Tug positioned himself in the window so as to block as much of the view of the catch pen as he could. “We got a couple little things we need to do, but nothin’ we can’t put off till Monday.”

“Sounds good,” Tom nodded. “Let’s plan on about two o’clock. Tell the boys they don’t need to bring anything, and we mean it this time.” Tom and Terri both smiled. The last time they invited the crew to a meal, they all pitched in and bought them a gallon of wine in a box with a spigot and a handle for carrying it. It was appreciated, but not necessary, as Tom and Terri had an entire cellar full of wine, all in glass bottles.

“Yes sir,” Tug nodded. “I’ll tell ‘em.”

“We’ll see you all on Saturday, then.”

“Yes sir,” Tug nodded, tipping his hat to Terri, and stepping back from the truck, still trying to keep their view of the catch pen blocked as well as he could.

Tom put the truck in gear and pulled away about the same time Terri pushed the button that brought the power window back up. Just as Tug felt he’d gotten away with keeping the colt a secret, the truck pulled to a stop a few feet from where it had been sitting during their conversation.

“Dammit,” he mumbled.

The driver side door popped open, Tom stepped out and walked to the back of the truck, looking over at the catch pen. “Whose gray is that,” he asked.

“He’s a stray,” Tug said bluntly. “Came in with the old-timers. The boys are fixin’ to get him outta here pretty quick.”

“A stray? Is he a mustang?”

Tug hesitated. His boss was a good man. As good as any new rancher he’d ever seen or been involved with. But if he had one weak spot, as far as Tug was concerned, it was his penchant for wanting to give every animal he came across a home, whether it could earn a living for him or not. Tug could never seem to get his head wrapped around that way of thinking. An animal that couldn’t earn it’s living was no good to anyone as far as he was concerned, and this gray colt was just one more of those. “Yeah,” Tug finally said. “Looks like it.”

“What happened to him?” Tom walked around the truck and up to the fence. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“Could be anything, I reckon.” Tug walked over to him. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he got run off.”

“Run out of his herd?”

“That’d be my guess.” Tug leaned against the fence, propping his foot on the bottom rail. “As beat up as he is, I’d say he didn’t have enough sense to get out of his own way, much less the stallion that was trying to run him off. He’s lame, there, on his right front, not much good for anything I reckon. The boys will be here directly and they’ll run him back up the mountain.”