their daughter. He said that I would make a fine steed, and that the key to survive was to trust your rider and help them to trust you. In battle, if your legs say run, go in the direction the human wants you to go. Balance the control, behave and above all respect humans, and if the man was pure enough, he would do the same for horses.

The next moring I was saddled and fed for the journey to the camp. I didn't say any last goodbyes, it hurt too much, and if I was going to survive the wrath of the cavelry I had to avoid all weaknesses. Bear rode me and Boss came along for the negotiations since Speedy decided to stay at home with his wife. We left the ranch - my birthplace - in a canter, and by noon we were heading for the desert.

We stopped under the last piece of shade that was visable to collect water and have a meal. Boss's horse was a Grullo gelding who kept quiet and didn't talk to me. Either he didn't want to upset me or he just wasn't interested. I grazed on the lush, thick grass for one last time, knowing that I wouldn't have it so good out in the dusty plains, and then we rode on.

Two days of hard riding through the desert toughened me up for the army. It was like my final training, seeing how far I could go without food or water. The men carried their own but couldn't really spare us any because the containers they used made it difficult for us to get to the cooling liquid. By the late morning of the second day I spotted a camp in the distance. Only part of it's fence was complete, the rest of it was still being consturcted. I gazed at it in awe as I was led through a gigantic doorway and into the cavalry base.

Horses marched in perfect syncrinisation and the men displayed the highest respect for their seniors and higher ranked officers. I was taken straight to an open area with a furnace nearby and was tied to two posts. A large man approached, who had a remarkable resembalence of Boss. I realised that they were brothers and the two exchanged no words or even glances.

Bear was handed some silver and gold and an old horse was saddled for him to ride home. They intended to shoot and eat the thing as soon as they got back to the ranch and I wondered if that would be me one day, old and grey, weak in the legs and useless for work.

But not today. The tough man, who I later overheard being called Murphy, started clipping my mane and tail. He picked out my hooves and gave them shoes, as well as grooming me. The worst part was the branding. Murphy left for a few minutes then came back carrying a red hot pole with a shape on the end. I panicked, pulling at my ropes but I couldn't break free. I began to squeal for my mother, forgetting just how far away from her I was. I saw him come to my shoulder and with one rough, fast shove of his arm he thrusted the iron onto my skin.

I was sore for days after that, but I was taken straight into training. I was fitted with tack, my comfortable western saddle was thrown onto a pile for trading, and I was given a new bit - cold and sharp in my mouth - and for the first time I was ridden with spurs. My rider was a tall man, a good rider but not a kind one. I felt his whip touch my hindquaters several times in my first half hour of work, even though I did exactly what I was trained to do. He kept the reins short and the girth tight. I could hardly breathe.

He continued to ride me for three weeks, until a stableboy found sores on my back and belly from the saddle. My mouth had also began to bleed from the harshness of his hands, and the hairs on my hips we thinned from the hitting. The man was given a new horse to torment whilst I earned a recuperation leave in my first month. When I came back into work I was given a new rider, and I later learned that my first one had been killed in a battle on another horse, who, luckily, survived.

This new rider wasn' t the best around, but he was a huge step up from the one before. His name was Private Birk, he was young and nervous but still put in his fair share of effort when we rode together. He didn't ride without a crop and spurs, though, simply because that was what he was used to. But he merely tapped me on the sides and I can never remember a time that he hit me. It was him that turned me into a warhorse, our trust in each other reached no limits, and we spent lots of time together.

For one long, kind year he was my soldier. We learnt our roles together and built our skills up as a team. But we were finally ready for battle. The regiment was sent off in a train and we emerged near a thick forest. I knew that my men were at war with another type of human, but I had never seen bloodshed in the name of land, honor and fortune. It was hell for me when the two forces clashed. Men and horses fell together. I was surprised to see the enemy on horseback too, but without all the uncomforatble tack that I was used to. Birk shot many men, each time the gun fired I spooked a little, but as any good rider he was one step ahead of me and I felt a reassuring hand on my neck immeadiately each time.

I don't remember many things about my first fight, other than it was terrible. I saw no logic at the time, and later the beliefs of the army were drilled into my head each time a battle plan was created. It was what the leaders wanted - we jsut ahd to follow orders. So I became like man, I was just another soldier, just another number, ready to be picked off by fate at any time. And fate was in store for Birk.

A soldier had raised his gun to shoot a Native, but one of their horses knocked into him and the shot went in the wrong direction. I felt Birk sag and fall off my back. I saw his body on the floor, lifeless, just a shell of the one human I could really trust with my life. So I ran. I bolted from the scene, deep into the forest. A great number of horses went loose that day, including a few of the village's. We were rounded up over the week and taken back to camp, where the newcomers were trained.

I had lost my family, my love and my human. My heart was harded to the harsh blade of war and I grew detatched from everyone around me. I held a strong bond with a few other stallions, but they were it. They were all that was left of my community.

Months and riders passed, and eventually I was promoted to the colonel's horse. He was a tough rider, he used his crop and spurs often and was heavy on the reins, but I did as I was told. I would ride either at the front or back of the pack and have the luxury lifestyle that all captive horses dream of. I trained less and had more food and pasture time. The other stallions eventually grew tired of me, even though I never lorded my position over them. I guessed immeadiately that they were jealous, and they ahd every right to be. They had been there longer and had more experience. I sometimes wished that I was still an average mount for some green Private, but fate was fate. Being the colonel's horse was as much my destiny as the chance that I would be killed the next day. What would happen would happen.

Another piece of fate that I would never escape from was Spirit. The golden stallion ruled my life from my seventh year of the cavalry and onwards. I saw him being dragged in one morning by some soldiers and throwing himself about, tryign to release their grip. The colonel was riding me while he watched the procession and he fired a shot to get the stallion's attention. I didn't flinch at all.

He was bold and some would say brave. I agree now, but back then the only other word that came to mind was stubborn. He refused to be tamed. He put Murphy through hell and back, the poor man didn't know what had hit him! Various men tried to ride him - all were thrown. The buckskin was tied to the post and left for three days, then I watched in disgust as the colonel rode him.

The man was ahead of the horse. Nothing that the Mustang did could throw my rider. I was proud in a way, since I had the privalige of being the mount of such a good horseman. But I put the emotion to the back of my mind, emotions would only hurt me later. I saw the horse give up and be walked around the arena while the colonel gave one of his disaplining speeches. I felt my eyes close slightly, he had never been an interesting talker I had to admit.

Suddenly I noticed that there was a Native boy tied to the second post. I hadn't seen him earlier, but he shared something with that stallion, I could tell that he knew the capabilities of such an animal. I recognised him as one of the men from the village we had attacked a few months ago. But I couldn't think of what eh was doing there.

Spirit had grabbed the reins, broken off the saddle and thrown the colonel through the air in a moment. I froze with fear, only knowing too well that he had pushed the boundary. I prepared myself for the worst, when the stupid brutes in the other stables began neighing, praising him. I ordered them to be quiet for the Mustang's sake but they carried on whinnying. By now the colonel had a gun pointing at the stallion's head and the ignorant beast didn't know it would kill him. Again, things hapened so quickly that they are hard to remember. The Native boy shoved the gun so it shot the floor and rode the stallion away, throwing various soldiers about and grabbing a gun.

I watched, stunned, as the horse galloped along the stables and the boy shoot off the lock to all our huts. The others made a run for it, and I knew that they would be rounded up far too easily, and if they did get away they would not know how to survive the wild. So I stayed put, out of a mixture of loyalty, respect and obidience. Murphy tried to close the gates but Spirit knocked him down, then leapt over him and into freedom, the rest of the cavalry following behind.

I walked out of my stall and stared at the camp. Dust was settling from the hundreds of thundering hooves and there was an eerie silence about the place. It felt empty without the other