![]() Riding got him closer to the land, which, like the horse, was his. The gait spared his knees and lower back, and it allowed him to appreciate the ranch itself without constantly being interrupted by the stabs of pain that came from six and a half decades of not sitting a horse. The horse seemed to glide over the sagebrush flats and wooded Rocky Mountain juniper-dotted foothills like a ghost, as if the gelding strode on a cushion of air. He rode a leggy black Tennessee walker sixteen and a half hands in height, tall enough that he called for a mounting block in order to climb into the saddle. In fact, he’d recently taken to riding a horse over vast stretches of his landholdings when the weather was good. Deep in his heart, he honestly entertained the possibility he would never break down and perhaps live forever, while those less driven and less successful around him dropped away. He was an old man, but like many men of his generation with his wealth and station, he refused to think of himself that way. He set out after breakfast on what would be his last day on earth. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
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