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Truth, Justus, and the American Way: Cliven Bundy invites a five-year-old to try on a cowboy hat. | |
Bunkerville,
Nevada –
War
came to the Western Range that April, a conflict pitting the forces
of order and respectability against a restive band of extremists
accused of cheating the government of what it was due. The
prohibitively stronger side consisted of regulatory agencies allied
with powerful non-governmental organizations determined to control
the land and expel small private interests who made productive use of
it. The unyielding demands of the political elite were met with the
unflinching defiance of rural ranchers, leading to talk of a “range
war.”
Eventually
the ranchers exhausted the patience of the government, which deployed
dozens of heavily armed Regulators to the county under orders to put
down the rebellion. This would mean arresting – or shooting –
anybody who resisted. Rather than submitting, the rebels – with the
support of the county sheriff and the aid of several veterans of the
most recent war – mobilized to confront the threat. Citizens
coalesced into a militia and rode out on horseback to confront the
invaders at their staging area.
To
the consternation of the government and the respectable media, the
rebels held their ground, forcing the Regulators to retreat.
This,
in broad outline, is the
story that unfolded at an overpass outside Bunkerville, Nevada on
April 12, when hundreds of citizens – confronting paramilitary
Regulators who were prepared to gun them down – compelled the BLM
to return hundreds of cows the agency had stolen from the family of
rancher Cliven Bundy to punish him for failing to pay grazing fees
the agency had imposed on him without legitimate authority.
This act
of government-licensed cattle rustling was carried out by "contact cowboys"* who were aided by a paramilitary force of roughly 200
people from the Bureau of Land Management, which is, from a
constitutional perspective, a bastard agency.
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(All Bunkerville photo credits: Scott Watson.) |
Through
what must be considered an act of Providence, no lives were lost on
April 12.
A bloodier version of the same story played out on the same
day 122 years ago in Wyoming's Johnson County: Hundreds of citizens
surrounded the TA Ranch, which was the base of operations for dozens
of gunmen who had been deputized by the state government, provided
with a roster of troublesome local ranchers, and ordered to execute
every man whose name was inscribed on the kill list.
In
both cases, the aggressors – the BLM and federal comrades in
Bunkerville, a corporatist clique called the Wyoming Stock Growers
Association in Johnson County – claimed to be acting in the name of
the law, which for them was digested to a single arrogant claim: “The
land is ours because we say it is.”
Human lives were lost in
Wyoming's Johnson County War. So far there have been no human
casualties in the BLM's range war against the family and property of
rancher Cliven Bundy. To this point, the invaders have had to be
content with one assault with a deadly weapon (the Taser attack on Ammon Bundy), an act of aggravated assault on a pregnant woman, and the
slaughter of a still-unknown number of the Bundy family's cattle coupled with
extensive damage to their property.
“I have
certain rights there – range improvements and so forth,” Cliven
Bundy told me during an interview near the site of the April 12
standoff.
Although the grazing areas are considered public lands, he
continued, “I did have private property there, and there was
damage. What the law would do here – they [the Feds] have four
Metro [police] officers out there twenty-four hours a day protecting
their `property.' A few days ago, though, I had almost 400 cattle out
there [under BLM control] and they didn't give a damn about that
property.”
At least
one bull was shot while securely penned, and an unspecified number of
other cattle were killed. In addition, Cliven pointed out, “They
tore up water lines and cut water tanks in two.”
“The
damage is very extensive,” Cliven's son Ryan told me, holding a
complaint he was filing with the Clark County Sheriff's Office.
“There were 200 BLM people out there, and they all had off-road
vehicles, in addition to the contract cowboys [hired by the Feds to
confiscate the cattle] and they have just tromped this ground. Roads
meant nothing to them. First they widened the roads with heavy
equipment, and then they didn't stay on the roads. They would expect
a normal person never to overturn a stone, but these guys have just
ravished this land.”
In addition
to wrecking the range improvements that the Bundy family was legally
entitled to make, the BLM Regulators didn't spare the abode of the
incomparably precious desert tortoise, whose preservation was the
stated rationale for driving cattle ranching into near-oblivion in
Clark County.
“We found
several places where their trucks have caved in tortoise dens,” Ryan Bundy told me, his voice laden with weary disgust. “Talk
about hypocrisy.”
The
BLM was forced to withdraw its armed Regulators without firing a shot
on April 12. But the agency has made clear its intention to continue
its efforts to drive Bundy – the last of Clark County, Nevada's
cattle ranchers – from range land the federal government illegally
claims as its own.
“
We
believe in a country in which we are subject to laws and you can't
just ignore the laws we don't like,” sniffed
Rory Reid. “I think clearly if state and local prosecutors look
at this more closely, they're going to find that he broke the law and
he should be prosecuted.”
After
the retreat on April 12, the BLM sent four ominous-looking certified
letters to the Bundy home.
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Hereditary commissar Rory Reid. |
“I've
not opened them,” Cliven Bundy explained to me, a subtle smile
tugging at the corner of his mouth. Reports have been put in
circulation that the BLM – under the influence of the Reid dynasty
– may eventually induce the Sheriff's Office to raid the Bundy
family's home.
Cliven has said that if the Sheriff is issued a
warrant signed by judge of appropriate jurisdiction, he will turn
himself in.
Volunteers acting as private peace officers stationed
along checkpoints leading to the Bundy home told me that if the
Sheriff's office presents a valid warrant, they will do nothing to
interfere – but that a SWAT-style raid would lead to trouble.
Cliven
isn't burdened with any illusions about the kind of people who are
seeking to shut down his ranch.
When
Cliven and his sons went out to inspect the damage to the range land,
they found “a pit – about fifty feet long, thirty feet wide, and
ten feet deep. About a third of it was full of something. We know
there were [cattle] body parts sticking out of it.”
“It
was a mass grave,” concluded Cliven, grimly. “Let me tell you
something – if they hadn't backed off [on April 12] they would have
had mass human bodies.”
No
lives were lost in the Battle of Bunkerville, but the Feds and their
allies clearly see the withdrawal as a tactical retreat, and the wary
peace that currently prevails as a fermata, rather than a coda, in the conflict. The Johnson County War of 1892 illustrates what could
happen if the federal campaign against the Bundys becomes a literal
range war.
The
first victim in the elite's onslaught against homesteaders and
ranchers in Wyoming was a reformed prostitute named Ellen Watson,
more
commonly known as as “Cattle Kate.” Amid murky accusations of
cattle rustling, Watson and her husband, James Averill, were lynched
in 1889, three years before open warfare erupted along the Powder
River.
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Buffalo, Wyoming, circa 1890. |
At the time, a growing segment of the Wyoming population sought alterations to the state's range laws, which had been written
by, and on behalf of, the Wyoming Stock Growers Association. The
Association, for its part, was trying to minimize its losses
following the collapse of a speculative bubble in the cattle industry
during the 1880s.
In
the decade leading up to the invasion of Johnson County, wrote Asa
Shinn Mercer in his turn-of-the- 20th
Century expose The
Banditti of the Plains, “a
craze for cattle company investments was created in the East and also
in the British Isles. Soon the bulk of holding passed into the hands
of corporations and high-salaried officials took charge of the
business, living luxuriously in club house in the various towns and
trusting the real management of herds and ranches to subordinates …
frequently without practical experience.”
The
lure of supposedly easy profits in the cattle industry proved
irresistible to pampered children of privilege, whose dreams of
empire-building in the American West were fueled by such works as
Cattle
Raising on the Plains of North America
by Prussian nobleman and Colorado cattle mogul Baron Walter von
Richthofen. “There is not the slightest amount of uncertainty in
cattle raising,” the Baron assured his fellow elitists
The
parvenus and dilettantes who overran Wyoming included “the black
sheep sons of European noblemen and wealthy youngish adventurers from
New York, businessmen from Paris and Edinburgh, Scotland,” observes
historian Hal Herring. “The Anglo-Beef conglomerate, one of the
world's largest cattle companies, was formed in an office in foggy
London, its investors toasting the vast profits to coming from an
unimaginably raw land across the Atlantic.”
One
inevitable result of the elite onslaught was a culture clash between
the Europeans steeped in feudal conceits and traditions and the
incorrigibly individualistic knights of the plains.
“The
English referred to cowboys as `cow servants,'” Herring points out,
“and the classic Western tale was born of the English lord, a newly
arrived landowner, who rode up to a neighboring ranch and asked the
ranch foreman if his `master' was at home.”
“The
son-of-a bitch hasn't been born yet,” came the cowboy's laconic and
thoroughly unamused reply.
Until
the late 1880s, the elitists who were represented in the Wyoming
Stock Growers Association – and who controlled the state
government – were content to allow actual cowboys to do the work,
while they harvested the profits. During the boom, a growing number of
cowboys acquired sufficient capital to obtain herds and homestead
unapportioned land within what historian Helena Huntington Smith
described as “an empty paradise of waving grass – a cowman's
paradise with the Indians out but the cowmen not yet in.”
This
arrangement worked “very well while the markets ruled high,” Asa
Mercer wrote in his memoir of the period. However, some of the
well-connected eastern cattle companies began to undermine the market
by rounding up “culls” and elderly steers that were “unfit for
beef” and selling them to feeders at inflated prices, an
arrangement that “tickled the avarice of the Eastern or foreign
shareholders and prevented a careful investigation of the methods
employed.” Mercer described this as “wholesale robbery.”
The
speculative cattle bubble likewise led to the over-crowding of
available grazing land, which left “the ranges crowded and the
grass eaten until the winter food was too short to carry the stock
through the cold weather.”
Depletion
of grazing areas accelerated during the drought of 1886, which was
immediately followed by an abnormally severe winter. This “caused
an excessive mortality among all classes of cattle and reduced the
calf crop to fully one half” in Wyoming herds, Mercer recalled. To
meet contracts, the elite-operated companies expanded the practice of
“robbing the herd” by sending inferior quality beef cattle to
Chicago. This likewise had predictable consequences: Beef prices
plummeted more than half – partially because a correction in
inflated prices was overdue, but also because of “the generally
poor condition of the range shipments in consequence of overstocking
and the resulting scarcity of feed.”
At
this point in the classic boom-to-bust cycle, the correct approach
would be to allow over-grown, inefficient cattle corporations to fail
and allow smaller producers to rebuild the cattle market.
This
was precisely what the entrenched interests responsible for that
catastrophe wanted to avoid. Accordingly, aided by the mercenary
press, the establishment cattle cartel generated a propaganda
campaign blaming that collapse on “rustlers,” whose alleged
depredations were aided and protected by an incorrigible public.
Johnson County was depicted as a hotbed of rustler activity.
The
cartel had become entrenched immediately after Wyoming was given
territorial status in 1868. Representatives of “Eastern and foreign
cattle syndicates” dominated the legislature, Mercer insisted, and
the Wyoming Stock Growers Association “virtually shaped the
territorial policy.... Legislative enactments first assumed form the
the executive councils of the association and through its social
prestige were popularized with the masses, even before adoption of
laws.”
In
1891, the cartel-dominated legislature passed a measure creating the
“Board of Livestock Commissioners” with a broad mandate to
“protect the livestock interests of the state from theft and
disease.” To that end the commissioners were instructed to appoint
“stock inspectors” authorized to impose fines and to conduct both
seizures and arrests. This most likely led to the assassination-style killings of ranchers John Tisdale and Orley Jones by a secretive squad of "inspectors."
Rancher Nate Champion, a redoubtable and widely respected man, offered eyewitness testimony that the murderer was an inspector named Joe Elliott, who was indicted and bound over for trial.
This exercise of legitimate judicial authority against the Stock Growers Association's interests prompted the oligarchy to escalate its campaign to annihilate its opposition. The cartel began a concerted
press campaign through major newspapers in eastern cities “to make
their readers believe that a reign of terror existed in half a dozen
counties in the state that could only be overcome by a resort to
arms....”
It
was for that purpose that the Commission recruited a group of
“Regulators” who arrived in Cheyenne on April 2, 1892, in a
Pullman train car – its windows blacked out. Their mission, as
described to them by their commander, Major Frank Wolcott, was to
execute warrants calling for the summary execution of cattle
rustlers, whose names were inscribed on a “kill list.” Each
lethal “warrant service” would earn the trigger-puller a $50
commission to supplement their salary of $5 a day – a very
lucrative arrangement at a time when the standard ranch hand's wage
was $25 a month.
Their
wagons groaning beneath a supply of ammunition sufficient “to kill
every inhabitant of Wyoming,” the death squad -- numbering roughly 50 men -- lit out for the KC
Ranch to cross the first two names from their list – Nick Ray and
Nate Champion, the latter having earned his spot by testifying against Elliott. After taking the ranch's cook and a visiting cowboy
prisoner, the Regulators laid siege to the ranch, killing Ray
immediately.
Champion
sold himself dearly, holding off dozens of heavily armed, ruthless men for
an entire day.
“They
are shooting at the house now,” a preternaturally composed Champion
recorded in a journal that should be regarded as a masterpiece of
stoic literature. “[T]hey have just got through shelling the house
again like hail. I heard them splitting wood. I guess they are going
to fire the house tonight. I think I will make a break when night
comes, if alive.”
As
Champion predicted, the The Regulators eventually employed what would
now be called the “Waco Protocol.”
“The
house is all fired,” wrote Champion in his terse, fatalistic final
entry. “Goodbye, boys, if I never see you again.”
Shortly
before 9:00 on evening of April 8, the invaders flushed Champion from
his burning home and gunned him down. They proceeded to the next target, a homestead known as the TA Ranch.
Champion
had noted in his journal that “If I had a pair of glasses I believe
I would know” some of the invaders who eventually murdered him. His
neighbor, a journalist named Jack Flagg, had a similar thought when
he rode by the ranch during the siege. Flagg wasn't aware that his
name was on the kill list. That fact was abruptly made known to him
when one of the Regulators sent rounds in his direction. Flagg
hastened to the nearby town of Buffalo, where he told Johnson County
Sheriff Red Angus about the assault on Champion's settlement.
While the
Sheriff assembled his posse, the city's leading merchant, a
transplanted Scotsman named Robert Foote, assumed the role of Paul
Revere, dashing through the streets of Buffalo urging residents to
arm themselves and “take a side.” Over the next three days,
recalls Helena Huntington Smith in her definitive book The
War on Powder River, “The
streets were filling with armed men from the nearer ranches, while
riders were sent to distant parts of the country for help to repel
the murders.”
On
April 11, the spontaneously organized citizens' militia arrived at
the TA Ranch to engage the invaders. Snipers took up positions and
trained their gun sights on the main ranch house. Several members of
the militia cobbled together an assault vehicle they called the "Ark." Under covering fire
from snipers they advanced on the enemy, hurling improvised explosive
devices into the building.
The
Wyoming Stock Growers Association, a non-governmental organization
controlled by politically connected cattle interests, urged Acting
Governor Amos Barber to intervene. Barber sent a frantic telegram to
President Benjamin Harrison describing the citizen uprising as a
threat to national security:
“An
insurrection exists in Johnson County, in the state of Wyoming, in
the immediate vicinity of For McKinney, against the government of
said state.... I apply to you on behalf of the state of Wyoming to
direct the United States troops at Fort McKinney to assist in
suppressing the insurrection.”
By
April 12, the citizen militia had taken control of the TA Ranch, and
the Regulators were pinned helplessly inside the stable. On
the following day, Colonel Robert T. Van Horn and the 6th
Cavalry arrived on the scene, no doubt to the relief of the
Regulators and their employers.
That relief rapidly gave way to
consternation when Van Horn deferred to Sheriff Angus, recognized the
legitimacy of the citizen revolt, and made arrangements for the
Regulators to surrender.
Colonel
Van Horn treated “the armed citizenry with the utmost respect,
while making it clear that the fighting had to stop,” Herring
recounts. “To the surprise of the cavalry, as soon as Van Horn
assured the citizens that the Regulators would be arrested and taken
to Fort McKinney, the impromptu militia swiftly disbanded.”
Although
Major Wolcott insisted on surrendering to Van Horn, claiming that he
would fight to the death rather than surrendering to Sheriff Angus,
he disarmed his despondent mercenaries and went peaceably to the
stockade at Fort McKinney. The Wyoming Stock Growers Association
retained enough political clout to arrange the release of Wolcott and
his Regulators without facing criminal charges. But the Association –
which was already reeling from its financial losses – quickly lost
its stranglehold on Wyoming politics.
Within
a few years, the elite-connected cattlemen retired from an industry
for which they were manifestly unsuitable, abandoned a state they had
nearly destroyed, and found other ways to inflict misery on humanity.
While isolated conflicts continued to flare up in the range lands
until the second decade of the 20th Century, Wyoming was
left to manage its own affairs – until the heirs of the elite
interests behind the WSGA devised a new rationale for land-grabbing:
Environmental protection.
“This
isn't about protecting turtles – it's about controlling the land,”
declared Red Bear, an Apache Indian from St. George Utah, who told me
that he had come to Bunkerville “to stand in defense of freedom.”
He described to me how he had been confronted by a BLM official while
walking on the range.
“He
told me that I had to leave, because I had `no right to be on the
property,'” Red Bear said, emitting a disgusted chuckle over the
armed functionary's severe irony deficiency.
“To a Native, that's a
very old story, and it's the same one we're seeing here in
Bunkerville today. The people behind this are driven by greed and
capable of great violence, and it's happening everywhere in the
country. I came here – all of these people came to Bunkerville –
to tell the government and the people working with them that it stops
here.”
Dum spiro, pugno!
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In the original version of this article I reported -- based on previous accounts -- that the BLM-supervised confiscation of Bundy's cattle was carried out by Cattoor Livestock, a firm in Nephi, Utah that has done contract work for the agency in the past. According to Sue Cattoor, "The contractors were Shayne Sampson and Cameron Warner." I regret the erroneous earlier report, and extend my apologies to the Cattoor firm.