After sunrise, they could make out the notch in the ridge three miles up. Beyond that lay the rugged plateau on the far side of Bighorn Canyon where the mustangs should be able to range in peace. A man could come up here to hunt wild horses if he wanted, but it was not a trip you would make unless you planned to break a horse and keep it. Two Spuds and Plenty Doors put a little speed on the lead horses. They didn’t need much encouragement. They were mustangs, they had plenty of bottom and they could smell water on the other side of the ridge.

As they neared the plateau, the horses broke into a run. Emaline urged her horse into a gallop. She could hear the piercing whistles of the other riders and their high-pitched yipyipyip-yi-yi-yi as they headed the mustangs toward the gap. Joe Plenty Doors was next to her on his buckskin, bent low over his horse and riding like he was coming around the final turn at the Kentucky Derby. Between them ran mustangs of every color, dun and bay and blue roan, pintos and palominos, chestnuts, blacks, pale horses that no cowboy would ever ride, because everyone knew that pale horses attracted lightning. The hundreds of hooves made a long, steady rumble in the clear mountain air. She felt the thrilling power of these wild horses and saw their beauty and grace, the manes and tales flowing in the wind. Once, riding with Eli in the Cadillac, she had seen a roan stallion running through the snow and wanted to climb on his back and run just as she was running now.

The mustangs eased to a canter as they poured through the notch. Just past it, she saw the black on a knoll on the far side, watching the herd flow past him. Even at that distance she could see what a magnificent animal he was. Farron Blue was right. He was an ugly horse, but he was ugly in a beautiful way. No wonder men had risked their lives to own him. As she watched, Joe Plenty Doors slid his buckskin over behind the black, keeping a respectful distance, and the stallion eased down the knoll, bringing up the rear like one of the outriders. As he sped into a gallop, the riders peeled away. First Two Spuds and Plenty Doors, then Emaline with Juanita, then Ezra and Eli. Ignacio reined up and left Farron alone, cantering along a dozen feet from the black, having himself a long last look. Then Farron stood in the stirrups, waved his hat, turned old Pink in a looping canter back toward the rest.

Emaline cheered at the top of her lungs. Juanita joined her as they dismounted. The two of them hugged and jumped up and down like giddy schoolgirls.