The water dispute simmered for three tense days. Old Chen's hired man, a surly cousin with a talent for obstruction, "accidentally" diverted a small but crucial channel from the creek, reducing the flow to the Lin pasture by half. The grass, while hardy, began to show the first faint signs of stress under the late autumn sun.
Lin Yan didn't confront them. He had a different solution, one born from his Pasture Management knowledge and a desperate scan of the county maps Clerk Gao had left copies of.
"We move them," he announced at the morning council. He spread a crude charcoal sketch on the table. "Here, in the high folds of the Azure Hills, above the tree line. There are alpine meadows. The village has common grazing rights there, but it's too far for anyone to bother driving animals up. The grass is short but incredibly rich, the water is from snowmelt springs. We take the herd up for ten days. It relieves pressure here, lets the creek dispute become irrelevant, and fattens the cattle on the best forage they'll ever see."
The family stared. Drive their precious, hard-won cattle into the wild mountains?
"It's two days' journey, one way," Lin Tie said, his practical mind wrestling with the logistics. "Rockslides. Wolves. The weather can turn in a heartbeat."
"We go prepared," Lin Yan insisted, a spark of the old cowboy spirit—transmuted through his modern soul—flaring within him. "We take the cart with supplies. We make a camp. We keep watch. And we need another pair of hands. Someone who knows mountains and animals."
The answer came that afternoon, as if summoned by their need. A stranger limped into Willow Creek. He was a man of indeterminate age, lean as a whip, with a face carved by wind and sorrow. He wore a patched tunic that might have once been military issue, and he carried a long, oiled leather bundle that could only contain a bow. His eyes, the color of flint, scanned the village with the detached assessment of a scout.
He made his way to the well, drank deeply, then his gaze landed on the Lin compound—the solid coop, the hay shed, the green pasture with its four fine cattle. He watched for a long time. Then he walked toward their gate.
Lin Yan met him there. The man's eyes, up close, held a deep, tired intelligence.
"I hear a man might find work here," the stranger said, his voice gravelly and quiet. "Work with animals and land."
"Who are you?" Lin Yan asked, not unkindly.
"Zhao He. Formerly of the Northern Frontier Cavalry. Stable hand, scout, farrier." He said it like a list of wounds. "My horse died. My service ended. I walk." He nodded toward the pasture. "Your bull has the look of the Northern Ridge stock. Good bone. The heifer with the russet coat… southern hills. An interesting mix. You are building something, not just feeding something."
Lin Yan's instincts hummed. This was no ordinary drifter. This was the expertise they needed, delivered to their door by a fate that seemed increasingly invested in their success. "We are driving them to the alpine pastures in two days. It's a hard journey. We need a guide, a guard, and another herdsman."
Zhao He's eyes flickered with the first hint of interest he'd shown. "The high meadows. I know them. The grass is sweet. The dangers are real." He looked at Lin Yan, assessing him anew. "You would trust a stranger with your foundation herd?"
"I trust a man who knows the difference between Northern Ridge and southern hills stock at a glance," Lin Yan replied. "And a man who has nothing but his skills to offer. We can offer food, a share of the work, and a place to start again. If you're willing."
Zhao He was silent for a long moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. "I am willing."
Preparation became a military campaign. Lin Zhu and Lin Tie reinforced the cart, adding higher sides. Wang Shi and the girls prepared sacks of journey bread—hardtack made from ground yam and millet—and strips of dried, smoked meat. Lin Yan packed his herbal kit, coils of rope, and their tarpaulin. He also, on a whim, tucked his father's old, barely-playable bamboo flute into his pack.
Two mornings later, as mist clung to the valley, the Lin Ranch's first cattle drive began. Lin Yan and Zhao He took point, walking ahead to set the pace and watch for trail hazards. Lin Tie drove the cart, which carried supplies and a spot for an exhausted Lin Xiao to ride. Founder led the cattle, his head high, as if sensing the importance of the journey. Maple, Breeze, and Ember followed in his wake, their bells—a new purchase—creating a gentle, pastoral music.
The path wound out of Willow Creek and up into the rugged folds of the Azure Hills. The air grew thinner and cooler. The world shrank to the sound of hooves on stone, the creak of the cart, and the sigh of the wind through pine.
Zhao He proved his worth within hours. He pointed out a concealed crack in the trail that could snap a leg. He knew where a hidden spring bubbled, saving them from dipping into their carried water. His eyes constantly scanned the treeline, and he carried his unstrung bow with an easy familiarity that spoke of long practice.
As they made camp that first night in a sheltered pine grove, the reality of what they were doing settled over them. They were alone, under an immense sky, with their entire fortune on the hoof. Lin Xiao, wide-eyed with exhaustion and wonder, huddled by the fire.
To break the solemn silence, Lin Yan took out the flute. He couldn't play a tune, but he could manage a few clear, longing notes that echoed in the mountain stillness. To his surprise, Zhao He, from his watchful post at the edge of firelight, began to sing. His voice was low, rough, and carried the vast loneliness of the northern steppes. It was a song about a lost horse, a cold watchfire, and the stars that were the same for both soldier and herdsman.
The family listened, transfixed. It was a different music from their growing songs—a song of hardship and distance, but also of resilience. When he finished, the silence felt deeper, more shared.
"You have known hard roads, Zhao He," Lin Dahu said quietly, passing him a strip of smoked meat.
"All roads are hard," Zhao He replied. "Some just have better scenery." For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched his lips as he looked at the bedded-down cattle, dark shapes in the moonlight. "Or better company."
The second day's climb was steeper, the air bitingly crisp. Then, just past midday, they broke through the treeline.
Before them lay the alpine meadow. It took the breath away. A vast, rolling bowl of land cradled between granite peaks, covered in a thick, emerald-green velvet of short, dense grass. Wildflowers—tiny blues and startling yellows—dotted the landscape. Crystal-clear streams traced silver paths through the green. The sky was a dome of impossible blue.
The cattle needed no urging. As soon as they were let through the final pass, they surged forward, breaking into an ungainly trot, then lowering their heads to graze on the rich, unfamiliar turf. The sound of their tearing grass was a chorus of pure satisfaction.
They made a base camp by a tumbling stream. The work was constant—setting up a proper electric fence was impossible, so they took shifts on watch, with Zhao He teaching Lin Yan and Lin Tie how to listen for the different sounds of the night. But there was also a profound peace. During the day, Lin Yan and Zhao He would ride the perimeter of the grazing herd on foot, their companionship growing in the shared silence of the magnificent landscape.
It was on the third morning that Lin Yan found Zhao He staring at Founder, who was standing proudly on a small rise overlooking his small herd.
"He's a good one," Zhao He said. "But he's lonely."
"Lonely?"
"A herd bull's purpose is to lead, to protect, to sire. He has three heifers. It is enough, for now. But his spirit is bigger than this meadow. You feel it. You see how he watches the horizons?" Zhao He looked at Lin Yan. "You are not just building a herd for meat and labour. You are building a legacy. You need to give him a legacy worth protecting. More land. More challenges. More cattle."
It was as if Zhao He had looked into the core of Lin Yan's ambition. "The tax deadline looms. The clerk watches. Old Chen waits."
Zhao He spat. "Small men in small valleys. You have seen the roof of the world now." He gestured to the vast meadow, the soaring peaks. "This is the scale you should think in. Your 'Lin Ranch Method' shouldn't just be about fixing one slope. It should be about claiming these." He pointed to the other, empty high meadows visible in the distance. "The empire needs horses? Raise horses that can thrive here, where the air is clean and the grass is pure. Their soldiers will pay in silver for such animals."
The idea was staggering, intoxicating. It was a vision that matched the landscape—vast, difficult, and glorious.
The ten days passed in a blur of hard work and deepening bonds. Lin Xiao learned to track from Zhao He. Lin Yan's husbandry knowledge merged with Zhao He's practical cavalry experience, creating a new, potent understanding of the animals. They sang at night—Zhao He's northern ballads, Lin Xiaolian's folk songs from memory, and even a clumsy, laughing attempt by the whole group at a collective cattle-driving chant Lin Yan pieced together from half-remembered westerns.
[New Personnel Integrated: Zhao He. Loyalty: Developing. Skills: Scouting, Farriery, Equine & Bovine Husbandry, Wilderness Survival.]
[New Location Discovered: 'Sky-Grazing Pasture' – Alpine Meadow. Quality: Exceptional. Seasonal Use: Spring/Autumn.]
[Herd Health & Morale: Significantly Boosted. 'Founder' shows improved vigor and dominance.]
[Family Bonding & Worldview: Expanded.]
The drive home was easier, the cattle heavier, their coats sleek and glowing with health. They returned to Willow Creek as the first frost kissed the valley floor. The water dispute, they found, had fizzled. Old Chen, seeing them return not diminished but strengthened, with a dangerous-looking new hand in their employ, had called off his cousin. The message was clear: they were not to be easily harassed.
The herd was turned back into their home pasture, which had recovered in their absence. They settled as if they'd never left, but they were different. They carried the quiet confidence of animals who had seen the high places.
In the hut that night, the countdown to the tax collector's visit was a tangible pressure. But as Lin Yan looked at his family—sun-burnt, tired, but united—and at Zhao He, who was quietly mending a harness by the fire as if he'd always been there, he felt a new certainty.
The alpine drive had done more than fatten cattle. It had shown them the scale of their own potential. They had paid for their foundation with silver and sweat. Now, they had to protect it, and grow it. And they had, in Zhao He, a right-hand man who could see not just the next fence post, but the next mountain ridge.
The ranch had found its heartbeat in the lowland pasture. Now, it had found its horizon in the high, cold, glorious meadows of the sky. The tax man would come for his silver. But Lin Yan was no longer just thinking about survival. He was thinking about empires, and the kind of animals—and men—worthy of them.