I was led to two pillars of wood and tied to them, either side of my head. A large man, probably in his middle ages, came over with a pair of clippers and examined me. He smelt like the one in charge of the ranch, and I wondered if they were related closely. He had the same broad hands and heavy grip that I dreaded and an aura that almost glowed "respect me".

I tensed as he grabbed my mane, and I half attempted to nip him, but I knew better, it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Vain as it seems, part of me died when I saw my creamy mane fall to the floor in clumps, and I knew he was cutting it short. He tried the same with my tail, but was less successful on the shortening, but managed to trim the ends so that they were level. Next he picked up my hooves one by one, and scratched at them to remove the dirt.

He left for a few minutes, and seemed to be holding something over a fire. I shuddered. I hated fire, the heat, the smell, the sound, all of it. Nothing terrified me more. He emerged with four arcs of metal, just the right size for my hooves. He held one of my feet up again, place an iron shoe on it, and started hammering a nail into me! The nails themselves didn't hurt me, but the jarring of my joints each time the hammer came down on them, that was the real pain.

Once he had finished that leg he allowed me to drop my hoof. It felt strangely heavy, like I was standing in tar, being pulled down. He worked on the other three for ten minutes then went back towards the fire. Some horses tethered nearby whinnied to me, as if a warning. Sure enough he re-emerged with a red hot stick of metal, with some sort of symbol on it. Up until now I had been very obedient, but this was a violation of my free will! No-one, no-one, will ever have the right to imprint me with their logo!

When he neared me, I reared, kicking out with my front legs. The young man who had stood next to me ran faster than a hare away from me. I managed to snap the ropes connecting me to the poles, and ran from the scene. They caught me, eventually, in a corner of the vast camp. But they didn't even bother branding me, they wouldn't risk the fuss. So, I was led to the stables where I would spend my nights from then on.

When I entered the other horses had back away a little, wondering how I would react to them. I just stood there, my head hanging, and wandered over to the far corner. It was the first time I'd been among so many horses since I left home, and I wanted to be alone again, solitary, where no-one could break my barriers. If I was alone the memories wouldn't flood in, and I would be safe.

After a few hours I was approached by the leader of the men, the one who had bargained with the other humans for rights to my ownership. I eyed him cautiously. He held a whip in his right hand and had a pose of confidence. No doubt that he had heard of my little escape earlier on, and he was as wary of me as I was of him. He just stood there for an age, gazing at me. I tried not to meet his eye, in fear that his stare would burn me. Eventually, he slowly opened the door and entered.

I shied away a fraction, keeping my eyes on his crop constantly, so that if he raised it I could run. He surprised me. He let it drop to the floor. I raised my head slightly. He called to two other men. One of them hurried off and the other tied a new piece of rope to my halter. I was led back outside where the sunlight blinded me briefly after the heavy shade of the barn. I was trapped inside a tiny enclosure while a saddle and bridle were fitted onto me. I felt the weight of the man on my back just before the gate was opened.

I remembered my father talking about how he had experienced something like this. How he had thrown every single rider off his back, and got the men to fear him. But there was some part of the story that I had forgotten. My father always told his tales to me in a nagging sense, and I hardly listened. Now, though, I wished that I had paid more attention.

I recalled how he had fought for his freedom, and not let a soul ride him, except for one. But I had already been trained to obey my rider, to respect him, and to some extent - fear him. Yet this man on my back had left his crop in the stables, and was not wearing spurs. I realised that he was trusting me. I was being given an opportunity to have freedoms, maybe not the freedoms I wanted, but liberty none the less. If I took advantage of his offer, I would have to endure months, maybe even years of hard going before I was allowed to prove myself again.

And still the temptation lingered. He squeezed my sides and I began to walk around the edge of the arena, my thoughts churning inside my head. I could taste the harsh tang of the bit in my mouth, the choking grip of the girth, the ache in the back of my neck from holding it up as I went. I could go home, never be ridden again, never have to obey a human being at all.

My mind traced back my steps to how I had got there. Through the gates, across the desert, through the forests, until I came to the ranch. My memories of the past months were beginning to fade from this point. Which way was home? How far? How would I survive? None of those questions had answers any more. But one image stuck in my head. Tammy. Her last foal had been sold to the military, a colt. It was certainly possible that he was here; the men seemed to know one another well enough.

I was pushed into a canter. We went through a tidy routine of dressage moves: circles, pirouettes, everything. The army wouldn't do that on the battle field, I knew that, but he was testing my footing, my pace and stamina too. Once he was happy with me, he dismounted and barked some orders to the others.

I was led back to the stables, but not to the same hut as before. Instead, I was placed in a shady corner of the base. There was a log cabin nearby, and a back gate. I assumed that it was for supplies from the south, since there were carts of grain, hay, barrels of water, and a great range of other foods that I assumed the humans ate. At least it gave me a rough idea of which way was which. The stall was on the east side overlooking the south. It was obvious because the sun hid behind the vast wall most of the day. South.

As I was untied I began mulling over the presence of the south gate. They would need supplies regularly, and the exit was smaller to prevent an ambush. Maybe that was my key to escape. But like the rest of the camp, it was heavily guarded. Still, their primary concern was fighting the enemy, not baby-sitting the horses, so maybe I was in for a chance.

I noticed that I was not alone in the hut. A stocky, dark sorrel stallion stood in the corner, glaring at me. I stayed at my end, head down in submission, and he stayed at his, head high in pride. His ears were flat back; he was trying to make me fear him. I simply turned my back on him. I heard a snort of surprise; he obviously didn't expect me to be so rude, not to his royal highness! Looking back, it must have been a funny sight for anyone watching, a young mare getting the better of an older stallion. I heard him turn too, so we were both facing away from each other. Even stranger.

I woke gently the next morning. The dull shafts of sunlight leaked through to my mind and my eyes slowly opened. The word shocked is not enough to describe how I reacted when the stallion who I was sharing the stall with was standing right in front of me. Again, his ears were back and he eyed me suspiciously. He demanded to know what I was playing at and how come I was invading his private hut. It was no way to talk to a lady.

I said that the humans put me there, he told me to stop blaming others. He accused me of sucking up the colonel so that I got the cushy life he was used to. My mind clicked into place. He thought I was one of the horses from the other barns, who had seen his home and wanted it myself, so when the opportunity had arisen, I was on my best behaviour for the man. I shook my head and told him he was wrong.

He snapped at me, he didn't touch me, or scare me, I simply snapped back. He stared at me, almost terrified, like he did not believe I could boss him about. Then, tail flicking around his legs; he grumped off once more to the other end of the stable.

Later on, he was taken out and ridden in a formation around the arena. That man was on him, the colonel as the stallion had called him. I watched with a sense of both awe and dread. That would be me soon. Just another war horse, just another number in a long, long line. No identity, no difference. I shook my neck in aggravation. Without my mane my neck had no barrier against the never ending flies.

Throughout the day I carefully watched the south gate. It only opened twice, once in the morning and again in the early evening. Four guards would help the cart through and unload it, then finally shut the gate. The cart would only leave when the other returned. There was little chance that both the opportunity to be out of a paddock or stable would arise at the same time as the gates were open, plus the fact that they were closed as soon as the cart was through, so it was likely that I would be staying put for a while. Since I wasn't going anywhere, I decided it would be best to make friends instead of enemies, starting with the stallion. Besides, it could lead to some useful information.

When he returned from his work I was busy drinking at the trough. He looked so thirsty, so I moved off and let him have a gulp. I also pushed some hay towards him. He muttered something about his figure and left it, so I started to munch away at it instead. It was the first time I had the chance to properly view him. He was a dark sorrel, with a gingery flaxen mane and tail, and his eyes were hazel. Burnt into his hide was a mark. I recognised it as the one they tried to imprint on me. I shuddered at the memory and the thought of how much it must have hurt. He noticed and looked up at me. Our eyes met and I saw no hate, no anger, just sadness.For the first time, he spoke to me civilly.

He told me that I reminded him of a friend he had as a foal. They were together whenever they could be. She was playful, naive, kind-hearted, but as they got older, training wore her down, crushed her spirit. They were being ridden by the age of three, still foals, still at the age for games, but she no longer played. Her humour dwindled each day, but they still stuck together. He endured the hardship of training too, but maybe his lack of spirit in the first place was what saved him. She, so energetic and full of dreams, was beaten into the dust.

One night they and several others were in the barn, sleeping soundly. He had no idea what had started it, but the smell of smoke and the heat of flames began penetrating through their sleep. In a panic the group shrieked for the humans, who came quickly, no doubt sensing the fire for themselves. The horses were led out in twos, there were thirteen of them. He was pulled through the door with his mother, but one last horse remained inside.It was his friend. But the fire was bringing down the roof and the men couldn't risk going back in. He tried himself to rescue her, but they held him tight. He never saw her again.

I listened in silence. He simply looked at the floor, his features softer and kinder than I had previously witnessed. He looked at me once more, sadness clouding in his eyes. He wished that I would never be broken like she did, and that I should not be there in the camp. Sooner or later, part of me would die. He said my eyes could be as beautiful as anything in the world, but they would still show the inner emotions.

I told him my name, the same as my eye colour. He named himself Durango. And that was it. He turned away from me and fell into a deep sleep. I however, could not switch that easily. How many others had he ever opened up to? Did he know something about this area of work that I did not? Unanswerable and troubling thoughts churned in my mind, but eventually I must have fallen asleep too.

The next day had no work involved, and the men were allowed to rest. Me and Durango were taken out into the arena and left with some hay and water. There was a small group of horses with us but they stayed at the other end of the paddock. I took the opportunity to get to know Durango better.

A while later, we were talking between ourselves rather pleasantly. I asked him why the others didn't talk to us. He said that he was in a higher rank than them, and they thought he was a snob and a coward, because he made them do all the work when they were in the open. He wasn't a snob, he didn't look down on them, it was just what he had to do for the group to coordinate. I, on the other hand, was new, not to mention of wild origin. They could smell it on me. Who was the real snob?

I asked what he meant by working in the open. Apparently, they would ride in formation and attack native villages. The humans were determined to have absolute power over each other. But the strangest thing of all was the differences he saw between his owner and a native horse's. He was well-fed, groomed and pampered, whilst they looked scruffy and wild, but yet they seemed much happier. I put it to him that he could live in the wild himself. He shook his head. He claimed that all he knew was domestication, and he wouldn't be able to survive alone.

I said he didn't have to.

Then the strangest thing happened - he began asking me questions. He wondered what it was like to live in a herd. I don't know if I did my way of life justice, but I certainly didn't glamorise it. I told him it was tough in winter and there was never enough shade in the summer. Sometimes the grass grew and other times it did not. There were natural enemies and newer ones - man and machine. He commented on how hard it must have been for me to adjust to life in a halter.

I said I had to adjust, or it would hurt. As a foal I knew few boundaries other than fear and respect for the elders, and suddenly I had to work like I had no soul. Yes, it was hard. He told me about his childhood. He had been specially bred for his qualities by humans to work for humans. He played with his friend up until the age of three, then he had to harden to the saddle. He was the last foal that his mother had.

"Where did you grow up?"

"On a ranch."

His mother was a bay and his father a chestnut. He had been sold to the army once training had been completed. The men needed the money, since they had a new member to their own family.

He was Tammy's foal, the money for Harry's cot, food and clothing. But the young boy, with his thick black hair and green eyes, was several years of age. Durango had been in the army for seven years. How much death had he witnessed? How much blood had he smelt and how many thundering gunshots had cracked his world into fragments?

The shock of the revelation must surely have shown in my face, and he asked me what was wrong. I saw no reason in telling him that I knew his mother, it would only lead to me having to tell him of her demise, and what good would that do him? None at all. I simply said that it was awful, and left it at that.

We ate in silence for a bit, shaking our heads to remove the flies. He recalled how a few years ago another mustang had come through the camp, and escaped just a few days later, letting the entire stables out with him. He was the only horse who stayed behind from free will. Out of loyalty or fear he had no idea. But he often wondered how it would have turned out if he had followed them out. I said that we would never have met. We both smiled.

The afternoon wore on and we all became drowsy in the sunlight, so we were led back into the shade. We had spent the whole morning simply talking, comparing childhoods and lifestyles, telling funny stories of other horses' mishaps and generally being cheerful. I yawned and hung my head low, trying to get some sleep. I knew that my army days would begin properly tomorrow.

A relaxing thought crossed my mind.

I had a friend.

Then I was asleep.

The harsh crack of the door bolt being drawn back woke me. I instantly closed my eyes again, the light out of the stall suddenly painful compared to the murky shadows of my dreams. A rope was attached to my halter and I was all but dragged out of the stable by the stable boy, my hooves catching on the ground as I stumbled along. Once more a saddle was fitted and I woke up instantly when they tightened the girth. Then, much to my displeasure, they attached a bridle around my head and forced the bit into my mouth. I moved my jaw to fit it as comfortably as I could while I was lead to the paddock. Durango was there too, the colonel already in the saddle, ordering a middle aged man about. The man mounted me in one swift, graceful movement, I hardly felt a thing as he floated on to my back.

He was clearly used to wearing spurs, since when he urged me forward he hardly touched my sides, then squeezed with his legs once he remembered that his aides were left by the side of his bed. He pushed me into a canter, sitting deep and relaxed in the saddle, allowing me enough rein to stretch my neck. I worked out that he was experienced, and knew how to get the best out of a horse, unlike some of the youthful onlookers who gazed when they saw someone ride a horse without a crop or spurs. How was it possible? Was he a miracle worker? No. He was just trusting.

The colonel must have chosen him especially for me, to ride me in a similar way that he intended to do himself. This was it - my training. I felt the gentle pressure on both reins and slowed to a trot then a walk. He turned me into the centre and dismounted.

"How was she?" the colonel asked, grinning slyly like a cat. He knew the answer already from the look on Tony's face. He knew that face, the old coot had fallen head over heels for the young mare.

"How was she? How was she? She is brilliant Sir, no wonder you were happy to pay the price Sir! She's a fine horse. Needs a little smoothing out on the rough edges of her training, but she should be ready in a couple of weeks, that is Sir," he paused, looking up at his commanding officer from beneath his riding hat, a look of utter pleading on his face, "if you would like me to train her."

The last part sounded more like a question to the colonel. His smile widened, "Of course. She's a gentle ride and needs a gentle rider to stay just as pleasant. I'd have no other man break her in. Now you know, Captain Stirr, that I have a busy schedule, that's why I am appointing you to take care of her and this boy," he patted the neck of the stallion, "you will no longer be required to ride in formation unless one of these are needed, and you have priority to the timetable 48 hours beforehand. Any questions or concerns, ask me."

"Yes Sir, thank you Sir."

Even when there is no physical exchange you can tell when you have been handed over. This new man led me back to the stable and took off all my tack and fed me. While I ate he groomed me and spoke to me, his voice soft as the grass, his words little more than a whisper. Something told me that my days were going to be like this from now on, a routine, no matter how nice this human was to me or how sweet the hay was or how cool the water, it was all going to be the same.

Durango told me that our new stable boy (boy, that's a laugh! The man was grey!) was called Tony Stirr. He had been in the US Army for over 30 years now, and was a well respected horseman. He was offered the position of colonel once, but turned it down because he would spend too little time with horses, so the title was handed to the man who owned us.

"So you don't know the colonel's real name?" I asked.

He wiggled his ears and said, "Colonel, Sir, just a title, just a job. I don't know anything about his family, home town or even how old he is. And I don't hank Tony does either, but he's the closest we are going to get to the colonel's secret life. Besides," he looked away from me, "the colonel isn't special to me."

Durango had predicted that I would look down on this. Anyone who treats a horse civilly is special, I knew so many riders abused their rights by whipping a horse because it stopped with fear, and some of them maybe sold them for meat once they were past their use in labour. But I'm not one to judge, there must have been good reasons for it, so I simply said, "Oh."

Durango detached himself from Tony as well, but I on the other hand, allowed myself to get close to him.

Too close when I look back on things.

The next two weeks were uneventful. I trained, I improved, I learnt to love and play with Captain Stirr, he was a reminder that humans could be friends as well as horses. I needed that in a world where man controlled all.

One evening, the sort of sky that is honey-coloured silk, me and Durango were tacked up and led into the paddock. The rest of the division was there, mounted and frozen, waiting for orders. Instead of the feather-like touch of Tony I felt the heavier bulk of the colonel on my back. Looking to my left, I saw Tony on Durango, stroking his neck and uttering calming words. The colonel projected orders to the crowd and the horses filed out, their steps high and synchronised. We followed behind. Something was up. I could smell it on the wind.

My rider was tense, I could feel it on my reins. Why was he tense, what was out there? What would happen, were we going to die?

My mind exaggerated wilding, broken only by Durango appearing at my side. His very breath seemed to heal me, the bad thoughts simply floating away until I was relaxed and composed again. I jumped slightly when the colonel ordered a halt to the group. Swords were drawn. We had only ever practised this once, and I was still uncomfortable with that thing hovering just above my right ear. What if-

No. I wouldn't go there.

We started walking forward. I panicked a little inside. I asked Durango if this was a battle, he almost laughed. Apparently this was just training.

Somehow I didn't think that a battle would look this beautiful. The skies stretched on forever, red and orange, baking the earth and making everything look like it was glowing. The swords caught the light and reflected it, a river of silver and gold that was now cantering across the landscape, the crimson dust trailing behind.

I asked Durango if there was going to be any guns. He said that some would be fired above the riders' heads so that it was in our direction but nobody would get hurt. I trusted him, but I was still not convinced.

The humans were standing up in the saddles now, crying as one as they pushed their steeds forward. Gunfire cracked across the land. I stopped dead, turned and ran back from where we came. The colonel put away his sword and collected me, pulling me to a stop then urging me back to the group.

I wish I had just kept running.

I aimed for Durango, his clipped tail streaked out behind him, the same colour as the dusted ground. I saw him jump a log and Tony slumped on his back and toppled off, just as a report of a gun sounded. Durango skidded to a halt and stood next to where he had fallen. I smelt fear from my rider, and he kicked me hard to the scene. I drew close and could smell the blood, thick and sickening in my nostrils. I halted and the colonel jumped off me and rushed to the side of his friend. I could see clearly, to my horror that Tony had been shot through the head.

I just froze. My legs begged to sprint, far away, away from the stench of death and the scene of gore, back home where I could be a foal again, romping in the meadows and splashing in the river. But there I was. Staring. Durango looked no more at the body. He just looked straight ahead of him, avoiding eye contact with all of us, most of all the blank eyes of our stableman.

Before long a ceasefire had been called and the entire division had gathered around the site. The colonel had composed himself and a stretcher and a white sheet had been brought to take the body away. There was a buzz in the atmosphere, everyone wanted to speak words of comfort, gossip and blame, but their consciences knew better. The colonel stood up and ordered everyone back to camp where a letter could be written to inform Captain Stirr's family of the terrible loss. He led me and Durango side by side behind the other horses, and I pondered over my thoughts, my soul trapped inside my head with my churning emotions.

I had known Tony for such a small time, but I had grown fond of him due to his warmth and spirit. Now he had been torn away from us all, in a freak accident that no one could help or predict. I looked at Durango and wondered how he managed with all of this. Maybe he felt that it was his fault since he jumped, or that the blame would be on him and he would serve a terrible fate because of it.

I told him it wasn't his fault. He said he knew, that things like this could not be helped. It was war, not a game, people died on a daily basis and his rider had been killed on his back many times before. I thought of how he must have felt the first time he felt a soldier slump and tumble off his back, how he could possibly cope with being so close to someone and not even regretting their demise.

He had already told me the answer.

He didn't get attached.

A couple of months passed and Tony Stirr was soon just another name on a list. We continued training, with more and more processions like we had that awful night. Thankfully there were no more casualties, and work went smoothly every day. I found myself growing closer and closer to Durango, since I was in need of someone to spend time with after Tony's death. Whenever we were in the grazing paddock we stood close and occasionally groomed one another, sometimes we stood head to tail and helped to flick the flies away. At night I leaned on him for warmth and a sense of security. All thoughts of escape had long since dwindled away into nothing. Even if the training was hard I was happy because he was there to make me smile.

The only thing that got to me was how I had several riders over the course of a week, and just any old soldier would groom and feed us. First was Hopkins, short and lean, but heavy in the seat and tight on the reins. I hated how he rode me, constantly squeezing me even when he wanted me to slow down. I kept getting confused and sped up, so he tugged harder on my mouth. Every half an hour with him was hell.

Next in line was Jones. He was young and nervous around horses at first, but I soon sorted that out. I always did exactly as he asked me, I never swerved or stopped suddenly, and pretty soon he was experienced as a veteran. He needed only confidence. Better yet, sometimes he would sneak me an apple from the supplies. There was also Fundro and Withens. Fundro was a cheery man in his middle age, going slightly chubby and silver haired but he always made me cheerful and could make the other soldiers laugh with one word. He was a poor rider though, I could tell he had learnt at and older age than the others. But he was kind and never hurt me, so I was more than happy to oblige.

Withens was a pain. Literally. Every lesson he had a crop in his hand and spurs on his feet. I could see that the colonel disapproved, but Withens was one of the best riders in the base, mainly because the animals feared him rather than respected him. Then again, if he rode without his aids then the others would probably take advantage of it. but he was light and reassuring when he rode. If he took a chance and left his foul tools behind one morning I would easily perform much better. Though heaven help a horse if they make a mistake, because the whipping and stinging is enough to drive you mad.

I could deal with the worst of these riders with ease if I had only one of them, but the fact that I had to adjust constantly made it much harder for me. Sometimes I could be too jumpy for Jones and unresponsive for Fundro. Still I tried my best, and always looked forward to being ridden by the colonel. He was just right. I guess that was why I belonged to him, we just fitted perfectly as horse and rider.

One evening after training with Jones, I was let out to graze. Durango was already there, munching away in one corner. As I walked I saw some of the horses talking quietly, and they stopped abruptly when they saw me looking. I glared at them, then continued on my way. I commented on the lovely weather and placed myself next to him. He didn't look up. I have to say that it felt like a kick in the gut when he ignored me. What had I done?

I asked what was wrong, and he raised his head to look at me. He told me that he had a lot to say and it was hard for him to do so, so I should not interrupt or argue until he was finished. I sensed the seriousness of the matter and nodded.

He told me that he felt I was getting to close to him that he believed that I thought of him as more than a friend. I did think that, and poor naive me back then thought he was going to admit how he loved me too. I just knew it. I knew how he would play it out.

"I love you Jade."

I could so vividly hear his voice say those words. Those beautiful, healing words. He would stand over me to protect me, letting my rest my head on his shoulders. The wind would blow around us and the sun would set and we would still be there together.

My world was shattered when he spoke.

"I am not interested in you, Jade."

I just stood there. It hurt. My eyes stung and my brain was numb. He was telling me that he didn't care about me at all, not even as a friend. I didn't expect him to love me back, but I still hoped. And now that hope was crushed, as each word sliced at my heartstrings, a verbal razor.

"I pitied you. I felt guilty for being hostile toward you when we first met. It was nice to spend time with you but I played you along. It was never going anywhere. Being with you has made me a laughing stock in front of the other horses. I have been bettered by a wild born horse. It is disgraceful to my name. That is why I ask you to leave me alone from now on."

I couldn't look at him. He didn't have to be so harsh with his words. Letting me down gently would be a better way to tell me that he didn't feel the same way. And how did he know that I liked him? Was it really that obvious? The worst part was that we both had to live in close quarters to each other even though we had had words. I turned and walked into the corner opposite to his. I was alone again. No Harry, Tammy, Tony and now no Durango.

Only one thing remained in my mind - escape.

When night fell there was a sudden chill in the air. The stable boys came to collect us, and I hid in the corner until Durango was taken away, then I allowed myself to be caught. The rope was removed in the stable and I walked a few paces into my own separate corner. My life would be like this for the foreseeable future, just walking away. Nothing good would come out of it, other than proving to Durango that I could respect his feelings, even if he couldn't respect mine.

I never looked at him. I have no idea if he watched me or grumped. My mind did summersaults and I felt ill with anxiety, anger and sorrow. I believe that for the first time ever, I cried myself to sleep.

Private Jones knew something was wrong. He could just sense it. The past few weeks had been like that. First the attack, then the loss of the horses in a battle, the supplies were stolen, Tony had been killed and now something else was afoot. He tensed, breathing in deeply. He was probing for the danger.

He was a simple farm lad, born and raised on a ranch. His father grew crops and used horses to plough and scout. The ironic thing was that his father praised their two horses for their strength, speed and stamina, claiming they were God's finest creation. Yet he carried a double barrelled gun for shooting mustangs that were stubborn enough the feed on their crops.

Timothy Jones had always been around horses, but they scared him. He used to be - he still was - slight in build and not the tallest of people. Horses were massive and he knew how they would inflict injuries. His uncle got his foot crushed by a horse once, even though his uncle claimed they were "gentle giants". Timothy never wanted to risk it.

He didn't the animals, he was just wary. He joined the army to fight for his land and make a future for himself, but in a way that he didn't have to farm. And now he was around horses at all times. Also ironic.

There was a faint glow from the hay barn. He neared the building, lantern held above his face for whatever light he could grasp.

Then he smelt it.

Smoke.

He investigated further before sounding the alarm. Sure enough, a lantern had been knocked over and left, presumably setting the hay alight. A light breeze drifted through the air and Private Jones hoped that it would blow out the single flame.

Cruel fate had a different idea.

The breeze was too slight and too gentle to blow it out. Instead, it fed the fire, causing it to suddenly spread at an alarming rate. Timothy ran and rang the alarm bell. "Fire!" he shouted, praying that everyone woke up "Fire!"

In seconds the yard was filled with soldiers carrying buckets of water from the well to the hay barn. But alas, the dry weather had run the supplies low, and they quickly ran out. But the inferno was still burning strong, and growing. The colonel emerged, and ordered everyone to unbolt the stable doors. The horses were awake now, rearing, kicking, biting, squealing, pleading for rescue. The doors were flung open and Jones went to get Durango from the colonel's stall.

The boy hesitated. The stallion was rearing and snapping wildly. He had heard a story of how he had been in a fire as a colt. Surely this horse was more scared than he was, and he had to help it.

And still-

As the flames drew nearer he had no choice. Timothy seized the halter on the stallion and all but dragged him out of the hut. The horse took flight and ran through the giant double doors through which the entire stables was running. The boy went after him, stumbling and choking as he went. Already the air was filled with sooty smoke and scorching embers.

Durango skidded to a halt and asked around to check that all the horses were there. He sighed with relief and half laughed to Jade that that was a close one.

Except Jade wasn't there.

Durango endured a moment of panic. He thought that she was right behind him and had been let out from the stall. He checked again, and again. But she wasn't there. Now the men were holding the horses by the halters to calm them. Fundro went for him, but he raised his head high to avoid the man's grip. Then he sprinted to the gates.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Images flashed through his mind. The fire, his mother calling him through the choking air, the shrill cries of his friend that was trapped at the back of the barn. He could remember the filly calling his name, begging for him to save her, but he couldn't. He simply couldn't. The fire was stronger than him and would take anyone on and win. He had felt the flames lick at him and smelt it's foul odour. It would let him in, then cut off his retreat leaving him trapped whilst the scorching flames chewed nearer, and nearer...

But something more powerful than fear took over him. Part of the fence above the gate gave way, and fell to the ground in a pile of charcoal and embers. Durango leapt the logs as the flames began to consume them once more. He was inside. He headed for the hut where Jade was - he hoped - still sleeping.

I don't remember much from that night. First I smelt it, then I heard the crackling growing louder. I eventually opened my eyes to have them stung by the sheer dryness of the air. Everywhere was read or yellow as it basked in the hot glow of the blaze. I realised what was happening and was sent into a wild hysteria. The door was open but the flames were to close for me to pass without pain. If I was calm I would have taken that chance, but my mind was locked from thought and I only knew fear. I began to whinny for help. Surely someone would hear me.

Suddenly one of the beams collapsed, striking me and pushing me to the ground. I shrugged the debris off but found I couldn't stand. There was a nonstop pain in my side where the heavy wood had all but crushed me. My lungs hurt as they filled with the ash and I could no longer breathe properly.

I was going to die.

I was going to die, burn to death, alone, friendless and miles from home. Any friends that I had made were torn away from me, and those who could stay didn't love me. Durango was probably out there now with the rest of the camp, not even thinking of me. And he would never have to again. And just like Tony, he would show no emotion when he heard I was gone.

As I closed my eyes to let the flare devour me, slipping into an uneasy blackness, I heard something other than the distinctive snapping of the fire. It took me a moment to work it out. It was hoof beats. They stopped. I opened my watering eyes to try and make sense of it all. I must have looked a pathetic being to the creature that loomed over me. I closed my eyes again. I felt the rapid breath on my face, and then a feather like whisper in my ear.

"I love you, Jade."

Those four words gave me strength. Before I knew it I had staggered to my feet and began to trot out into the yard, my hero helping me the whole time and giving me support and directions. The fence was beginning to moan and sway. I knew it wouldn't last many other seconds, and we would be crushed and buried beneath it. I forced my bruised legs into a gallop, but only managed a canter. My savoir could have galloped on ahead and saved his own life, but he stayed level with me the whole time. Finally, with a deathening creak and squeal the fence buckled and smashed into the ground, completely destroying the base camp. At the last possible moment we bounded over the burning logs to safety.

We were greeted by a parade of both horses and humans. They had thought us lost. I smiled and was greeted by the other animals, then I crumpled to the floor.

Horses ran through soft grass that reached up to stroke their bellies, and the herd twisted and turned trough it, like schools of fish, their colours shining from the moonlight. Dapple greys, chestnuts, bays, buckskins, palominos, swekbalds, piebalds, they all galloped in unison, trampling the grass to stamp down the grasping fingers. One by one, they all dropped away from the group and stood still. High above, an eagle watched, viewing the pattern that had appeared. It was almost a mirror image to that majestic bird: a bald eagle, wings spread wide, as if trying to touch something beyond reality. As the wind picked up, and the grass blew gently, it appeared to be flying.

I shot up from my sleep. It was the early morning, the sky lilac and baby blue behind the golden sun. I turned my head to see the blackened remains of my home, still smoking and turning the fresh air acrid. As I looked around I recognised the faces of the other horses, all sleeping soundly after the night's events. The humans looked fragile and cold, but they managed by curling up next to the horses. Funny. Man and animal could team up when it came to survival. I spotted the colonel at the back, his hat over his face, fast asleep. Durango was laying next to him.

Durango.

He had saved me, I knew that simple fact. But, according to what he said yesterday, he hated me. Then I remembered. "I love you, Jade." Those words, the words that made me run, made me jump, made me live. But was it just talk? Did he really feel that way about me?

I pushed my bodyweight onto my legs. They trembled. I was still weak. But I had enough energy to walk over to Durango and flop down by his side. I lay my head on his back and closed my eyes. After a few minutes he stirred and I moved to his face. We didn't need to say anything, the apology from both sides had already been accepted.

After a while he told me that he said those horrible things to me because he was scared. Last time he loved someone he lost them forever, and I knew who he meant by that, the filly from his childhood, and he wanted to detach himself from me so that if anything happened to me in battle his heart wouldn't be broken again.

"I was a coward, and I disappointed you."

I told him that he could never disappoint me, and that I understood why he did it. From that moment on, we had a mental connection, we could predict each other's feelings and thoughts and could openly discuss them together. I knew this was a big step for him, because either of us could still be killed, last night was a good example of what life could throw at you. And still he would take the risk for the overwhelming benefits of loving me. I smiled, and we fell asleep intertwined.

When we woke again everyone else was up and about. The base had been split into four groups, one would rebuild a basic camp from the remains and whatever they could find nearby. Another group rode down the supply track to inform carts of the situation and then follow on to the town to collect extra provisions. A third went on a trip looking for a natural water source and some shade. Our quarter, however, set off South Easterly in search of a train track.

I asked Durango what a train was. he described it as a giant metal machine that ran on steam that was capable of carrying many things. He believed that it would one day replace horses in the human world. The machines had to run on tracks though, and the nearest one to the base was many miles away.

We cantered for most of the journey, and along the way I saw more and more foliage and grass until we were riding in an open green space. We all stretched into a gallop, and I pushed myself to the front, Durango by my side. it was the first time I had seen such an expanse of plants, the closest I had been for the past months were the battered old pastures with the odd piece of scrub. But now, to run through a valley covered in flora was like heaven to me. I relished every second of it. It's true what they say, you don't appreciate something until it is taken away from you.

We slowed back down to a marching walk and the scenery suddenly changed around me. Ahead, a little further down a hill, was the reminisce of a village. The torn animal skins and destroyed wooden weapons told me that this place belonged to a different kind of man. My humans built everything in great size and used everything they could see. but this looked so tiny in comparison. Skeletons of cone shaped buildings stood, come of them already collapsing. Some logs were charred on the ground, but damp and rotten. Whatever had happened here it happened many years ago. I looked around in awe and sadness.

My sadness turned to fury. I asked Durango who did this to the people, and he said they did, and gestured his head to the soldiers. As I stared at my masters in disgust he saw my expression. he told me not to be surprised, who did I think the war was against? Our owners wanted the land of the West, and they would do anything, even fight the natives, to get to it. But surely you don't agree with it, I asked. He didn't answer.

I've never thought he did. maybe he just felt too ashamed to continue talking about it. I know I would have.

We continued walking until we came to the river on the other side of the village. The soldiers dismounted and found some axes that were left behind and began to chop at some nearby trees. The horses lazed around and gorged on the lush grass through the afternoon until the men finished cutting and began to role the trunks up to the river. I watched them with interest and studied how the human mind worked to solve puzzles like this. Horses can't use tools, and the river looked to fierce for even me to swim across, so I have no idea how I would have done it. Maybe that was the advantage the humans had over the animals, they just had the right bodies to take over.

The boys turned the trunks so that the round ends were in line with the riverbank. Then they trusted the logs forward so that they reached the other side of the river. They tied our side of the logs together with some rope and a few of them crossed gingerly to tie up the other ends. Once several of them could stand on it at once without it giving way, they began moving the horses over the logs to the other bank. I have to say, I was impressed.

By the time everyone was across and they had hauled the bridge over to our side (presumably preventing it from being washed away) we were all tired and aching, but we weren't far from the track so we walked on. It was warm and cloudy, we all hoped for rain but none came. The skies simply teased us. Finally, as we reached the base of another hill, there it was. A wide, metal track that stretched from both horizons and out of sight. My mind could not get over how long it must have been, and how humans had managed to construct it. No wonder the bridge had seemed an easy task.

We waited about and eventually fell asleep. I was woken just before dawn and a few spots of rain were beginning to fall. By chance I looked North to where the track came into view, and there was something there. It was like a cloud, growing bigger and bigger. As it got closer I realised that it was steam and the inky monster emerging from the vanishing point was the train.

The night before, a trio of soldiers had ridden further down each side of the track with a red piece of cloth salvaged from the village ruins and tied it to a branch. The train saw this and slowed to a stop just short of our party. The colonel had heard it coming and was already addressing the driver.

"The United States Army needs this vehicle for transportation purposes in a desperate matter. Our camp has been destroyed and we have no supplies to survive on. There animals need moving to a base where they can be cared for and we need materials to rebuild." the colonel announced, much to the shock of the train driver.

The train driver lifted his cap slightly and sighed. "We have three compartments spare, Sir, but not enough for all of you. We're heading to Gunnison for parts, we can drop you off there if it's where you're heading. But we don't leave for ten days, we need repairs you see."

The colonel considered this. He would have to leave behind around half the group, and then they would be stranded in the town for over a week unless another train came along. And it could be a while until they could transport the other horses to a stable by train.

He mulled it over, thinking of where Gunnison was. It was famed for gold mines and was fairly quiet in the summer because of the heat. Nearby was the Gunnison Gorge. A memory triggered, one of a great stallion leaping the gorge with an Indian on his back. It was from that horse that the colonel learnt to respect the spirit of the wild, which cannot always be tamed. But they had galloped off into the distance, and somewhere on the other side of that canyon was the tribe. If he could get to it...

The colonel accepted the ride and began selecting the best of the best to come with him. naturally, we were to go. Luckily, so was Private Jones. I was fond of that boy, he was so young, but he had grown into a man the night before. His fear of horses was gone and I was proud of him. Yet I didn't let myself get attached, I had learnt that lesson already.

Two chestnuts, seven or eight bays, a grey and another sorrel came with us. Among the riders there were Withens and Hopkins, two soldiers who I was a little uncomfortable with. The rest of the men I didn't know aside from a couple of faces. The colonel ordered the rest back to camp and to meet up here again with more supplies in three days and wait for a train to Gunnison.

There was something in the colonel's eye that I didn't like the look of, greed or slyness, something like that. But I knew he was up to something, and it wasn't good. I couldn't help feeling that as I boarded the train I was being sent off into a war.

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Part 3 Teaser:

I felt the weight of the colonel lift from my back. He was out of the saddle, I knew it but I kept running. I hated the gunshots, I hated the humans, I just wanted to be free.

There was a shrill neigh of pain and I recognised it in a second. I swerved, and headed straight for Durango. He was on his side, Jones scrabbling to his feet and patting his side for his gun. A native was advancing with an axe. I screamed for Durango, I thought he was going to be killed. But instead the darker human went straight for Jones, not harming him but warning him off. I hurried to Durango's side and whispered, "I love you."

Keep waiting to find out what happens next...