Walter Thompson-Hernandez - The Compton Cowboys: Young Readers Edition: And the Fight to Save Their Horse Ranch

for my mama

THE HORSES ON THE RANCH sensed that one of the largest storms of the year was on the horizon and heading directly toward the farms. On any other weekend, rain wouldnt have been a problem, particularly with the five-year California drought, but on the weekend of the sixty-fifth annual Compton Christmas parade, rain couldnt have come at a more inconvenient time.

Several of the horses at the farms began feeling restless hours before the first gray clouds started to form over the city. They neighed loudly and flapped their long, coarse-haired tails, prompting a cacophony of sounds from other horses in nearby ranches throughout the farms. When the clouds finally did appear, they moved in slowly, deliberatelyalmost like they were aware of the potential they had to alter thousands of families weekend plans. The rain started as a light, soft drizzle, growing into a heavy downpour within an hour. Local rain canals, deteriorating from years of neglect, got hit the hardest. They immediately overflowed with trash and local waste as the rushing current headed south toward the Los Angeles River in the direction of the Pacific Ocean.

After listening to a Spanish-radio weather announcement earlier that day, Mr. Sanchez made sure to pack his large blue tarp onto his pickup truck after loading it with fresh meat, tortillas, and an assortment of vegetables that he bought from the market. He always had the fewest clients whenever it rained, and not having a protective covering over his stall drastically affected business.

But when the water began to pour through the tarp and onto the tables and chairs, he knew it was time to pack up his one-man taco stand and head home for the night. Thats it for tonight, amigo, he said to Jerome Jordan, a sixty-five-year-old black man who had worked for him for the past two years directing cars into a nearby abandoned lot in exchange for a few dollars and a plate of al pastor tacos at the end of each night. Like others his age, Jerome had lived through both the 1965 Watts Riots and the 1992 Los Angeles Riots and had seen his city go through dramatic changes.

On the ranch, the rain continued to fall on the weary aluminum tin roofs that protected the horses from the elements. Puddles of cold, muddy water collected in each stall, creating the perfect conditions for the spread of thrush, a bacterium known to thrive in dark, moist conditions and infect horse hooves. The sound of the hard pounding rain had made many of the horses uneasy. In a matter of months, if money wasnt found to keep the ranch running, the horses would be gone. It was something that Randy Hook, the cowboys leader, was thinking about on a daily basis.

Helio, one of the largest black Thoroughbreds on the ranch, neighed the loudest and moved erratically in his stall. His size often intimidated the other horses and kept every other horse on guard. Chocolate, a dark brownish old pony, rolled around in the mud, making his coat two shades darker with every turn. Sonny, one of the other quarter horses, aggressively chewed on the metal gate that separated him from Fury. On the opposite side of the ranch, Red Dog, an Australian cattle breed dog, scurried into the barn for protection at the first sight of water and spent the rest of the night curled up next to a bale of hay.

Byron Hook began feeling antsy as he tossed and turned inside his brown-carpeted bedroom. The rain had stopped in the middle of the night, and by morning the sun had finally crept out. He was a big guy for his height, five feet ten inches tall and weighing close to 240 pounds. His brown wooden single bed creaked loudly every time he turned his body in a different direction. The only thing louder was the sound of the Gutierrez familys crowing rooster next door, which had become like an alarm clock for him.

Usually the first one awake on the ranch, Byron was also the earliest to bed after watching the same cowboy westerns that he used to watch with his parents as a child in nearby Harbor City. As one of the last remaining original gangsters on the block, he had lived to see the Richland Farms go through many transformations, and, like the oak and sycamore trees that proudly lined both sides of the streets, he, too, had seen more than he had ever needed to see.

Back in the late 1980s, when the homes on the farms were mostly owned by African-Americans, Byron was known around the neighborhood for his flashy customized lowrider motorcycle. It had a curved banana seat and tall silver-chromed handlebars. The body was painted blue. At one point he attached a homemade speaker system to the back of his bike and played the same CDs that he downloaded and sold for a profit at local swap meets and at lowrider car shows. In those days, five dollars could get you an entire album, ten dollars could get you three, and twenty dollars could get you five. It was how he made his money and friends in the neighborhood. If his nephews, Randy and Carlton Hook, were lucky, he would let them stand on his back pegs and hang on to his shoulders while he rode up and down Caldwell Street.

At fifty-six, however, Byrons health had suffered due to several operations, and his memory was starting to fade. In addition to his failing health, streaming music services like Spotify had put a substantial dent in his music business. With almost no other way to make money, he began to panhandle around the neighborhood, sometimes coming home with a few dollars in his pockets, sometimes with nothing. He was struggling to get by.

On this particular morning, he was waiting for his nephews to arrive before the parade. As often, they arrived late. What up, Byron? his nephew Carlton said, abruptly opening the screen door. Carlton was wearing a pair of black sweats, sandals with white socks, and a snug-fitting white tank top.

Carlton sat down on the porch steps, protected from the sun by the overhead roof. His braids hung completely free, just out of the view of his glasses, but low enough to graze the C and H tattoos on his wiry shoulders. His friend Keenan Abercrombia had inked the tattoo on him in his backyard a few years ago.

You-you... almost hit me with the door, man! Byron said with a deep stammer. At this point in his life, his speech, much like his body, had diminished and was worsening by the day.

What you talking about? Carlton quickly responded. You trippin. Carltons voice rarely ever rose beyond a low murmur. Carlton was quiet and more reserved than his twin brother, Randy, and he preferred the sound of others to his own voice.

Never... never mind it, Bryon said. You readready for the parade?

You kiddin? Carlton said. Ive been waiting for this day all year, man.

When the city of Compton was incorporated in 1888 by founder Griffith D. Compton, his intention was to create a community where people could farm and cultivate crops. Thirty pioneering families quickly established a tight-knit community founded on agricultural traditions carried over from the Midwest and the South.

What began as a small, rural town emerged as ample residential lots that gave families from all over California the chance to raise a family, care for crops, and tend to livestock. The Richland Farms became a ten-acre community in the heart of Compton, founded blocks away from what would later become the Compton Courthouse and Compton High School. The farms became a community within a community that allowed families to live a semblance of the lives they once lived before.