“They hate the geldings,” I said.

“Stallions don’t like much,” Cole said.

“They like mares,” I said.

The stallion went back to grazing, but always between us and the mares.

“Virgil,” I said. “I’m not minding it, but why are we up here, looking at these horses?”

“I like wild horses,” Cole said.

“Well, that’s nice, Virgil.”

Cole nodded. The horses moved across the hillside, grazing, their tails flicking occasionally to brush away a fly, the stallion now and then raising his head, sniffing the wind, looking at us. There was no breeze. Occasionally, one of the mares would snort and toss her head, and the stallion would look at her rigidly for a moment, until she went back to grazing.

“Easy life,” Cole said. “They get through here, there’s another hill.”

“Stallion looks a little tense,” I said.

“He’s watchful,” Cole said.

“Don’t you suppose he gets worn down,” I said, “all the time watchful? For wolves and coyotes and people and other stallions?”

“He’s free,” Cole said. “He’s alive. He does what he wants. He goes where he wants. He’s got what he wants. And all he got to do is fight for it.”

“Guess he’s won all the fights,” I said.

In a cluster of rocks on top of one of the hills west of us and the horses, several coyotes sat silently, watching the herd with yellow eyes.

“Foals better not stray,” I said to Cole.

“The stud knows about them,” Cole said. “See how he looks over there. Foals are all right long as they stay with the herd.”

The sun was quite high now. Maybe eleven in the morning. Our own horses stood silently, heads dropped, waiting.

“Virgil,” I said after a time, “these are very nice horses, but shouldn’t somebody be upholding the law in Appaloosa?”