We have to winter-feed practically everything these days.

The range just nicely keeps the stock from snow to snow.

I've got pitchfork callouses on my hands I never will outgrow if I was to fall heir to a billion dollars and never use my hands again for fifty years except to feed myself.

It takes work, believe me! And if there's anything on earth a puncher hates worse than work, it's some other kind of work.
"At the Flying U," he went on, looking at Luck pensively, "you'll see the effect of too many people moved into the range country.

If there's anything more distressing than a baby left without a mother, it's a bunch of cow-punchers that's outlived their range.