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Dark shades tinted the glare of the sun that bounced off scrub and rock that covered the plateau. They couldn’t be seen, but the thunder grew louder, the cloud of dust rose into summer-warmed air as hooves pounded the earth. A sorrel and white paint, the lead mare, led the rest of the herd over the rise and across the acres claimed by the BLM, though the horses had been inhabiting the area since the Spanish explorers brought them in the sixteenth century.
He was far enough away to not spook them, nor be trampled by their galloping feet. With hands on hips and a half-smile that graced his face, he envisioned the flow of cash the wild horses would create for his bank account. It wouldn’t be here that visitors would pay a prime price for a vacation home, but to the south, where ranches cu
