Mick started the process of waking up, slowly stretching out while still in his sougan, getting both mind and muscle ready for the day ahead. He cracked an eye toward the eastern skyline to see that the sun was, like himself, just beginning to show some signs of life. He loved this time of day, that brief period when the creatures of the night were bedding down, and the day critters were just waking up, that short moment when time almost seemed to stand still, and the world was silent. His father had called it the only true moment of peace in all of eternity, and, though it had taken him years to grasp the full meaning, he now fully understood. Trouble had visited him only a few times during his twenty-eight years, but often enough for him to really appreciate this quiet time.

The first squawk of a camp robber signaled him that it was time to get a move on, that this all too short moment of respite was at an end for another day. After he crawled out of his warm, comfortable bedroll, he poked a couple of sticks into the leftover coals of last night's campfire, gave it a couple of long, slow breaths and was rewarded with glowing embers he had hoped for. He added a few more sticks, which resulted in a growing flame. Enough fire for him to slide the pot of coffee he had prepared the night before over onto the edge of a flat rock that jutted into the fire bed. Right where it needed to be to draw in the heat required to make the morning's dark brew.

Another minute saw him shaking out his boots, slipping them on, then standing to stretch his six foot frame to its fullest. His strawberry roan, came into sight from under the aspen stand where he had been grazing, looking for his morning ration of oats. He walked right up to the saddle and tack lying on the ground, then looked over at Mick as if to say, "You're not ready?" He couldn't help but chuckle at the look he got from the geld. Many was the time his friend had brought a smile to the young Irishman's face. From the day his shaky legs had lifted him up to stand at his mother's side for the first time, searching for the meal he knew was there, to the time he lifted Shorty Briscoe up by the seat of the britches, and dropped him in the water tank. "Quite a horse," he said to no one in particular, it was always a good day when your mount was more ready to get going than you were. "Yeah, Rusty, it's gonna be a damn fine day."

He leaned over, picked up the end of his bedroll and gave it a sturdy shake, all in one motion, to remove as much dirt and frost as he could, then rolled it as tight as possible and tied it with a pair of leather thongs. Next, he stepped to the fire bed, laid the skillet on the edge of the same flat rock as the coffee pot, waited a few minutes for it to heat up, then tossed in several thick slices of salt pork. Satisfied that it would cook quickly, he walked over to the tack, then picked up the feedbag, reached inside it for a small sack of oats, then poured a generous amount into the bottom of the bag. The horse lowered his head to allow him to slip the strap over his neck, but, before he could fasten it in place, Rusty had found the bottom and was busy chomping away at his breakfast. "Easy, boy. You act like you ain't ate in a week, an' you an' me both know better, don't we?

He rubbed the roan's neck a couple of times, gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder and, smelling the pork, realized that he was pretty hungry, too. "There's somethin' 'bout this high country air that makes a fella hungry, ain't there, ol' friend. Not that we need any help gettin' to it when it's time ta eat," he mused aloud as he turned, walking toward the campfire and his own chow.

Once back at the fire, he slid the skillet back from the fire, then turned the meat with his belt knife. Satisfied it was cooking just right, he moved it back closer to the flames. Picking up his tin cup, then the pot, he poured the steaming brew slowly, trying not to get too many grounds. He took a few sips waiting for the pork to finish cooking, then decided it would just have to be done enough, he was well past being ready to eat. He pulled the skillet to him and stabbed a piece of meat with his knife, feeding it, bite by bite, into his mouth. Even though it was hot enough to burn his lips, he continued devouring it piece after piece, taking a sip of coffee to wash each morsel down, until the skillet was empty. He poured a second cup of coffee, then leaned back against his bedroll, rolled and lit his first quirley of the day. That's when it started creeping in, the eerie feeling that he was being watched.

He tried to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn't go away. He finished his smoke, tossed the last of the cup of coffee into the fire, picked up the pot, poured a fresh cup, followed by using what was left to drown the dwindling fire. Setting the cup back down, he then picked up his saddle, blankets, and headstall and began to prepare his mount for the day ahead. As he did so, he kept watching the ever alert horse's ears, looking for a sign that the roan might be hearing something he himself couldn't, but the ever-vigilant animal showed no signs of nervousness.

Keeping a close eye out for anything out of the ordinary, he cleaned and packed the rest of his camp gear then loaded it all on his mount. Glancing all around him, while trying not to show it, he cleaned up his campsite and kicked dirt over the fire pit making sure the fire was out, then walked behind a tall Ponderosa pine to relieve himself. Birds were chirping, dipping and diving through the air after their breakfast, and the squirrels were chattering up a storm, scolding these intruders for invading their territory for so long.

He had learned to trust his friend's ability to sense danger, and had continued to watch him for any sign, a twitch of the ears, an unusual body movement, but saw nothing. "Well," he said just loud enough for the horse to hear, "boy, you've never missed a trick, so I reckon I'm just bein' jumpy for nothin'."

He tried again to push that odd, crawly feeling out of his mind, but without success. His sister Rose had always called him a nervous Nellie, but Uncle George had told him to learn to trust his senses, so he had. Today would be no different. No sense fighting it, he'd play it close to the vest for the next day or so, take a few extra precautions. At least until he could figure out what had caused this feeling to come on him, or it went away, whichever came first. After all, this uncanny ability to sense trouble had saved his hide more than once. No reason to start pushing his luck now.

Frosty, the ranch foreman, had sent him up here to do a job, and, one way or the other he'd get it done, even if it took an extra day. There were five more meadows to look over, making sure the winter snows had receded, and the grass was coming on strong enough to sustain the pressure of grazing large numbers of cattle on it. A once over of the springs and beaver ponds to ensure that there would also be an adequate amount of water for the stock was an essential part of his duty. He didn't take this responsibility lightly, as the welfare of the entire ranch depended on it.

He finished loading and tying down the last few items on Rusty's back, then stepped into the stirrup, swung his one hundred eighty pounds into the saddle, settling in for the next few hours ride. The horse stepped out lively, eager to be on the move again. He really appreciated this little roan, and had never let the taunts of the other cowboys get to him. Compared to most of the ranch horses around this part of the country, the geld was small in stature, but what he lacked in size at fourteen three, he more than made up for in strength, stamina and ability. He had more bottom than anyone would expect from a small horse, and more than matched that bottom with brains. He always figured that anybody who said horses were dumb, well, they hadn't met this horse.

Together, they worked their way up through the pines, along Mossy Ridge, then down again through the timber toward Spruce Meadow. The meadow had gotten its name for the solitary Blue Spruce tree that held dominion right smack dab in the middle of the lush, green grass of one of the prettiest spots in the whole territory. Fed by three springs it was always the best summer range on the entire spread. At least that's what Frosty always said, and he couldn't find any reason to disagree with him. Frosty always had the hands push the cattle as far past 'Sprucey', as they called it, as they could, saving it as a holding area for the fall roundup. From here, they would gather and settle the herd down as much as possible, sometimes holding them here for four or five days before starting the push back down to winter pasture.

Instead of riding straight across the meadow, as was his usual procedure, he chose the slower going of skirting along the upper side of the meadow to inspect the springs. Staying in the shadow of the trees the whole way took a lot of extra time, but, since the feeling was still riding hard on his shoulders, he felt it was worth that extra time.

At the first spring, he filled his canteen, took a long, cool drink, and allowed Rusty the same. Then, leading the horse, he walked the sixty feet to the second spring. After taking a precautionary look around, he fished out a branch that had fallen into the small pool just below the spring. Remounting, he coaxed his mount the hundred yards to the last spring. The distance was easy traveling, so he rolled a cigarette, lit it, then leaned back a little, trying to relax the tension that had crept into his muscles. He hadn't noticed, until now, how tense he had gotten since leaving the campsite, and, silently, he wished that whatever was wrong would either show itself or go away, and soon. He had too much to do without having to worry about something he couldn't see or hear, only feel.

Arriving at the third spring, he found it was in great shape, its' clear, life-giving nectar bubbling out at a fast pace, spreading itself down into the meadow in a wide pattern. "That's sure gonna make for some damn good grass," he said, patting the roan's neck. He turned his steady mount back into the trees, paralleling the pasture until nearly to the bottom. They rode up to the edge for a good look, where he made a mental note that this was definitely the best meadow, made even better by pulling the herd off a little early last fall. It had created the desired effect of allowing the grasses to come back in thicker and stronger than they were before. "Might not be a bad idea to pull the cattle off all the summer pastures a little earlier, at least for a coupla years. If we can keep puttin' put up enough hay down below to hold the herd through the winter. Remind me ta ask ta Frosty about that, will ya, boy?" Rusty nodded his head as though he understood completely.

None of the cowboys really liked the idea of cutting the lower meadow grasses, or stacking them for storage, but they liked the idea of cattle and horses starving to death during a bad winter even less. The ranch foreman kept saying that if they didn't do it, one real bad winter could wipe the place out, and they'd all be looking for work. It was too good of an outfit, and Frosty was too good of a boss, to want to leave it willingly. Just because they didn't like doing some 'dirt farmer' work, as a few had called it, didn't mean they wouldn't do it for the stock.

But to make it all work, it was necessary that this particular meadow be in the best shape possible, as it was crucial to both the spring and fall moves. Not enough grass here would mean that the herd would be hard to hold, wanting scatter back out in their never-ending search for forage.

After studying the meadow for a few more moments, he turned the geld back to the north, where they rode up a deer trail through the heavy timber. Before long, they were alongside Razor Ridge, an aptly named narrow, sharp peaked ridge about a quarter mile long. Near the northern end of this row of spires, the trail cut through a small break in the structure, then wound its' way down to Little Beaver Meadow, the smallest of the three savannas with beaver ponds in them. Again staying out of plain sight, they slipped in and out of the trees, venturing out just far enough to get a good look at both the beaver ponds and the grass. Liking what he saw, he recorded the images in his mind, then turned east toward Middle Beaver.

Sifting through the edges of the timber and Aspen stands they paralleled Saddle Creek until nearly up to the meadow. Within fifty feet of the meadow, they turned up another, smaller pathway that led toward the top of the clearing, and the two springs that served as the headwaters of Saddle Creek. Leaving the barely distinguishable trail beside an ancient Ponderosa Pine, he guided the horse to a jumble of large rocks at the meadow's edge. Stepping out of the stirrups directly onto the closest rock, he climbed to the top of the boulders and, lying down, peered out upon the serene setting.

From this vantage point, he could see the entire meadow from top to bottom. It appeared that all the beaver dams but one were in excellent condition, and the beavers were hard at making the repairs to the damaged one. They were living up to their names, busy as they could be. One more day and they'd have the repairs completed, and the pond would be good as new, ready for another season. He could also see where the overflow from the ponds was working its' way across the turf, nurturing the grasses. They were already getting long and thick, ready for grazing.

Working his way back down off the rocks, he dropped back into the saddle, picked up the reins, then turned Rusty up the slight incline. Back on the vague trail, they continued following it up the small, nameless ridge, then over the crest and down to the bottom of the next draw, and Fish Creek. While he took a pull from his canteen, he allowed the roan a long, cool drink from the trickle of water that he doubted ever had enough water in it for a fish to survive. After the geld got his fill, they rode alongside the creek moving up the draw higher, toward a place where the ridge leveled out and made for easy crossing into the next draw. When they came to the spot he was looking for, they crossed the creek, then began climbing the gentle incline to the top of the ridge.

At the top, they stopped for a few minutes, then headed down to the bottom, where Cow Creek ran, which would lead them up still higher to Big Beaver Meadow. He could already hear the creek noisily rushing downward, gathering up all the waters of the other creeks in the area, until it converged with the serpentine Green, flowing on into the Colorado on its' eventual destination of the Gulf of California, and the Pacific beyond. Down beside the heavily flowing creek, they turned to follow it upward toward Big Beaver Meadow. After traversing about fifty feet up the creek bank, he turned his mount in a random move, into the cold, snowmelt swollen waters, pushed across to the other side, rode another thirty feet, then jerked the roan to a halt. He couldn't have told anyone why he did it, it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. That innate sense had kicked in again, so he went with it.

He dismounted, ground-hitched the geld, then slipped off into the shadows of the heavy timber, back down the waters' edge. Slowly working his way through a Kinnikinnick thicket until he could see out, he paused to watch and listen. The rushing water was too loud to be able to hear anything over, so he just looked carefully over their back trail. Seeing nothing peculiar, he glided from tree to tree until he was across from where they had first encountered the creek, hoping to see anything that would explain this nagging feeling. But to no avail, absolutely nothing looked, or sounded, out of the ordinary. Working his way back up to where the horse stood, nibbling at the sparse grasses barely growing under the thick canopy of trees, he paused again to take in the forest sounds. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he swung into the saddle.