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