Oldtimers always say it doesn't storm like it used to. But I'd argue with them. When you're on a trail drive, you get on intimate terms with the weather. You're away from home maybe eight, nine months, and you may not sleep under a roof the whole time. Rain, sleet, snow, whatever it has to offer, it's part of the job.

They tell us just since the war this beef cattle we drive north are changing the eating habits of the whole country. Changing the farming ways, too, I understand. Well, I don't know. These beeves might mean a square meal to some, but they just mean trouble to me.

There's one good thing you can say about driving a herd up the Sedalia trail: beeves stay beeves. The drovers stay human, and trouble is always saddling up a fresh horse, preparing to ride with you. What you can't be sure of is the direction it's coming from, the face it's gonna be wearing, the name it'll be traveling under. What you can be sure of is that trouble knows your name.

Sometimes it gets right peaceful on a trail drive. You're traveling easy in pretty country with the trail-broke herd acting gentle as lambs. Weather's fine. Air's fresh. Sun's warm. That's when I begin to worry. Something's bound to happen. And out of all the bad things it might be, it usually turns out to be the kind of trouble you least expect.

All from the TV series Rawhide