Included in the party was Captain Frank Byler, the regular home crowd, and three Mexicans. With an extra saddle horse for each, we rode away merrily to declare war on the _ladino_ stallion. “This is the third time since I’ve been ranching here,” said Uncle Lance to Captain Frank, as we rode along, “that I’ve had stallions killed. There always have been bands of wild horses, west here between the Leona and Nueces rivers and around Espontos Lake. Now that country is settling up, the people walk down the bands and the stallions escape, and in drifting about find our range. They’re wiry rascals, and our old stallions don’t stand any more show with them than a fat hog would with a _javaline_. That’s why I take as much pride in killing one as I do a rattlesnake.” We made camp early that evening on the home river, opposite the range of the _manada_. Sending out Pasquale to locate the band and watch them until dark, Uncle Lance outlined his idea of circling the band and bagging the outlaw in the uncertain light of dawn. Pasquale reported on his return after dark that the _manada_ were contentedly feeding on their accustomed range within three miles of camp. Pasquale had watched the band for an hour, and described the _ladino_ stallion as a cinnamon-colored coyote, splendidly proportioned and unusually large for a mustang. Naturally, in expectation of the coming sport, the horses became the topic around the camp-fire that night. Every man present was a born horseman, and there was a generous rivalry for the honor in telling horse stories. Aaron Scales joined the group at a fortunate time to introduce an incident from his own experience, and, raking out a coal of fire for his pipe, began:—