What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and the heat of the blood that ran them. All the reverence and all his fondness and all the learnings of his life were for the ardenthearted and they would always be so and never be otherwise.
He rode back in the dark. The horse quickened its step. The last of the day's light fanned slowly upon the plain behind him and withdrew again down the edges of the world in a cooling blue of shadow and dusk and chill and a few last chitterings of birds sequestred in the dark and wiry brush. He crossed the old trace again and he must turn the pony up onto the plain and homeward but the warriors would ride on in that darkness they'd become, rattling past with their stone-age tools of war in dafault of all substance and singing softly in blood and longing south across the plains to Mexico.
Cormac McCarthy
All the Pretty Horses (Extracto)
