SON OF THE WIND
confidence with which it was spoken he felt his ears grow hot. His pulse too was perhaps a little warmer. "I broke in my mare myself," he told her warningly.
"You must think me a fanatic. I have never seen a horse broken, and I never will if I can help it; but, of course, horses bred on ranches have to be broken, I suppose. That is rather different."
Carron had a passing vision of the particular shoulder of white desert sand in the lee of which, three years ago, he had roped the frantic, kicking thing which was now the chestnut mare. There had been blood in the foam of her nostrils, and he recalled she had nearly succeeded in killing them both; but it had been a great moment and now she was a perfect saddle-horse.
"And the wild ones? What would you do with them?"
"Why, let them alone, of course."
His lips opened—remained open, silent, speechless.
"Why not?" she insisted. "Wild horses are the wildest things in the world; they are the only trampling, wild creatures left, and there are such a few of them! If you catch them, tame them, why, then they're gone: but if you leave them and let them go, then you have them for ever!" She flung
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