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were always colts about, though.
    The leader of the current herd was a tall, prancing black with a splash of white across his face. It seemed likely he was the off-spring of some rancher’s mare mated with a mustang. Or maybe the horse had been stolen by Comanches as a colt. The black was half a hand taller than his companions, and he tirelessly worked his way among the harem as if to tell the three other younger and smaller stallions that they had best keep their place.
    â€œHorse like that ’un’s sure to leap a four foot fence,” Pinto told himself. “Well, I’ll build mine six.”
    As for where, Pinto followed the ravine into a walled canyon. Where once a creekbed had promised freedom on the opposite side, a massive rock slide now barred the way. It was a perfect box.
    Pinto set to felling live oaks. In two days’ time he’d cut posts and planted them in the rocky ground. Rails six feet high followed. He left a narrow entrance eight feet wide so the animals could get inside the canyon. It wouldn’t take much to slide rails into place afterward, trapping the whole herd.
    â€œWell, dere you are,” Pinto announced when he finally finished the back-breaking work. “As good as a work corral!”
    Now all he had to do was coax the horses into the ravine and run them down the canyon. All ? Pinto asked himself. It was enough.
    â€œIt’ll either work or it won’t,” he mumbled as he climbed atop his spotted mustang and headed toward where he’d last seen the range ponies grazing. He slipped up on the rear of the herd quietly, then exploded into action. Howling like a banshee, he waved a blanket overhead and fired off three chambers of his battered old Navy Colt. The noise echoed across the far hills, giving the desired effect of driving the horses away from the river and down the narrow ravine. In no time at all the animals pressed together in a knot. Their big leader fought to take control, but Pinto refused to give pause. As he screamed and waved the blanket, the mustangs hurled themselves deeper and deeper down the ravine. Amidst the dust and confusion, the defiant stallion was driven along toward the confines of the canyon.
    Oh, one or two colts did break away. Being swift and nimble, they were better suited to climbing the walls of the ravine. But once the walls became rockier and steeper, escape was no longer possible. The frightened animals lumbered onward, unaware that they were hurrying toward captivity.
    In half an hour’s time it was all over. The last of the ponies squeezed through the gap in Pinto’s fence and rushed toward the blocked exit. Two horses tried to scale the rock slide, but neither succeeded. Meanwhile, Pinto slid the hidden rails into place, completing the rock and wood corral.
    â€œNow I got you, boy,” Pinto shouted to the big stallion. “Tomorrow we get on with de breakin’.”
    The big black screamed defiance. He charged around the canyon, trying every possible means of escape. Finally he trotted over and tackled the fence. Even his heavy hooves couldn’t dislodge those posts and rails, though.
    â€œI build a thing to stay,” Pinto called to the stallion. “Bes’ you understand it. These others’ll make good work ponies. You’ll carry me ’cross de Llano!”
    The stallion reared up and cried out stubbornly. He then turned and kicked as the fence with his hind legs. Finally he raced at a gallop and threw himself at the wall. It didn’t budge, though, and the horse bounced backward in a swirl of dust.
    â€œBus’ dem ribs, and you’ll be crowbait!” Pinto yelled.
    The horse paid him little mind, though. But by the time dusk fell, the big black had begun to realize the futility of escape.
    Pinto Lowery devoted two and a half months to the mustangs. By that time twenty-seven of the beasts begrudgingly accepted a bit and tolerated a rider. Of course the rider was