Less than twelve hours earlier, dust would have risen under his feet with each step he took. Now, he was slipping and sliding in the muck and stepping over wide streams of water running down from the yard. After finally negotiating his way to the bunkhouse, he swung the saddle over the porch railing, which was covered by the overhang of the roof and out of the rain, and went in to get out of his waterlogged clothes. It was colder in the bunkhouse than it had been when he’d gotten up five-and-a-half hours earlier, or maybe it just felt colder to him because of the dampness. Either way, he decided a fire would be in order and still in his slicker, he went to the pot-bellied stove in the middle of room and opened the cast-iron door, which made a sound a like a small metallic mule braying.

He loaded the inside of the stove with old newspaper, which he’d wadded up, then placed some small and medium-sized dry twigs on top of the paper. He struck a match on the stove and lit a corner of one of the paper wads, which burned slowly at first. Within seconds, however, a long low whooshing sound emanated from the opening as the rest of the paper caught fire. Henry kept the stove door open for several seconds, allowing enough oxygen in to ignite all the paper, as well as the twigs that sat on top. When the twigs began popping and snapping from the fire lighting the sap pockets trapped inside, he then slipped in a few bigger pieces of split mesquite that sat in a pile next to the stove. He watched until he could see the edges of the mesquite turn black as they kicked up yellow flames. Assured the fire would stay lit, he closed the door.

Layer by layer Henry peeled off his rain-soaked clothes, starting with his slicker and ending with his woolen undershirt, and hung them all on the backs of the wooden chairs he had placed around the stove. He shivered uncontrollably in the cold dampness of the room. As he rushed to put on some dry clothes he cursed himself for not starting a fire before he left to check the horses. He knew better.

Between rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to try and warm them, he poured water into the coffee pot and added the grounds. He then placed the coffee pot on the stove, its smokestack ticking and creaking as it expanded from the heat being generated inside. Henry stood only inches from the stove warming first his hands, then turning around and warming his backside, then turning back to warm his hands. His shivering finally subsided about the same time he noticed steam slowly beginning to rise from each of the wet garments hanging on the chairs. It could be worse, he thought to himself, as one last shiver rushed through his body.

Through the din of the rain on the roof, Henry heard footsteps on the bunkhouse porch. Just outside, Jessie stopped at the door, tipped her head and dumped a long stream of rainwater from the brim of her hat. She then shook the water from her slicker and reached up and knocked on the bunkhouse door. She waited several seconds for a response from inside, then knocked again.