When I came down off the cap riding a wind-broken bronc, half of New Mexico must have been trailin' behind me, all ready to shake out a loop for a hanging.

Nobody told me I should wait around and get my neck stretched, so when I seen them coming my way I just wrapped myself around the nearest horse and taken off down country. Seemed likely those boys would run out of ambition before long, but they must have been mighty shy of entertainment in that gyp-rock country, because they kept a-coming.

Me, I hightailed it out of there as fast as that bronc would take me, and for a spell that was pretty fast. Only the bronc had run himself out trying to save my bacon and now I needed myself a fresh horse, or else I'd never need another.

About that time, I sighted a clump of cottonwoods down on the flat, and cottonwoods spell water in any man's country. Water meant there was usually stock close by, and probably folks. Where there was either, there might be a horse.

So right there I began building myself a fresh dust cloud behind me, and when I rode up to those trees I was just a-fogging it. Sure enough, there were horses there, and some mighty fine stock. too. So I shook out a loop and dabbed it on a handsome lineback dun with a black mane and tail.

Snubbing him to a post, I stepped down and unlatched my saddle and threw it on the dun. I cinched up tight, and was about to climb into the leather when I heard a click of a cocked hammer and froze right where I was.

"Mister"—the voice was dry and cold—you sure ain't pa'tic'lar where you put your saddle."

"Figured I was mighty pa'tic'lar. If that ain't the best horse in the lot, you show me a better and I'll switch my saddle."
—Louis L'Amour, Mustang Man

Keeping up with the pace, Sadie and Vi follow the other wranglers who are riding hard, their horses leaving big hoof prints six inches into the ground and throwing divots of sod. About four miles out, it's getting exciting. There must be about thirty mustangs, thinking they're going to give the outfit total destruction, sheering steel posts, ropes, netting, and flesh—horse and human interlopers.

"Our kind eats pitchforks and barbed wire," they communicate with their devil-may-care-attitude. Just look at them—their ears all pinned back, tails whipping, and nostrils flaring, trying to look mean. Right about now, one of the wrangler's saddles breaks in half. It's no time to have a weak saddle tree. He dangles from the piece that won't let go, looking like a piece of ham on a string.

"I'm okay—my daddy ate dynamite and washed it down with mustang!" the wrangler says. "Well hell, bring 'em on in!" he cackles when his world looks level again. "I surrender!"
—Sage Sweetwater, From the Convent to the Rawhide: The Saga of Sadie Cade and Vi Montana