides drawn tight over rib cages and pelvises, but drawn in at the flanks, giving them that bass-violin outline?
Is it when he's certain it won't rain in a week or a month or five months? And what if it does, and he sold every cow, and the cost of a replacement heifer nears $2,000? What then? How do you start over? And what of the younger men, few though they may be, who've taken jobs pumping leases to pay off the feed bill? How long before the steady paycheck calls?
What about the old-timers, like Jack Loftin? What would his wife do with him anyway, rattling anxiously around the house all day, a man who prospered and failed in barometric increments, who curses the rocky soil, the dry weather and the stubborn cattle by turns, but whose identity is irretrievably bound to each, just like his father's and his grandfather's? When does he quit? Does he even know how?
There's a long, pale scar running along Loftin's tanned forearm, which is a little crooked, like the lightning-struck post oaks on his feed road. Many years ago, the sleeve of his Army fatigue jacket caught the power take-off shaft attached to a post-hole digger, wrapping his forearm around the rig's U-joint and snapping it like a dead mesquite limb. He never straightened his arm again after that, nor could he completely bend it, but he learned to get by.
It hangs slightly away from his side as he walks down to the stock tank some 200 yards from the house. The tank has become a gray chancre coated in a fine dusting of salt. The clay bottom has dried out completely and contracted, sinking deep fissures as it splits into an infinite assortment of flaking, polygonal shapes. Loftin can get through just about anything. He can jury-rig and improvise and wield the native ingenuity impelled by necessity. But he can't make it rain. He can't make the grass grow. He can't fill this tank.
Still, out here, it's as though the needle has been lifted from the spinning record, and all the noise of the world stops, and it's just the wind hissing through the dead buffalograss. It's where he was always supposed to be, from the moment he was born until the day he dies. Raising cattle. Now, he doesn't know what's coming.
"I don't know until the time comes what I will do," he says. "I hope it don't come."
But at least for today, the sky above him says enough: Clear, blue, untroubled.