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The rusted weathered barn door creaks open.
The old Gaucho hears the snort from Old Paint’s stall.
Barn dust and bits of hay flutter through shafts of light from the holes in the roof.
Time for tacking up Old Paint for another five-day ride on La Pampas searching for lost cattle.
The old Gaucho slowly shuffles to the tack room. Rough, gnarled hands fumble through fifty-six years of jumbled, worn, stained tack hanging from paint peeling wooden pegs; saddles, stirrups, halters, bridles, hackamores, reins, bits, harnesses, breastplates, martingales, spurs, hoof boots and horseshoes.
Old Paint holds his head up. Snorts again.