tan-golden, sorrel mare. Her well-groomed spring coat was alive and flaming in the morning sun that slanted straight under the edge of the roof of trees. She was herself alive and flaming. She was built like a stallion, and down her backbone ran a narrow dark strip of hair that advertised an ancestry of many range mustangs.

“How’s the Man-Eater this morning?” he queried, as he unsnapped the tie-rope from her throat.

She laid back the tiniest ears that ever a horse possessed — ears that told of some thoroughbred’s wild loves with wild mares among the hills — and snapped at Forrest with wicked teeth and wicked-gleaming eyes.

She sidled and attempted to rear as he swung into the saddle, and, sidling and attempting to