A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done

Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles; that first cattle drive was a blur of ordinary days that melted into each other they way dust melts into mud after a hard rain. I hardly know what memories to keep and which ones to throw away.

The rustler – he cut a steer from the back of the herd and drove him off to the east. I was on drag when I saw them go. I went and found the boss to tell him about it. Boss told Curly Bill to take me to track him down and get that beef back. When we found him, Curly Bill pulled out his pistol and gut shot him on the spot, left him to die and took his horse.

“No tree to hang him from, boy.” Curly Bill growled at me, seeing the look of horror on my face. “Time to grow up,” he added. “No room in the world for thieves.”

That rustler was’t more than a year older than me – 16 at most.

Thunder and lightning, rain and wind rolled across us. The sun scorched us, rattlesnakes and bad food dogged our progress as we moved up the trail.

A Cowboy’s Work Is Never Done.

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