3

The next day dawned much the same as the last several. The sun rose brassily in the chilly air, doing little to take the edge off the frosty morning. However, by noon I’d be sweating under that same sun. The wind, which had died down during the night, was once again picking up from the northwest. It was certain to torment me all day.

I rekindled my fire, cooked my breakfast, and wolfed it down. Once I was finished, I didn’t even bother to take the time for a smoke. I cleaned up my campsite, tied my bedroll behind my saddle, pulled on my leather gloves, and retrieved Laramie. The sun was barely a half-hour above the eastern horizon when I was back in the saddle, facing another long day of drudgery.

The next several hours were a repeat of the past two weeks. It was ride along the fence until I found a break. Then I’d dismount and ground-hitch Laramie. I’d take my pliers, pull the wire taut, and splice it back together. If a post were down, I’d straighten it back up, tamp down the soil at its base, then hammer the wire back in place. Occasionally I would have to employ wire cutters to break through a tangle of downed wire, cutting and

splicing until I had the snarl cleared and the fence back in place.

By late afternoon I was wistfully reflecting on the days of the open range, before this cussed “devil’s wire” had been invented. Several times the sharp barbs had ripped through the protection of my thick leather gloves to slice my hands. My language had been reduced to swearing every time I felt another sting from that wire. I was almost convinced it was a thing alive, malevolently attempting to tear me to shreds. When the wire in a particularly nasty snag snapped without warning and slashed across my face I went to my knees in pain, violently cursing Joseph Glidden, the hombre who’d perfected barbed wire. If I’d had him in front of me at that moment I’d have cheerfully gut-shot him. However, all I could do was curse Glidden roundly, put my bandanna to my ripped cheek until the bleeding stopped, then resume my task.

But much as I hated it, that blasted wire wasn’t the worst of my troubles, at least not to my mind. That accursed northwest wind had been steadily increasing all day. I’d had to tie my bandanna over my nose and mouth to keep out the dust it carried. Nonetheless, bits of sand and grit stung my eyes and blurred my vision. With evening coming on, that wind carried the chill of the faraway snow-capped peaks where it was born. It had rolled out of those mountains, tumbled over their foothills, and worked its way through the canyons and river breaks, picking up speed all along its journey. By

now it had been blowing for miles over the high prairies, unimpeded except for the occasional coulee or draw. Where it funneled through those defiles that wind shrieked with the voices of a thousand demons. It was even affecting Laramie, my normally unflappable paint. The gelding kept tossing his head, snorting anxiously, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air and stamped nervously. He finally came up to me and nuzzled my shoulder.

“I reckon you’re right, boy,” I tried to soothe him. “It’s time to call it a day and try’n find some cover from this gale.”

I jammed my tools into the saddlebags and climbed onto Laramie’s back. Once mounted, I scanned the surrounding prairie for any sign of shelter. The only place I spotted was a high ridge. With luck, once I topped that rise and headed down the other side, it would provide a bit of cover from the unceasing wind.

“Let’s go, boy,” I urged my horse. He gave a snort of protest when a particularly fierce gust stung his hide with fragments of gravel. It ruffled Laramie’s mane and blew his tail nearly perpendicular to his body.

“It’s gettin’ worse,” I muttered, “And there’s nowhere to hide.”

Here on the high plains, that wind could blow for days, even weeks. It had been known to drive men insane.

If I didn’t escape from its grasp, I could very well meet the same fate.

I heeled Laramie into a slow jogtrot.