Almost anytime you might raise your eyes and see a few cows, big spring calves at their sides trailing single file through well-worn paths in the sagebrush on the hill out front. Occasionally a cow had twins, but the extra calves were never enough to replace those left dead behind in the hills or on the flats—hamstrung, torn and eaten by wolves or bloated and dead from anthrax—blackleg, as they called it in that country.
