Just as the herd felt it safe to slow down, humans on horses, swinging ropes and making hooting and whistling noises, burst from the bushes and from behind rocks and took up the chase. After five miles of running non-stop, the babies were falling hopelessly behind the adults, and while still running as best as their young legs would carry them, were running out of air. The canyon narrowed even more, until there was only enough room for the now sweat-soaked horses to travel two or three abreast. They rounded a blind turn and found themselves in a catch pen one hundred yards square where horses from other bands were already caught inside and milling around frantically. The horses from the gray stallion’s band shot into the pen, adding to the already confused and frenzied scene, when two large camouflaged gates swung shut behind them.

CHAPTER 6

As the helicopter flew past the mesa, the panicked colt began scrambling up the bank he had tumbled down the afternoon before. He lunged straight up the side of the canyon wall four times, sliding back down to the ledge each time. The helicopter disappeared as quickly as it had shown up and the colt, tired, hungry, thirsty and in pain from his injuries, stopped and stood, his legs quivering under him, breathing hard and looking up at the steep slope. He was a mountain horse, born and bred, and while the slope may have looked insurmountable to the casual observer, the truth of the matter was, even at his young age this colt had already traveled on much worse.

Once the colt’s initial panic and trembling had subsided and he again had his wits about him, he slowly and cautiously began his ascent back up the slope. This time, instead of trying to go straight up the steep bank, he traversed it upward in a large zigzag pattern, walking first ten or twelve steps to the left, then doubling back on himself and walking ten or twelve steps to the right. The ground was composed mostly of loose red dirt and grapefruit-sized rocks, both of which would scatter down to the ledge and beyond with every step he took. The colt slipped several times, nearly causing him to tumble back down to the ledge himself, but in each case he had caught himself by digging in with his front feet and pushing hard with his hind until he found relatively solid footing. The deep cuts he had received from the old stallion were filled with the red, sand-like dirt. He had bruises on both front legs, and his hips and shoulders gave out excruciating pain that would shoot through his entire body with every step. To catch himself after slipping was almost more than he could physically take and he would need to rest and let the pain subside before continuing upward.

As the sun made its way through the sky, the colt virtually willed his way back up the slope, often taking one step forward and two steps back. Still, each time he felt he couldn’t go on, something deep inside him would instinctively take over and he would push himself that next step, or two steps or three. By the time he finally scrambled the last few steps and lunged himself over the edge and back on top of the mesa he had fallen from the day before, many of his wounds, the ones that had begun to lightly scab over during the night, were once again bleeding freely.