I had heard of Kinch Kinney several times before I actually met him. Kinch was already a Fremont County legend in the early 20^th century. He had a reputation. One tough hombre, that Kinch Kinney. That's what they said anyway. Some said he carried a .45 with notches on the handle for the men he'd shot. I didn't know whether to believe them or not, but he did wear .45 revolver most of the time. I guess he must have used it to shoot rattlesnakes and scare coyotes away.

I was riding on Twin Creek one early spring day just for the pleasure of it when I came on to Kinch's ranch. It had been raining for a couple of days, and together with the snow melt, everything had turned to mud. Kinch was in the corral saddling a pretty good looking horse when I rode up, and after he got the saddle on he tied the horse to a rail and greeted me.

"Hello, stranger, what brings you out here?"

I told him my name was Alex Greig, and that I worked mostly pulling camp for sheep outfits, and was just taking a ride that day to see the country along Twin Creek.

"Well, come into the cabin and sit a spell, then maybe you can help me get my pack horse saddled. He's plumb green, and I was just thinking, with all this mud, I could sure use some help. I've got to make a mail run to Split Rock, and I might as well make him useful while I'm breaking him."

Carrying the mail over sixty miles to Split Rock by packhorse might seem strange with our modern highways, but in the early 20^th century Wyoming roads in the spring could be muddy and full of potholes. With horses, Kinch could ride directly to the Beaver Divide from Twin Creek, climb to its top, and make a bee line for Split Rock.

When we went in the cabin, it smelled strong of sagebrush, I noticed that Kinch had a pot of water boiling on the stove with a big piece of sagebrush sticking out of it.

"Alex, I see you eyeing my brew on the stove. That's how I make tea, and you've got to have a cup of it before we go back to saddle that pack horse."

Well, OK, I said I've never heard of anyone making tea out of sagebrush before.

"Sagebrush tea is good for most anything that ails you. Drink it and you're sure to live longer; that is unless you get killed first," Kinch joked. "You can have sugar if you want, but I drink it without."

I told him I'd take it straight too, but Kinch noticed me lifting my eyebrows and wrinkling my face, so he offered me sugar again. That time I took it. Unless you've drunk sage brush tea with its overpowering aroma, felt it penetrate your nose and trickle down your throat leaving a taste that lasts for hours, its hard to explain the experience. Kinch must have been used to it. I never drank it again.

Formalities being over, we walked out to where the unbroken packhorse waited, the ground churned into slimy mud by its restless pacing. Kinch got a lariat off his saddle, threw a quick hoolihan, caught the packhorse, then snubbed it to a snubbing pole in the center of the corral.

"Ok, Alex, hand me that halter over there, and we'll get this show on the road."

I brought Kinch the halter, and he tightened it on the packhorse's head. The packsaddle was next, and I had to keep the horse snubbed close so Kinch could get the packsaddle on and cinched up.

Next came the mail bags which Kinch tied onto the packsaddle while the horse was constantly trying to buck the entire load off.

"Hold him while I get my horse, Alex."

Kinch mounted his saddle horse, rode up and took the halter rope from me. Then the fun started.

Kinch had the halter rope snubbed up pretty short on his saddle horn, but the packhorse started to buck, pulling some slack, and got his head down enough to jar one of the mail sacks open. At first a letter or two began to fly out of the mail sack, then the sack opened wider and mail began flying all over the corral. Wherever the mail landed it was trampled by the horses mixing it into the mud and manure. Finally, Kinch got the horse to stop bucking, and tied it back up to the snubbing post.

"Can you give me a hand getting this mail back in the bags, Alex?"

I walked over and bent down to help dig the mail out of the mud. By this time we were both laughing as we dug letters and papers out of the muck, cleaned them off as best we could, and placed them back into the mail bag.

The job finally finished, Kinch retied the mail sacks on the packhorse, mounted his saddle horse and was ready to make another attempt at delivering the mail.

"Open the gate, Alex," Kinch said with a wave of his hand. "Neither rain nor sleet or snow or hail can prevent the mail from going through."

I watched Kinch disappear over the top of a hill in the distance, the skittish packhorse still trying occasionally to get its head and distribute the U.S. Mail in its own way.