WITH THE MOUNTAIN COWBOYS 
BY EDWIN L. SABIN 
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR 
T was about half- 
past four in the 
morning when I 
opened my eyes 
in the K-Bar 
bunk-house, 
amidst the fast- 
nesses of west- 
ern Colorado, 
and blinked 
sleepily at the 
muslin ceiling 
over. The long 
bunk held five 
of us—two in the one half, three in the 
other, the divisions being feet to feet. 
Somebody in the other half of the bunk 
was stirring, yawning, presently to 
throw back a corner of the tarpaulin, 
to plant bare soles upon the floor, to 
yawn some more, and to dress. *T was 
Thad, the Texan, whose week this was 
to wrangle, i. e., to bring in the horse- 
herd from pasture to corral. 
He pulled on socks and trousers 
(overalls covered) and boots, and then 
donning jacket and hat, for the air was 
chill, stumped out. Soon we who were 
awake heard the clatter of his horse’s 
hoofs as he galloped out of the ranch 
yard. , 
And now the rest of us, thus dis- 
turbed and warned, piled out, to don 
our necessary apparel for the day; and 
while doing so, to joke. 
We filed to the kitchen dining-room, 
to wash. Breakfast was sizzling upon 
the stove, with welcome sound, for 
Pete the cook had long been up. While 
we were taking turns at the wash-dish 
and towel, Jack the foreman appeared, 
red-eyed from heavy slumber in his 
private apartment, the ranch “office” ; 
and ere we sat down the horse-herd 

came streaming in, Thad driving them. 
The corral gate was closed upon them, 
and we breakfasted, the menu being 
fried beefsteak, fried potatoes, fried 
eggs, coffee and bread (hot biscuit), 
with plenty of sorghum to taper off on; 
sorghum sticks fine to the stomach. 
After breakfast it was every rider 
to the corral, to rope his “hawss.” The 
boys detached their ropes from their 
saddles lying by the bunk-house, and 
with loop trailing entered the corral. 
Not being an expert “roper,” the writer 
hung upon the corral fence and watched 
the fun. Around about the enclosure 
swung the horse-herd, each horse striv- 
ing to bury his head among his neigh- 
bors, and avoid the noose. The loops 
shot forth, now here, now there, as 
the men threw from the center; and 
one by one the mounts were captured 
and led away to be saddled. Old 
Medicine Eye was caught, for the 
tender foot. 
“All done!” called Thad. 
He left the corral gate open, and the 
fortunate members of the herd gladly 
trotted out, and back to pasture. 
We saddled. The word of the day 
was of course “ride,” and following 
Thad and Lou, I started out. 
The K-Bar cattle ranch is out in the 
White River country of Colorado, about 
sixty miles from the railroad. Like 
many another mountain cow-outfit, it is 
the descendant of an old plains ranch, 
relegated by the farmer-rancher to the 
remote, uncultivated region. The ranch 
quarters themselves are only two or 
three log buildings, a few sheds, and 
a corral, set beside a creek. The cattle 
range through the hills, at an elevation 
of from eight thousand to ten thousand 
feet. The country is marvelously 
