 Recorded books presents Brannigan's Land, by William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone, narrated by me, George Weddell. CHAPTER ONE What do you think, honey? Ty Brannigan asked his oldest daughter, just incredible, Pa. I don't know that I've ever seen a finer horse anywhere. He is something to look at, isn't he? He sure is. McKenna Brannigan lay beside her father near the crest of a rocky-topped ridge in the foothills of Wyoming Territory's bare-paw mountains, a spur-range to the wind-rivers near Baldi Butte. Ty and McKenna were peering down into the valley on the other side of the ridge. I could lie here all day, just staring at him and his beautiful harem, not to mention those six cults of his. Ty and Brannigan, Ty for short, adjusted the focus on the spy-glass he held to his right eye, bringing the big, impressive black-standing into sharper focus. The horse milled on the side of the next ridge, a couple of hundred feet up from where his harem languidly cropped grass with their foals along Indian Lodge Creek. The big horse was watching over his herd, keeping an eye out for predators or rival herds led by stallions that might very well prove to be the black's blood enemy. He was having a good time performing the otherwise honorous task. The stallion ran along the side of the ridge, then stopped abruptly, swung to his right, and dashed up the steep ridge to the very top. He ran along the crest of the ridge, first one way, before wielding main and tail flying, the sunlight listening beautifully in his sleek blue-black hide, and running back the other way, before swinging down off the crest and galloping full out down the side toward where his harem lifted their heads and turned to watch him, touching their ears incredulously. Ty and McKenna were several hundred yards from the big black, but Ty could still hear the thunder of the horse's hooves and the deep-grating chuffs the horse made with his powerful lungs as he ran. The black slowed at the bottom of the ridge, near the stream then went over and nosed one of the mare's, a beautiful cream with a blond mane and tail. He nosed her hard, brusquely but playfully then nipped the rear of one of the younger horses a half-grown gray. The gray bleated indignantly. The stallion lifted his fine head and ripped out a shrill whinny. He put his head down, reared high, poured the ground, then lunged into another ground chewing gallop, making a mad dash up the ridge again. McKenna, who at seventeen was in the full flower of young womanhood, lowered the field glasses she'd been peering through and turned to her father, smiling. Her long hair was nearly as black as the stallions and it shone in the high country sunshine like the blacks did as well. Her lustrous hazel eyes, her hair had come from her Spanish mother, but her eyes were the same almost startlingly clear blue-green as her father's, flashed in delight. Her plump red lips stretched back from her even white teeth. He's showing off, isn't he? He's showing off for the mare's. Ty chuckled and lifted the spyglass again to his eye, returning his gaze to the black as the stallion stopped suddenly halfway up the ridge then turned to stand parallel to the ridge and peer off into the distance. Ears pricked, tail arched, again looking for danger. He sure is, honey. Ty was glad he and McKenna were upwind of the beautiful stud in his harem. If they'd been downwind, the black likely would have detected him and the girl and hazed his brood out of the valley where Ty and McKenna, having a rare father and daughter ride alone together, lay on the side of their own ridge admiring the lovely, charismatic, bewitchingly wild black stallion. They're just like boys, aren't they? Wild stallions? McKenna said, playfully nudging her father in the ribs with her elbow, showing off for their women. Just like boys and men, honey, Ty agreed, chuckling. He turned to look at McKenna, who was peering through the field-glasses again. Would you like to have a horse like that, baby girl? McKenna named after Ty's long-dead mother, lowered the field-glasses and turned to her father. Their thin black brows furled with speculation. Finally she shook her head. No. She turned to gaze with her naked eyes into the next valley. No. A horse like that needs to be wild. Breaking or even gentling a horse like that, civilizing him, would ruin him. She glanced at her father. Don't you think, Pa? I couldn't agree more, Mac. How did you find this herd, Pa? I've never seen wild horses out here. Matt and I were hunting, yielding mavericks on open range a few weeks ago, and we stumbled on several stud piles. Matt was the oldest of Ty and his wife Beatrice's four children, all of whom had been raised, were being raised, with the youngest at age 12, on their powderhorn ranch. Sample complete. Ready to continue?