El Rey, stamping in his own corral, lifted his beautiful head, scanned the wide reaches that spread away in living green, and tossing up his 34 muzzle, sent out on the silence a ringing call. He cocked his silver ears and listened. No clear-cut human whistle answered him. Once more he called and listened.
Then he lowered his head and stepped along the fence. His great body, shining like blue satin with a silver frost upon it, gave and lifted with every step. The pastern joints above his striped hoofs were resilient as pliant springs. The muscles rippled in his shoulders, the blue-white cascade of his silver tail flowed to his heels, his mane was like a cloud upon the arch of his neck. He was strength and beauty incarnate, a monster machine of living might.
Unrest was upon him. Life had become stagnant, a tasteless thing. He was keen for the open stretches, honing to be gone down the wind. He fretted and ate out his heart for the freedom of the range. Old Anita, passing at some work or other, stopped and gazed at him for a compassionate moment.
“You, too, grande caballo,” she said, “there is naught but grief at Last’s Holding. Tharone querida” she called into the house, “come here.”
Tharon came and stood in the kitchen door.
“What, Anita?” she asked gently.
“El Rey,” answered the old woman, “he calls and calls and none come to him. He, too, needs 35 help, Corazon. Why not take him for a run along the plain? It will help you both.”
For a long time the girl stood, considering.
“I have not cared to ride lately, Anita,” she said, “but you are right. El Rey should not be left to fret.”
She stepped back in the house, then came out, and she had added nothing to her attire save her daddy’s belt and guns. Without these she never left the Holding now.