Let me introduce myself. Folks call me Buck. If there’s dust on the horizon and bawlin’ in the wind, I’m likely somewhere under that hat—pushin’ beeves north, holdin’ night guard, or dallyin’ a rope around something that doesn’t yet know it wants to cooperate.

Most days start before sun-up at the remuda and end long after the cook’s lantern goes out. A good horse, a clean loop, and partners you can trust—that’s the whole outfit. I’ve packed salt through badlands, forded the Missouri when she was moody, and sang to restless cattle till the stars ran down.