Hoofprints lead up to the railroad road. You jump the torn down gate and run. As fast as your legs will carry you. Call. And call. And call. Breathless. Your horse's names dissipate into the cool morning air just as they have. You hope wildly that you don't hear the train.

You look left, panic rising in your throat. Nothing.

Have they been stolen? Was it a bear? They said on the news last night that they are coming out in droves. One straggled through a neighborhood in Albuquerque earlier this week. One got hit on I-40. Another one got that poor elderly lady in Mora last year. Clawed right through her screen door and ate her.

Mountain lion chasing them around. Morningstar the Arabian putting up the fight you'd expect from the hot-blooded Arabian mare, kicking at the snarling beast with her rock hard hooves. Toby trying to stomp the cat into the ground. Yes, you're sure of it. Is that why the geese were so noisy late last night? Damn. You should have checked it out.

You look to the right, heart pounding way too loud in your head. The road is absolutely, irrevocably empty. Filled with all the superstition of the damned, you find yourself wishing them there until you see a flash of appaloosa polka dots through the scrub oak and pinon. Followed by a flash of bay, and sorrel, and white. You count only four. But there are five. Desperation nearly overcomes you until, finally, finally, you see a large black flash catching up from behind.

You and suddenly-outside husband round up the usual suspects. Actually, with the exception of Toby, the horses bring themselves in at a nervous trot. You find the young percheron standing in the middle of the railroad road, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He lowers his head, seems relieved to see you. Husband shakes a bucket of grain. Big horse comes barreling at you both like a freight train. Allows you to slip on the halter and lead him down.

Check for cuts, rope burns, etc. Can't find a one, blessedly. You wish horses could talk. Think for just a second of that animal psychic your acquaintances said they hired to get their dog to give them a description of the robbers who ransacked their house. That dog gave them a full-blown narrative of the robbery, they claim, although the police never caught the guy. We have some smart dog, they bragged. Only in Santa Fe.

You are pulling cactus spikes from Toby's knees. One big one from his belly, which makes the horse flinch. Stands still as a rock for you, though.

How long have you been out here, you'd ask? At that point you'd probably become a little shrill, and you'd probably have to count to ten before you could pose the question with any modicum of calm. What the hell happened?

Bears, mountain lions, horse thieves, and other monsters aside, once your head clears, you have a pretty good idea of who the culprit is. Someone with the sheer body mass to press against the gate and pop it apart piece by piece to get to the scant, dry grass on the other side of three acres of red New Mexico dirt. You are so put out at the big black horse for scaring you to death, but so deliriously happy to see him and the others that you just don't care.

Your husband wires a sturdy cattle panel to the inside of the gaping hole at the top of the fence.