The Quantro Story by Chris Scott Wilson Page A

logs that made up the walls of the cabin. He patiently filled and smoothed and built up the surface until the biting wind could no longer penetrate.
    Thus, the first day of his occupation was spent in toil, his sweat warding off the bitter cold, and when the fire began to fall into ashes he banked it up with slow-burning logs and retired to his blankets.
    The second day he hunted. A fresh fall of snow had wiped out yesterday’s tracks, leveling them off with a crisp white crust that hugged the ground beneath the huge pines. It was hard going, almost wading where the snow had drifted, but it made tracking easy.
    Inside two hours he had brought down a young deer, enough to provide good eating far a few days at least. He butchered the carcass and cleaned it on the ground where it fell, taking only the best meat. The offal he left for the wolves.
    His preparations served him well.
    That night a blizzard blew up from the south, lashing Quantro’s mountain refuge and driving every living thing to cover, away from the icy fingers of winter’s cruel hands. It lasted three bleak days of howling winds and blinding snow that piled up outside the sturdy log walls, seeking to drive its way into the cabin, tearing at cracks and joints, straining the craftsmanship that had constructed it with such a storm in mind. The builder had done his work well, and Quantro was grateful.
    On the fourth morning when he woke in the bunk, shivering, the land was still. The howling, screaming wind had dropped in the night leaving a vacuum of tranquility. He leapt from the bunk and cajoled the handful of tinder to catch fire then added more fuel until there was enough heat to warm up the coffee-pot. Outside, the leaden sky had temporarily cleared, and the day held that hard brightness of winter. The sun was a pale imitation of the huge torch that had given life to the crops of the summer, but its rays were reflected dazzlingly from the pure white shroud of snow.
    At noon when Quantro ventured out of the cabin to whistle the buckskin back from its foraging Quantro saw the rider. He quickly stepped back inside for the Winchester, and by the time the stranger had reached within a hundred yards of his refuge, Quantro was ready to welcome him with the leveled Winchester. The cowboy looked innocent enough, and he explained he had weathered the blizzard in a shallow cave he had shared with the horse. He fondly patted the animal’s neck and added that but for the heat of the horse’s body, he would certainly be dead. As he talked, Quantro ran his eyes over the stranger. He wore the clothes of a working cowhand, a heavy winter coat and shotgun chaps that had seen much use. He said his name was Tom Galloway, and that he had wandered up from Mexico, headed to work for some folks he knew in Montana.
    Quantro liked him immediately. He seemed openly honest, much the same as the hands that had worked for Quantro’s own father. Lowering the rifle, he invited Tom Galloway into the cabin and fed him on deer stew and coffee. As he ate, his new companion talked, and Quantro was quick to realize his own knowledge of horses and cattle and land was minimal compared to Tom’s, and he listened with open ears, storing the information for future reference.
    Each of the two men saw much of themselves in the other and soon became firm friends. The days stretched into weeks.
    Sometimes the snow storms drove them indoors, but the rough candles that Quantro had made from deer fat provided flickering light as he listened to Tom’s seemingly bottomless well of stories. He told of Mexico; the señoritas , the cantinas , the Apache and the Vaqueros , and of Texas and Arizona. He spoke of his friends in Montana and of the unbelievably bitter winters of Wyoming. There seemed to be nowhere he hadn’t been, or nothing he hadn’t seen. Quantro listened, fascinated, liking this quiet man for what he was. He may not have been one of the rough and tough