Rusty Wells topped a high ridge over looking the Powder River and drew rein on the black gelding. The horse pawed at the dry ground beneath his hoofs, causing small waves of grasshoppers to rise off the drought stricken land. The year was 1932 and the great depression that swept the land had little effect on either horse or rider. The fifteen-year-old had never felt more alive than he did at this moment. In sitting on this magnificent animal all his dreams of the past five years had come true. He was on the open Montana range, working for the biggest horse outfit in the world, riding a pure thoroughbred that was as attractive as he was athletic. He wasn’t playing cowboy, he was living it. The young cowboy paused and admired the majesty of the scene below, giving silent thanks to God for putting him there. Reaching forward, he stroked the gelding on the neck, letting his hand run through the coarse black mane basking in the smell of horse and leather. He felt at the scab over his left eye, a reminder of the beating he had taken back at camp a week before at the hands of a crew cowboy. Neither the cut nor the thought of the cruelty mattered at all now.