Here's a poem written by cowhand John Gill in 1939, right here on my ranch. It's called, "Winter on the Little Snake."
We were crowded in the bunkhouse,
Not a soul did dare to sleep,
Twas midnight up at Three Forks,
And the snow was six feet deep.
It's a terrible thing in that land,
To be caught in such a storm,
You're forty miles from nowhere,
And no way to give alarm.
When the storm was over,
And the sun began to shine,
We scooped the snow off the cattle,
And they were looking fine.
We lifted our arms to Heaven,
Said, "Thank God for just one thing,
Today's the Fourth of July,
It can't be long 'til spring!"