This book story of a rider jogged northward along the road on a big pinto horse, a led buckskin, packed, trailing a half-length behind. The horseman traveled with the regulation outfit of the roaming range dweller saddle, bed roll and canvas war bag containing personal treasures and extra articles of attire but this was supplemented by two panniers of food and cooking equipment and a one-man teepee that was lashed on top in lieu of canvas pack cover. A ranch road branched off to the left and the man pulled up his horse to view a sign that stood at the forks. Squatter, don't let the sun go down on you, he read. That's the third one of those reminders, Calico, he told the horse. The wording a little different but the sentiment all the same. Fifty yards off the trail the charred and blackened fragments of a wagon showed in sharp contrast to the bleached white bones of two horses. They downed his team and torched his worldly goods, the rider said. All his hopes gone up in smoke.