The days turned into nights, and the weeks to months; the season for working the ranges passed and before the second snow of the year passed we had relocated, Red and me, to a bunkhouse that was much bigger than the range station shack. I loved sitting in Red's lap of an evening, listening to the tales and most of all, being brought up to his knee and fired up in his own briliant way. He knew my secrets, he knew where I could be touched to sing out loud, and how I could be coaxed to bring my best colors out in the gentle wavering rise and fall of a Mexican lullaby. I love hearing htem swap news, thinking of the songs it could be made into, passing the word about old man Chisholm and his plans for a drive next spring, hearing the whispers about that Lincoln County war and the half-mad, half-hero kid called Billy when the news came around about how he'd gotten away alive. I loved hearing rumours about Siux and someone remembering someone who rode with Bridger, and someone else talling how the bayous smelled when the cotton came to bloom where he came from. I didn't like the aruments or care much for the one they called Preacher Slim, because he talked so much; but sometimes Red would steer him around, picking my strings one or two notes at a time until Slim would just be drawn in and give over all that Testament stufff and just lean back and let out with Nigher My god to Thee or maybe Jacob's Ladder, and he could sing like a morning bird so I always loved it when Red would get him started and I could back him up with my best sweet tones.

But toward the end of that long winter and spring, a different kind of news started taking up those evning hours after chuck, and I got left under my blanket longer, and more often. The boys and Red would raise their voices and get to arguing about territories, and States and Abolitonists, and one time nearly broke the walls down with their arguing when it came to pushing; and another time the one they called Galveston Joe nearly landed on top of me, when Red decided the discussion called for a well-made connection between his strong left hand and Galveston's nose for some reason i didn't understand; and it would have been the end of me, as Joe weighed a good 200 pounds on the hoof, Red once said.

The spring began, and the men were talking about the drive and talking about a place called Sumter, and I spent more and more of my days alone....