From Chapter III: In Coyote’s Ground
Fisher and I had ridden west, out of the mountains, to pick up the hunters’ trail. These mountains are only a small outcropping along part of our south border, and the buffalo hadn’t had to go through them; he’d kept to the high plains until they dropped away toward the Missouri, and then picked his way down into the wild country. The buffalo had no trouble making his way down, but the horses slid some, and in that dry country the marks they left would show up for the rest of the summer. Next spring, run-off would leave a small cut and eventually a ragged slash down the slope. You can’t do much in this country without marking the land, thought sooner or later it covers your traces with scars that leave it only a little worse than before you came by.