Laurance “Tick” Jameson grew up on the Rattlesnake Range in the late 1800s southwest of Casper, Wyoming.

He described a special rhythm that beats through the consciousness as one rides through the grass and listen to cattle bellowing in the herd. The smell of the smoke of the sagebrush fire, the taste of bacon from, a sizzling pan at daybreak and the twists and turns of the bailing wire conjured up his boyhood memories of the rattlesnakes.

He fondly recalled the bunch grass and wildflowers that still grow today on a landscape unmarred by plows.

It was in these same hills that Jameson rode that also roamed a creature made of nightmares.

The cowboys spoke about it in hushed tones around the campfire or cursed it as they nursed their bruises.

They called this spectral horse the White Devil.