It was early in the month of April, when the strong, warm winds from the south-east lashed the gamut grass of the plains, until it resembled the heaving bosom of the turbulent sea, and billowing white clouds driven before the fretful gusts of the maverick wind, banked themselves like a cornered herd against the towering mountain ranges of the continental divide. In the kitchen of the Arrowhead Ranch, Mom Stevens was clearing away the rest of the dishes, when nine-year-old Buddy Stevens rushed in, with something exciting he wanted her to see, made by Ling Chow.