The Yearlings: A Western Adventure

The horse and rider came through the deep cut in the hills, following the trail of the yearling steers. It wasn’t a difficult task, the cloven hooves having left a well-marked path in the late-season, crystallized snow. The tracker slowed, partly to try to hear any sounds the cattle might be making, and partly because each step took them farther from the safety of home. It didn’t help that night was closing in fast.
The rider wore an old pair of coveralls, the cuffs of which were turned up and held in place by the mukluk laces tied around them. The coat was of heavy, brown wool that had become dark and shiny over the years. The outfit was topped off by an old, round-top hat, the brim of which had long since given up any resistance to the yearly attacks of sun and wind. Under the hat a bandana was tied around under the jaw to protect the ears, for although the sun had been warm, the breeze had been crisp and had turned to chilling cold with the coming dark. The barrel of a .73 Winchester carbine was nestled in the crook of an elbow, a homemade rawhide sling hanging under it. There was no saddle on the horse, but rather an old wool blanket folded to make a riding pad. From any distance it was impossible to tell that the rider was not a teenage boy, but a woman.