He had no choice. He learned time on the trail was all Loco needed. He learned what made a good camp, what meadows held the horses, why to track them before the sun hit the ridges. He learned to take care of the stock first, then the cook, then the rest—himself, always, last. He learned an hour in the morning really is worth two at night. And he learned the hardest lesson of all: some things you couldn’t predict. “Never can tell the depth of a well,” Fenton would say, “by the size of the handle on that pump.” He took to Loco and Cottontail, putting them in his string whenever he could. Loco had trotted into camp all by himself that first wet morning on White River, his packs askew but riding. The last thing Ty remembered, before drifting into sleep even as Jasper poured him coffee, was standing out in the rain with Spec, pulling off Loco’s saddle, watching him break into a lope as he headed out after Cottontail. Ty and Spec grew naturally into one another. Ty learned tracking from Spec, would get him to tell hunting stories as they walked down the herd on those cold Montana mornings.
