Down From the Wasatch

     Old cowboy sat his horse, and looking down on the canyon of the Bear River, he was like the gander looking down in to the prattie hole. The high Rockies were now behind, and he could follow the river into the small community of Ogden. It was a town of loggers and sawmills, serving the lumber needs of the fast growing Town of Salt Lake to the south.

     You had to give it to these Mormons; they were a hard working lot but sawmill towns were always a worry to a range bred cowboy. But to the cowboy all towns were a worry, for he avoided towns and people in general in his quest. A town was like a handy tool, something you needed from time to time, but not something to be embraced.

     In his younger trail herding years he had found that towns along the route, or those grown up around stockyards, were a wild lot. Later in life he had found the mining towns to be the same. Where ever whiskey, women and hard men gathered violence was sure to be found. At the age of nineteen he had learned how it felt to have to kill a man.

      But that fear need not apply to the quietly religious folks who peopled these Mormon towns, they had come west to find peace, and free land on which to build and raise a family. He shook off his dread of town, and now settled to the task of finding a path down for the mare and his packs, glad to finally be over the Rockies and closer to his quest. Besides, he need supplies and grain for this long reach across the high desert country to the west...

© 2003/2010 ~ David L. Griffith

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