"Paine, Lauran - Blue Basin Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Paine Lauran)

The men stiffly climbed down to spring their knees a little. The sun
was climbing now. This large, grassy plateau was part of a
heavily-timbered and black-shadowed series of stair-stepped serrated
mountains which culminated about a hundred miles away, up where dirty
snow lay year-round in the form of glacial ice among the crevices of
granite rims and peaks.

While Foster and Abel stamped around, walked a little, Alex remained
with his big horses adjusting straps, talking to the animals, making
sure there were no galled places from traces or collars.

When Abel and Foster returned, they mentioned fresh wild-horse signs
out yonder, and Alex, always protective of his team, scowled. "Remember
a couple of years back when we come up here and that roman-nosed,
coon-footed, rump-spring stud come nosin' around tryin' to pick a
fight? Let's get across to the timber and set up camp."

Driving across the big meadow was a pleasure. Alex did not yank on the
lines when his horses shot their heads out for slack, then snatched a
mouthful of grass-heads. When someone reproached him for babying his
big horses, he would explain that they were the children, the family he
didn't have. But he did not spoil them; they obeyed, were tractable,
and seemed to like their owner.

It was getting warmer, so they shed their coats. It took hours to
cross the meadow. They saw more fresh wild-horse sign. They also had
their attention brought to a gnawed deer carcass when both big horses
snorted and edged far out and around the smell of death.

Abel leaned and squinted. "Not too old a kill," he remarked. "I'd say
a bear done it."

They came into shade finally, over near the creek. Making camp was a
simple chore. Finding exactly the right place, though, would have
required more time if they had not used the same site for a number of
years.

Everything made of leather that had salt from horse sweat was pulled
high into the trees and tied there. Porcupines and other varmints
would try to get to it.

Their old stone ring was pretty well intact. They rearranged the
stones, tossed down their bedrolls, draped booted Winchesters from low
fir limbs, put their grub box and personal saddlebags close to the
bedrolls, turned the big horses loose even though Alex had brought
along two sets of army chain-hobbles. His horses never wandered. At
least they never had, but Foster was gently putting aside his croaker
sack, and scowling. But he said nothing. Where those big bay horses
were concerned, trying to talk sense to Alex was like spitting against