Glen’s horse goes missing. He knows where it is.
“Them Stiller boys took it.” Their rancher neighbor was
full of mischief: fences cut, cattle driven through the wheat.
“Then go get it back.” Her brown eyes charge him
as never before. Glen has to look away. But he pulls
on his boots and starts out on foot ten miles to the ranch.
He walks up to the barn. His horse whinnies to him
from the corral. A cowboy threatens he’ll shoot if he touches it.
Glen says not one word. He opens the gate, slips on the bridle
he had brought, mounts up, and rides bareback past the cowboy.
He would become a legend among the dirt farmers,
who have little else to celebrate as they eke out the ’30s.
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