In 1875 they migrated out of the Texas Panhandle, old Jake Murdock and one son and around twenty cowhands, pushing along three thousand longhorns. The northward trek had taken its toll on both men and livestock. But shining strong in rancher Murdock was a vision of the Badlands, a strange and sheltered land he'd seen but once, and a self-made promise that after delivering the trail herd over to Miles City, he would strike eastward accompanied by his Segundo, Bill Lowman.
On the afternoon of the second day, Bill Lowman reined his sorrel around a scrub oak, squinted slowly from under the stained brim of his brown Stetson at the rancher, and muttered, "Yesterday we crossed the Powder River. Meanin', Jake, we're just about runnin' out of Montana and there's still no sign of them...Badlands."
On the afternoon of the second day, Bill Lowman reined his sorrel around a scrub oak, squinted slowly from under the stained brim of his brown Stetson at the rancher, and muttered, "Yesterday we crossed the Powder River. Meanin', Jake, we're just about runnin' out of Montana and there's still no sign of them...Badlands."
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