“Blister went to bed and stayed there for a spell. He was a sick man.” Harshaw’s eye caught sight of some black specks on a distant hillside. “Cattle. We’ll come back after we’ve onloaded at the cabin.”
They did. It was long after dark before they reached shelter again.
The riders of the Slash Lazy D were glad to see spring come, though it brought troubles of its own. The weather turned warm and stayed so. The snow melted faster than the streams could take care of it. There was high water all over the Blanco country. The swollen creeks poured down into the overflowing river. Three punchers in the valley were drowned inside of a week, for that was before the bridges had been built.
While the water was still high Harshaw started a trail herd to Utah.
According to old-timers the automobile is responsible for the extermination of the game supply going on so rapidly. The pioneers at certain seasons provided for their needs by killing blacktail and salting down the meat. But they were dead shots and expert hunters. The automobile tourists with high-power rifles rush into the hills during the open season and kill male and female without distinction. For every deer killed outright three or four crawl away to die later from wounds. One ranchman reports finding fifteen dead deer on one day’s travel through the sage.