Thanksgiving 2003.

This morning I was up and about at my usual time, about 5:30. After taking care of a few little chores and getting a quick jump start with my morning cup of coffee and killing a little time, waiting for a reasonable hour, I called my old friend, Erney Hersman, who lives on the Broken Heart Ranch and takes care of that ranch, among other things, as he has done for years. We both more or less work for Dan. Dan met Erney, perhaps as much as a year, probably less, before I met them. That was over thirty years ago.

We became fast friends, guided by a common concern, hawking or falconry (we mostly called it hawking in those days); but it did not take long for those friendships far to exceed the common concern that first brought us together. We shared a lot of experiences, and as time and circumstance would have it, we often were separated by time and distance and school and work. Some years were particularly hard; a few were almost cushy; and through it all, we remained close friends, helping each other out whenever we could and whenever it was necessary. Years went by; we did what we had to do. Dan moved into the Black Hills region, Erney worked in a glass-ceilinged job until it came crashing down around him, and Dan offered him work and a place to live; I continued at the University of South Dakota until my retirement in 1995. In the Fall of 2002 Dan and Sam offered me my present position at this ranch, and here we all are.

Today, this Thanksgiving Day of 2003, Dan and Jill are in France; I drove up to the Broken Heart Ranch. I went for several reasons: to help Erney with his buffalo and horse chores, and to take him out for a Thanksgiving dinner. We were both on our own, left to our own devices; and it only seemed right and natural for two old friends to share this traditionally important American meal together. Two out of three ain't bad.

So I arrived at the Broken Heart driving in the snow tracks up to Erney's cabin. When I set foot on the ground, I was surrounded by a swirl of dogs: Henri and Tripp (English Setters) and MooseAnn (old, English Springer Spaniel), greeting me and looking to be briefly petted.

Erney came ambling his way from behind the ranch house where the pigeon house, tack room, and kennel (with more dogs) are located. We shook hands as we always do even though the act takes more effort from Erney than it used to. Last Mothers' Day Erney was felled by a left-side, brain trauma, stroke. He has made very significant rehabilitative strides but has thus far recovered only partial use and strength of his right arm and hand, and most of the use and strength of his right leg; so doing chores for him is not nearly as easy as it was.

As we talked, doing chores, drinking coffee, killing time, he casually mentioned that he was considering selling his Sharps 45/70 caliber rifle that Stan Holsclaw had used when the first buffalo were killed for wildideabuffalocompany. "I'll never be able to use it again," he said. I could hardly believe it; I was a little shocked; so I kind of blurted out, "How much do you want for it?" He gave me a figure but said it might not be worth that and that he could/would/should have it appraised. I asked, "May I have the right of first refusal?" Erney answered a slightly enthusiastic, "Yes."

I am a rifleman, have been a serious competition shooter and hunter all my life, and am not about to stop now, although I do not hunt as much as I did. So, I am not going to let this rifle fade into the dim recesses of some collector's vault. I will own it for several reasons: 1) it is significant to wildideabuffalo; 2) it is Erney's; 3) it has a certain historical value, however small, in a couple of ways; and like that wonderful old bull, Curly Bill, it deserves to be held in trust. What else can old friends do for one another?