Over the next two days or so, in between chores, and all of that, Crane took Ford and Guthrie and I back up to

where the wild Mustangs sometimes traveled thru. We rode in the Jeep part way, and then hiked the rest of the way, armed with

canteens of water, and snacks I carried in my backpack. And both Crane and Ford carried a rifle.

I kept talking all the while I was hiking, telling Ford and Guthrie how beautiful the Mustangs were. Such a sight to see. Until I had to

stop talking so much, to save my energy and my breath for hiking up the hills.

Once we reached the same spot, the one that Crane had brought me to the other time, we were all glad to find a place to

sit down.

Crane had brought his camera, with the telephoto lens, and he lowered himself to sit on a rock. Ford and Guthrie sat down

on the ground, after Guthrie had walked back and forth on the ridge for a few minutes, looking at things.

Crane was cautioning us all, just as he had me, that we may not see the Mustangs at all that day. It was 'the luck of the draw',

as he said.

So we just sat and waited, for what seemed like the longest time. Ford even stretched out on the grass, and dozed off.

I took the camera and looked out thru the long distance lens, looking at scenery and keeping my eyes out for the Mustangs.

I thought I could hear them coming, the thundering of their hooves, from a far-off distance, but then it seemed to stop.

We waited for almost two hours before we heard them coming for real. Guthrie nudged Ford awake with the toe of his boot, and Ford,

still stretched out on the grass, half-sat up.

"They're comin'," Guthrie told him, standing up, his face lit up with excitement.

And they were. The were on the run. I was using the telephoto lens to see them better, and Guthrie was

using our old pair of binoculars.

At first, it was just as beautiful as I remembered. We were all standing up, on the edge of the ridge, watching. Guthrie

passed the binoculars off to Ford, and I offered Crane the camera.

"You can take as good of pictures as I can," Crane told me, waving his hand at me to keep the camera.

So I adjusted the lens, and started shooting some pictures. I was so focused on them, their running, that I didn't see

anything at first. And then I heard Guthrie say, "What's goin' on?" and noticed that he and Ford both took steps forward,

peering thru the binoculars.

"What?" I asked, lowering the camera.

And then I saw. There were men on horseback, riding behind the herd of Mustangs, obviously herding them.

"What are they doing?" I asked, turning to look up at Crane.

Crane didn't answer at first. He squinted a little, and took the camera from my hand, using the telephoto lens

to see more.

There were about six men. I thought at first five, but then I saw the sixth one riding up. A couple of them were waving

their hats as they ran the horses.

In just what seemed to be a matter of moments, the horses were going, going, and nearly gone from sight, running

on further into the canyon, flanked by those men on horseback.

"What are they doing?" I asked Crane again.

"Herding them somewhere," Crane said, sounding terse.

"Where?" I asked.

Nobody answered that.

Crane turned, and without saying a word, began to hike down the incline. We all followed, Guthrie, then me, because Ford

motioned me to go ahead of him.

Crane was walking so fast, and his legs are so long, that I, and even Ford, had a hard time keeping up.

"What's the big rush?" Ford asked.

"They maybe are catchin' 'em to break, huh?" Guthrie asked, but nobody answered either question. We hiked on, and in way less time

than it had taken to hike up, we were back at the Jeep. Crane climbed behind the wheel, and immediately fired up the motor.

"Come on," he said, sounding urgent, and Guthrie and I hustled to climb up into the back, while Ford got in the passenger seat.

We had barely settled in the seat when Crane put the Jeep into motion, taking a decidedly different way than what we'd come.

"Where are you going?" I heard Ford ask, over the wind rushing past.

I scooted forward in my seat, to be able to hear better.

"I want to see where they're running those horses," Crane said.

"There aren't as many as when you took me up there before, are there?" I asked, loud enough to be heard.

"No. Not nearly as many," Crane said.

I had no idea where we were at, but Crane seemed to know where he was heading to. When he stopped the Jeep, the other

three of us got out, and followed him without question.

"Grab the binoculars," he told Guthrie, and we waited while Guthrie went back to fetch them.

Again, we walked. Up hills, and down hills. Thru grassy open areas. I could feel my heart pounding. With excitement, I thought.

Or nerves. This whole thing had such a "sleuth" type feel to it.

When Crane finally stopped walking, we all halted, as we were walking in a single file line behind him.

Then he seemed as if he was listening for something. I too, thought I could hear something. It was the pounding of what

sounded like hooves, and there was some yelling, too. The calls of cowboys who were herding animals.

Crane held up a hand, to halt the rest of us. We stopped walking, and gathered closer around him.

"Are they close by?" Ford asked, looking around, low.

"Further than they sound, I think," Crane said.

"What are you gonna do?" Ford asked, as Guthrie said, sounding impatient, "Come on. Let's go take a look."

"Settle down, Guthrie," Crane cautioned.

"Ford, stay here with Harlie. Keep the rifle handy. I'm going to take a closer look, and I'll be back," Crane said. "Guthrie, you

come with me. Bring the binoculars."

There was no point to protest about staying behind, because Crane had already gone, disappearing into the trees, Guthrie

behind him.

"What's going on, do you think?" I asked Ford, quietly. "Just some cowboy wannabes, that want to be able to say

they caught their own Mustang?"

"I don't know. Maybe," he said.

"Well, what else?" I asked him, wondering what he was thinking. He looked so serious.

Ford shook his head in answer.

We sat, amid the grasses, or rather I sat. Ford stood most of the time, leaning against a tree, watching and listening.

I was pulling at tufts of grass, when there was the sound of someone coming back thru the trees, boots crunching.

Ford put a finger to his lips, visibly relieved when Crane spoke in a low tone. "It's us, Ford."

I got to my feet, as they walked up. I was so curious, but no questions were answered then, because

Crane said, "Let's go," and we started walking again.

Once back at the Jeep, we all stood to one side, and Crane said, "They've got three or four temporary corrals set up. They're

running the Mustangs into there."

"Why so many?" Ford asked.

Before Crane could formulate an answer to the question, we could hear a whirring.

It was coming from the air, and we all instinctively looked up. A helicopter came skirfing along over the tops of the trees,

heading in the opposite direction.

Guthrie shielded his eyes from the sunlight coming thru the trees, and took a few steps, out of the range of trees, so as to see the helicopter

more clearly, I figured.

"Guthrie, come back here," Crane ordered, and Guthrie stepped back, looking puzzled.

"What?" he asked.

"Stay here under the trees. I don't want them to see you. Or any of us," Crane said.

"How come?" Guthrie asked, but he stood still, as we all did, still looking up, hearing the helicopter seemingly right

over our heads.

When it finally picked up speed, and whirled away, we could see it disappearing in the distance.

"Let's head home," Crane said, and we all, once again, climbed into our respective seats in the Jeep, and began

driving out, until we were in familiar enough territory that I recognized where we were at.

After that, there was more conversation.

I was the one who began it, scooting forward to ask Crane, "Are they wanting to catch and break them?"

"No, I don't think so," he said, but then said no more. Even from where I was sitting, in the back seat, I could

tell from his profile that he was deep in thought, and seemed bothered.

"They wouldn't be the first ones to want to catch their own wild Mustang," Ford offered, in support of my question.

"No, they wouldn't," Crane said, in seeming agreement.

"But?" Ford prompted him, obviously sensing the same reticence in Crane's reply that I did.

"Something's going on," Crane said. "I think it's more than that."

"You think they're selling them to the factories?" Ford asked, and I had to lean closer to hear over the wind whipping past.

"Maybe," Crane said.

"What sort of factories?" I asked, and Guthrie turned to give me a disbelieving look.

"Come on, Har," he said. "You know what kind."

As realization dawned, I felt my stomach knot in disgust. And sadness, too.

"You mean glue?" I asked.

As Guthrie nodded, Ford added, from the front, "Or pet food."

Now that I hadn't ever heard about. I squeezed the back of Ford's seat in my fist.

"What?" I asked, incredulously.

"Dog food," Guthrie offered in detailed information.

"What?" I asked again, horrified. Not asking again because I didn't hear what he said. But because I couldn't wrap

my head around such a thing.

Crane turned his head, just enough to shoot me a glance. He didn't say anything, but he reached a hand back,

and gave one of my knees a pat, before putting his hands back on the steering wheel.

After that, I slumped back in the seat, not even trying to catch the conversation. The thought of those beautiful

animals, with all their shades of colors, being killed to become dog food, or glue, made me feel physically ill.

Back at the house, Crane parked the Jeep, in its regular spot beside the barn. Daniel, who was coming from around the back

of the house, called to us, and waved. "Supper's on!" he hollered, going up the front porch steps, and inside.

Jethro Bodine came bounding over, and greeted Guthrie with joy, standing on his back legs, his front paws on

Guthrie's chest. Guthrie patted him, scratching behind his ears. They were all out of the Jeep by now, and I just sat

there, slumped against the seat.

"Hey," Ford said, pausing to look at me.

Crane paused, too, his glance at me concerned. "Suppertime, peanut," he said, quietly.

"Not for me," I said. "I feel like I'll throw up if I try to eat."

Ford gave me a sorrowful glance, and then looked to Crane. Then Ford went around the back of the Jeep, and gave

Guthrie a light slap on the shoulder. "Come on, Guth," he said. And the two of them started off towards the house.

Crane laid the camera that he carried in his hand in the driver's seat, and came around to the other side of the Jeep, to

where I sat.

He leaned against the side of the Jeep, not saying anything.

"It's just not right," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Nope," he said, in quiet agreement.

"It's not legal?" I asked, in sudden thought, looking at him for confirmation.

"It's not black and white, exactly. More of a gray area."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means-" he paused, "that the ranchers and the activists can't agree. On whether the herds need to be thinned out, and

how exactly that happens."

"Why would ranchers want them thinned out?" I asked.

"They tear up fences. Graze the land needed for the cattle."

I looked up at his face, feeling as though I wanted to protest, though he wasn't the one I needed to protest to, I knew that.

"It bothers you a lot, though, doesn't it?" I asked him, quietly, sure of the answer.

"Yes. It does."

"And you're a rancher," I said.

"Yeah."

I studied him for a long moment, thinking. "But most ranchers? They feel differently than you do, right?"

Crane sighed a little. "Some do."

I had the sudden horrible thought that Brian and Adam might be in that other 'group' of ranchers. The ones that considered

the wild horses to be a nuisance. Not that they were cruel. Or heartless. They weren't. Not at all. Before I could say anything more,

Crane said, "Let's go in. Time to sit down and eat."

"I don't think I can eat," I said, again.

Usually Crane is really 'mother-henny' about my eating habits, because of my diabetes and all. But at this moment, he

just gave me a look I could only describe as understanding.

"Maybe a glass of milk. And some bread and butter, at least?" he asked, and held out a hand to me.

I took his hand, and jumped down to the ground. He picked up the camera again, and kept hold of my hand, even as we walked across the yard, toward

the house.

7