"Cookie"
by Steven Spalding

He knelt by the cook fire year after year. Served oceans of coffee, small herds of deer, Acres of tators, and bushels of beans, beef, barley, biscuits, and ham hocks and greens.

He'd been thru ten wagons, twelve teams, and two hats, forty hard-time winters, and twenty cook-shack cats.

At roundup he greased up the wheels and his pans, and doctored the horses and some rope burned hands. He took care of snake bites and passed out the mail, and at trail-head he'd bail out the boys who got jailed.

Some called him "Cookie," and some "Ole' Stinky Feet," but all called him Mister when it came time to eat.

In winter he fairly made the ranch sing, broke up cabin fever with old fiddle strings, took care of line shacks and ran re-supply. Ole' Cookie was truly the indispensable guy.

We don't know where he's at now; he's over the hill. But it's "fer sure" this new cook has big boots to fill.

Somewhere in Nevada
By Steven Spalding

The diamondback coiled and rattled alarm The stallion stopped short, still yards from harm. His mares heard him snort as he tossed his great head, and the herd kept their distance and did as he said.

He was a true general, this wiley old stud. His presence was gallant even though caked with mud. A slate gray giant, a legend in his time -- and to look thru the bunch, you could see the bloodline.

For here you had Mustang -- a breed of its own with a hope for a future with every foal thrown. Somewhere in Nevada, far back in the rock, there is still a herd of good hardy stock.