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horse!”
    The sorrel stood huddled against the fence, completely lathered with sweat, as frightened of the black stud as he was of the humans. The black faced Grandpap at a small distance, alert and ready to move in any direction, but unheated. His ears were pricked forward. He was enjoying himself. All afternoon, every time Grant Yandro had tried to approach his own mustang to get hold of the lead rope that trailed on the ground, the black had cut between, spooking the sorrel horse and endangering the man.
    Pap told Bobbi, “Get in here. I’ll keep the black son of a bitch busy. You get hold of the sorrel’s lead.”
    From longtime habit of obedience to her grandfather, Bobbi opened the gate and slipped into the corral. Then she stopped where she was. Often she had seen Grandpap working with the horses, patient, consistent, unyielding, firm; seldom kind, but always fair and firm. He shaped the behavior of the horses, taking his time but always pushing, pressing, little by little, the way forest pressed on the farm. Bobbi knew that he had trained her the same way, and she loved him, but she did not like being shaped.
    She looked at the black. Blue eyes met hers, and she saw in them what she expected to see: an outlaw’s defiance of the oppressor for her grandfather, and a grudging sense of honor for her.
    â€œI’ll put my horse in a stall for you,” she told her grandfather.
    â€œAnd how you expect to do that?” retorted Pap, not in query but in scorn. Mustangs were afraid of enclosed spaces. They had to be halter-trained before they could be taken into a stall.
    â€œJust open the door. He’ll go in by himself.”
    This should have been good news to Grant Yandro, but he was in no mood to hear his granddaughter say that all he had to do was open a stall door and ask the black mustang to go in. He had spent an exasperating afternoon. He had tried for an hour to get hold of the black stud’s lead rope, so he could tie it to a rail and get it out of the way. The black had comprehended what no ordinary horse should comprehend, the connection between himself and the rope, and he had refused to let the old man anywhere near the trailing length of nylon. Longe whip in hand, Grant had tried to corner the black. It was as useless as spitting into the wind. The black horse was fast and fearless. Finally, though he knew Bobbi would have a right to be angry at him if she ever found out, he had tried to rope the mustang. But the black was more rope-wise than any horse he had ever seen. Shane had made a monkey of him, all afternoon, and when Bobbi said she would put him in a stall, Pap opened his mouth and roared.
    â€œYou’re going soft in the head!”
    â€œI’ve been right about him so far,” she challenged, “haven’t I?”
    But Grant Yandro was too bullheaded to admit that. And he didn’t just want the black horse in a stall. He wanted to conquer him. He handed Bobbi the whip.
    â€œYou get over there on the right. Come at him that way while I grab that lead.”
    It was an order, given in the heat of action. Bobbi had never gone against such an order of her grandfather’s in her life.
    â€œNo,” she said, though her voice sounded far less than firm. But she followed the word by dropping the whip in the dirt.
    Grandpap glared, then shouted, “Jesus shit! Goddamn it, girl! Why not?”
    She would not admit, even to herself, that she did not want the black mustang to hate her. Though she knew she could have walked up and taken him by the halter, and he would not have resisted her by even so much as turning his head away.
    â€œHe’s my horse,” she said. It came out sounding bratty. Inwardly she groaned, for she could see Pap was boiling mad.
    Rather than face him any longer, she turned away and jogged across the corral to where the big sliding door to the barn stood open, offering the mustangs shelter should they choose to