Coyotes howled for the strength of those silent men of Circle R, their code of simple honour, their appetite for apple cobbler. Deer and the antelope licked shy salt from their bandanas, with tongues chaparral-rough. And the men never said a word of discouragement, only tipped their hats with a grateful, “Shucks, ma’am,” to the does, and clucked their little dogies into nights as starry as their shirts were checkered. Came a cloud-beset day. Strangers rode in, so slouchback louche and indifferent, they would splurt tobacco juice into the presence of a lady. This, the Circle R could not abide.
Image: Blake Matheson.
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