The air was crisp on an unseasonably cool morning in May. The panhandle weather had kept to its fickle self with a surprise blizzard the day before. The foot deep drifts were gleaming with the morning sun, as it rose over the canyon rim, like so many piles of tiny diamonds. He stood under the eave of his dugout squinting and blinking through the light reflecting off the snow. His dark colored mare, Mad Ann, stood irritably in the small paddock just a few yards away. She blew plumes of steam from her nostrils as if she were a four legged locomotive while she pinned her ears at the empty grain bucket and the cold snow each in turn. She would be a handful today.

With a backward glance at the door that hid the warm, dark, interior of the dugout from view he rubbed his hands together and then reached down grabbing his rifle and saddle bags. He was running low on the staples: lard, beans, salt, and flour. With that need and his growing stock of antelope, rabbit, and coyote furs he figured it was about time to make the twenty-five mile trip to see Mr. Conner.

Lincoln G. Conner was a cattelman who had big dreams for founding a town in the area. He'd moved out with his wife Queenie back in December and they'd established themselves a general store and post office. They were the closest thing to proper civilization in the area, were good, god-fearin, folks and whats more they'd let him trade the hides of the critters he hunted for food stuffs in lieu of dollars.

He tacked up the bitter mare while keeping a weary eye on her quick feet as he moved around her. He tied down his saddle bags and a bundle of the hides as best as his chilled fingers would allow and then slipped the bridle over her nose. She spit the cold bit out twice and then danced over his booted foot with one of her iron shod hooves. He dropped the bridle with a yelp as he hopped away cursing.

“Blast! You cussed ol' imp of a mare!”

He balanced on one foot and gently prodded each of his offended toes to makes sure none of them were broken. They all appeared to be intact. He glared at the dark coated mare from under his own shaggy blond bangs and then sighed heavily.

“If you didnt have such sure feet I'd 've sold you off to some miner for a side of salted beef.” He lied

He retrieved his bridle from the dirt, whacked it against the mares sleekly muscled shoulder a few times to dislodge the damp red clay the clung to it, and then pinched her nose as he slid it over her ears one more time. She took the bit.

He'd bought the ornery mare for two dollars some thirteen years ago from an infantry-man who'd thought to supplement his army stipend. She'd been part of a big group of Comanche horses that the army had captured and had set to slaughter. Now if anything could be said about the Comanche it's that they knew how to breed good horses. Not only had she proven herself a good cow horse, brave enough to bite an unruly steer and not afraid of gunfire, she also had feet like a mountain goat which came in handy on tough trails. Her quick feet and fearless, albeit stubborn, personality had seen him safely over terrain and out of bad situations that had killed men with lesser mounts. He wouldn’t trade her even for the deed to the XIT Ranch.

Swinging up into the saddle he touched his heels to her and she moved out of the little paddock with a grumbling sigh. Somewhere in the neighborhood of six hours later he dropped out of the saddle in front of Queenie Conner.

“'Mad Ann' strikes again eh, Mr. Brooks?” she laughed as he limped over to the impeccably dressed frontierswoman; looping his mares reins around a post and pulling down his bundle of furs.

“Yes 'm mam, she does still have plenty of spirit in 'er.” he smiled and took off his hat as he followed Mrs. Conner inside. There he found her husband leaning over large piece of paper; peering at it in the dim light as if it had insulted his mother.

“Do stop glowering at that paper Lincoln, lest you set it ablaze!” Queenie admonished as she stepped around the counter to pull out a leather bound ledger.

Mr. Conner looked up and gave his wife a wry look but pushed the paper away. After Mr. Conner joined his wife behind the counter the three of them set about trading. As the two men agreed on a suitable exchange Queenie went about setting aside the goods.

“It's a shame you don’t have any buffalo hides Mr. Brooks, I've heard their offering twenty-five dollars for a good bull hide these days.” Said Mr. Conner as he ran his hand over a particularly handsome coyote.

“You knows as well as I do they all followed the elk and bear west, them ones thats left anyways.”

“Too right.' Mr. Conner shrugged 'Well I think we're square here Mr. Brooks. Is there anything else you'd like? Any letters to post?”

“Not in so much, but thank ye kindly.”

With a bit of help from Mrs. Conner, who distracted his mare with a piece of biscuit while cooing sweet nothings in her ears, he managed to get the bags of food stuffs strapped down firmly over the skirt of his saddle. Not that he'd really been expecting any more trouble from Mad Ann now that the weather had warmed. Up out of the canyon the snow hadn't drifted quite so much. Once the sun had its chance to warm up back to its customary May heat the snow had melted quickly into the buffalo grass. Some places were already as dry as they had been before the snow.

Up in the saddle once more he waved his farewells to the Conners and pointed Mad Ann back toward their dugout. The going was fair. They passed a pair of the T-Anchor stockmen who were bringing in a couple of strays that had wandered to far from the herd during the snow storm. A throng of antelope turned tail in a tide of bouncing fawn and white as they continued across the open prairie. Dropping back down into the canyon he leaned back and let Ann pick her own way down the thin trail; only drawing reign to steer her away from a low hanging mesquite branch that she had probably aimed for just to see if he was still paying attention. By the time they hit the canyon floor the sun was already starting to set over its rim. He yawned as the mare picked her way through the brush toward home. They came out to the more open area around the Pony Spring Creek and he let Ann dip her head to take a good, long, drink.

While she sipped he scanned the area, mentally marking the familiar and browsing over the rest of the scenery. In the areas under heavy brush some stubborn spots of snow had hidden away from the strongest of the sun; although they were much diminished from their former glory earlier that same morning. He spotted some raccoon prints in the red clay mud, some opossum tracks, and enough turkey prints to cover up just about anything else that might have come down to the creek for a bit of cool water.

Ann started to wade out into the creek and he drew up; not wanting to give her the chance to lay down and roll in the water while he and his dry goods were still strapped to her back. He gave her a click and nudged her on through to the other side. She plodded forward, her dastardly plan thwarted yet again. On the opposite bank they turned more easterly and headed up the gently rising slope of the land. It was only, perhaps, another mile until their cozy dugout and little paddock were in sight.