Deb’s hand reached for Trace’s arm. “That’s so sad.”
Fine snow drifted down on their heads. The wind was quiet tonight, and Trace heard an owl hoot in the woods that grew out of the mountain that rose up on the west side of the trail to Dismal.
“I saw that colt planning to stay put, probably until more wolves came, maybe until it just starved to death. I pulled a lasso off my waist and roped him. I didn’t try to move him or lead him anywhere. I just secured him to a tree. Then a glint of light from one of the wolves drew my eye. I realized as I looked at her that she was no wolf. Some wolves can be black, but she had a white stripe down the middle of her face and the glint of light was an old collar. She was someone’s dog, gone back to being a wild critter. I was curious so I went to look closer at the collar, and when I did, I realized she was a nursing mother. She had pups somewhere. Pups I’d just consigned to a slow death from starvation.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. She was trying to comfort him. He was supposed to be a tough man, but he’d been touched so little for so long that he couldn’t help but enjoy it. Then he thought of how she’d react if he told her of the three years he’d been The Guardian of that trail, how he’d killed and done it so well that after a couple of years the outlaws—those who were still alive—went on their way out of fear. But the killing had stained his soul to the point that when he looked down on people in that first wagon train he’d guarded—the only people he’d seen for a year, people whose lives he’d just saved—he hadn’t gone down to talk to them. He’d done his work from the hilltop, then kept away from the wagon train and the decent folks riding in it. And because he’d kept to himself, he’d become a mystery, a ghost, a legend. He’d become The Guardian, when all he really was, was a half-rabid fool driven by vengeance and hate.
“The strangeness of me saving a baby who’d just lost its mother, by killing another mother and leaving another baby to die, was a weight on me that I didn’t want to bear. So I started back tracking the wolves. I led the foal along. That little colt didn’t like leaving its mama, but he was too little to resist and before long he’d started following willingly. He was old enough to graze on winter grass and drink from a stream. I was afraid the colt was too young to survive without its mother’s milk.
“I’d already caught my first few cows and managed to gentle three of them to be milkers, so there was cow’s milk once I got Black home. I was relieved when he ate and seemed to befriend me. I was three days hunting when finally I found the den. In it was one surly little pup that looked half-starved, his legs weak and wobbly. He still wanted to chew me up when he saw me. But he was still just a baby, so I handled him.” Trace nodded toward Wolf. “I wrapped him up in the blanket from my bedroll to keep him from biting me, and we set out for home.”
Deb smiled. “So Wolf is that pup, and the horse you ride is the colt?”
“Yep. And Wolf and I and Black lived alone out here for another two years.” Trace thought of it and how much more bearable the loneliness had been with his two new companions with him. God had truly been looking out for him, because he wasn’t sure he’d’ve been able to hold on to his senses if he’d been completely alone all that time. “It was two years before the colt was tall enough to ride. Heaven knows he ain’t well trained because I knew nothing of properly training a horse. But these two and me got to be mighty good friends.”
He led her along, her hand settled into the crook of his elbow, the moon peeking between fast-moving clouds. A gap in the mountain ahead was his destination. He turned off the trail and led her to a gate built of lodgepole pine that closed the gap in the canyon.
“My herd is in there.” He pointed through the heavy gate. “Mostly all longhorns I caught wild in these mountains, though there are a few other breeds too—five years’ worth of young stuff mostly all born on my property. I had near two hundred cows and sold off one hundred of them on the drive. I think I’m finally established enough I can live on the cows I raise, hold a cattle drive every year, and make enough money to support myself and maybe buy a few nicer cattle. Herefords, I reckon. They’re gentler and gain weight faster.”
Her breath caught. “I can see them. They’re mostly white against the brown grass. With the snow drifted around, I couldn’t tell the cows from the snow at first.”
“Once the snow covers the ground they almost vanish, even though they’re speckled. But the snow doesn’t get too deep because it’s really protected, so the grass stays uncovered for a long time, and these are mountain-bred cattle that know how to dig for food. I came upon this canyon
