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Discipline is indeed everything for this newly minted cowboy as he begins his assault on life every day at 4 a.m. He is always at his computer by 5. His sun-dappled two-room office is a few feet from the main house and next door to his wife's enormous new pottery studio. Fueled by coffee and Merit cigarettes, Waller writes seven days a week. He breaks at noon for lunch and a half-hour nap, and at 3 p.m. "it's a whole new day." Several afternoons a week he jogs 2 1/2 miles, works on his photography, which he took up in 1986, or strums his guitar. In the late afternoon, Waller gets in his '68 Ford Bronco, checks for his sawed-off .410 shotgun under the seat, and takes off to inspect the cattle and water tanks on his land, with his three tough ranch dogs in hot pursuit.

The Wallers have no TV and get only one newspaper, the Alpine Avalanche — a weekly. All of which is fine with them. "I decided a while ago that 99.9 percent of the stuff going on in the world or what passes for news was of no interest to me," says Waller. In conversation, Waller is prone to making little speeches like that. He also says corny things like "Go well" when he says goodbye. He talks a lot about being sentimental, about being an "unabashed romantic." It all can seem a little suspicious, especially when the chilly mathematician in him (he once taught a course in quantitative methods) lets you know that "I measure the cost of everything — watching a football team, giving an interview — against what else I could be doing."

In fact, it's when Waller isn't talking about being sentimental that a genuine sweetness and warmth shine through. This is especially apparent when he is with his Border collie Jack, who had been hit by a car and left for dead before Waller found him at the vet's office. Waller spends 30 minutes each day holding him and talking to him. "Nobody can believe it's the same dog they saw a few months ago," Waller says proudly. When Waller drives to a remote spot on the ranch to have his picture taken, Jack follows the Bronco but suddenly vanishes, and Waller fears he has run onto the highway. "Jack! Jack!" he howls into the cold, vast expanse of desert, barely able to concentrate on the photo session. His anxiety is palpable until Jack turns up safe at the house a short while later.

Most of the time, though, the only drama at Firelight Ranch takes place on Waller's computer screen. But most Saturday nights, he and Georgia head to their favorite hangout, the Crystal Bar in downtown Alpine. It is here that Waller has befriended real cowboys like Sam Cavness, 47, who makes $12,000 a year tending a 28,000-acre ranch near the Wallers' and is notorious for riding his horse through the Crystal. "He's a fine guy," says Cavness, as he sucks down a Lone Star beer. "We drink and bullshit. We never talk about him being famous. I've never even read his book." When Waller takes to the road to photograph West Texas, Cavness often accompanies him. "He never understands the pictures I take, but we get along great," says Waller.

It's close to midnight, and Waller is making another little speech. "This is what America ought to be," he says, gesturing at Cavness, his wife, Georgia, and their friends. "Things don't have to be that complicated." Cavness just grins at him. Pretty soon they reluctantly get ready to leave. Cavness, whom Waller calls "the real last cowboy," has to get up for work at 4:30 a.m. By then his wealthy friend, of course, will have already been up for half an hour. "Get up early, go to work, work hard, work smart," says Waller. "And you know, maybe something good will happen." The two men and their wives walk outside, get in their trucks, and drive south in the darkness on Route 90. They seem, as Waller would say, to go well.


Posted Dec 16, 1994 | Published in issue #253 Dec 16, 1994 | Order Article Reprints
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