Snow clung to his black felt hat. It was bitterly cold that day. He rubbed his threadbare leather gloved hands together, fighting off the stiffness and chill.

His tattered jeans and old leathers almost already soaked through from the snow as he made his way to his horse.

The Montana sun barely glowed through the overcast sky. There was a blizzard coming, and the cows needed moving.

He was put together rough, and rode life rougher. His sun wrinkled face made it hard to tell how truly old he was, yet his eyes were bright and young.

He tightened the cinch on his old bay gelding, white hairs dotting around his eyes and nose.

He lightly smacked the gelding on his belly, already knowing the old trick the horse was trying to pull.

“Not today, son. We got work.” He gruffed out.

The old gelding let out a groan, as if he understood. He huffed out, letting go of the air making his stomach swell, the girth loosened.

“Atta boy.” He softly praised and tightened the cinch up a few more holes.

He put the toe of one of his well worn boots in the stirrup. And with a handful of mane pulled himself up and onto the saddle.

He took out a hand rolled cigarette from the pocket of his mud covered beige jacket. He lit is with a old rusty lighter he’d gotten years ago in a bar in Arizona.

Taking a swell, he relaxed in the saddle, enjoying the warmth that spread throughout his body.

Cigarette in lip he gave the gelding a kick and a click of his tongue.

And off they trotted down the snow covered trail as the blizzard prepared to raged far up in the sky above.