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[size=7pt]The chestnut yearling picked her way across the rocky ravine, she had been separated from her herd and had been monitored by quite a few herd stallions. So far, only two had managed to catch her, but both didn't care to keep her and let canter away.
She was becoming weary, her front legs wobbled as she reached the water for a drink. This young mare needed sleep, but having no-one else around to watch for bears and lynxes made shut-eye a death wish.
The white blaze on her forehead had become dirty and dried mud marked her to her knees. Poor little mare, in the harsh Canadian mountains, there was no such word as 'forgiving.'[/size]