My personage was a hen, and she lived at the Sunk Creek Ranch.
Judge Henry's ranch was notable for several luxuries. He had milk, for example. In those
days his brother ranchmen had thousands of cattle very often, but not a drop of milk, save
the condensed variety. Therefore they had no butter. The Judge had plenty. Next rarest to
butter and milk in the cattle country were eggs. But my host had chickens. Whether this
was because he had followed cock-fighting in his early days, or whether it was due to
Mrs. Henry, I cannot say. I only know that when I took a meal elsewhere, I was likely to
find nothing but the eternal "sowbelly," beans, and coffee; while at Sunk Creek the
omelet and the custard were frequent. The passing traveller was glad to tie his horse to
the fence here, and sit down to the Judge's table. For its fame was as wide as Wyoming. It
was an oasis in the Territory's desolate bill-of-fare.
The long fences of Judge Henry's home ranch began upon Sunk Creek soon after that
stream emerged from its canyon through the Bow Leg. It was a place always well cared
for by the owner, even in the days of his bachelorhood. The placid regiments of cattle lay
in the cool of the cottonwoods by the water, or slowly moved among the sage-brush,
feeding upon the grass that in those forever departed years was plentiful and tall. The
steers came fat off his unenclosed range and fattened still more in his large pasture; while
his small pasture, a field some eight miles square, was for several seasons given to the
Judge's horses, and over this ample space there played and prospered the good colts
which he raised from Paladin, his imported stallion. After he married, I have been assured
that his wife's influence became visible in and about the house at once. Shade trees were
planted, flowers attempted, and to the chickens was added the much more troublesome
turkey. I, the visitor, was pressed into service when I arrived, green from the East. I took
hold of the farmyard and began building a better chicken house, while the Judge was off
creating meadow land in his gray and yellow wilderness. When any cow-boy was
unoccupied, he would lounge over to my neighborhood, and silently regard my
carpentering.
Those cow-punchers bore names of various denominations. There was Honey Wiggin;
there was Nebrasky, and Dollar Bill, and Chalkeye. And they came from farms and cities,
from Maine and from California. But the romance of American adventure had drawn
them all alike to this great playground of young men, and in their courage, their
generosity, and their amusement at me they bore a close resemblance to each other. Each
one would silently observe my achievements with the hammer and the chisel. Then he
would retire to the bunk-house, and presently I would over hear laughter. But this was
only in the morning. In the afternoon on many days of the summer which I spent at the
Sunk Creek Ranch I would go shooting, or ride up toward the entrance of the canyon and
watch the men working on the irrigation ditches. Pleasant systems of water running in
channels were being led through the soil, and there was a sound of rippling here and there
among the yellow grain; the green thick alfalfa grass waved almost, it seemed, of its own
accord, for the wind never blew; and when at evening the sun lay against the plain, the
