In 1873, with Wichita the Kansas terminus of the Chisholm Trail, darned thirsty cowboys up from Texas shook off the dust in a bunch of bars located along the boomtown’s Chicago Street.

For the first four years of its life, the gorgeous palomino before me was a wild stallion, a mustang running free in the Twin Peaks BLM region of the wide-open West, the high desert along the California/Nevada border. It didn’t appreciate being captured (or gelded), and this fiery horse wouldn’t let anyone come close.

At dawn we lean against a pickup and make a list of the horses to be ridden today. The desert is damp and cool from last night’s rain, and with the first pangs of light, we set to the chores. Feed the current barn cat, the sole feline survivor of owl and coyote predation. Saddle a young horse that’s not yet settled into the routine. Load bales of alfalfa onto the trailer.