Pendleton was standing by the corral, watching his ranch hands break a young stallion. He turned and frowned when he saw Cora and Hattie. He walked over, his heavy leather boots squelching in the mud. "Mrs.

Cora, Hattie." Pendleton said gruffly, tipping his hat an inch. "You are a long way from your property. Heard Amos Vance is breathing down your neck.

You come to ask for a loan because I don't lend money against dead dirt. We do not want your money, Mr. Pendleton, Cora said smoothly. She remained seated in the wagon, her back perfectly straight.

We came to do business. Pendleton crossed his thick arms. He looked amused. Business?

What business does a broke widow and a little girl have with me? Hattie climbed down from the wagon. She reached into the back and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in an old flour sack. She walked up to the tall cattleman.

Mr. Pendleton, you run more horses than anyone in the valley, Hattie said. Her voice was clear and polite, which means you have more broken horseshoes than anyone else. I need them.

Pendleton laughed. It was a loud, booming sound. You want my scrap iron? For what?

Still building that pile of rust Vance was complaining about in town. I am building a mustang, Hattie said simply. Pendleton stopped laughing. The word hung in the air.

He looked toward the corral where the memory of his son always lingered. His jaw tightened. I have no love for mustangs, child. They are unbroken, dangerous things.

They break good men. They are survivors, Hattie corrected gently. They endure the winter storms. They fight for their land.

Just like the people who built this valley. She unwrapped the flour sack. She held up the iron coyote. Pendleton looked down.

The coyote was heavy and dark. Its body was made of twisted nails and rusted wire. The mouth was open in a silent, eternal howl. It looked rough, starved, and wild.

It looked exactly like the creatures that prowled the edges of his property every night. I made this from scratch, Hattie said softly. I want to trade it to you for every broken horseshoe in your barn. Pendleton stared at the heavy iron sculpture.

He did not laugh. He saw the intricate bends of the metal. He saw the sheer force it took to shape it. He reached out with a thick, calloused hand and ran his fingers over the rusted iron spine of the coyote.

He was a hard man, but he knew the value of hard work. "You built this?" he asked softly, "With your own hands?" "Yes, sir." Hattie said.

Pendleton looked at the 14-year-old girl. He saw the raw, healing burns on her forearms. He saw the permanent dark stains of soot in the creases of her knuckles. He suddenly felt a deep pang of shame for laughing at her outside the saloon.

She was not a crazy child playing in the dirt. She was an artist fighting for her home. He took the iron coyote from her hands. It was surprisingly heavy.

"Hank!" Pendleton barked over his shoulder. A ranch hand jogged over from the corral. "Yes, boss."

"Go into the big barn." Pendleton ordered. "There are three wooden barrels full of split horseshoes and rusted bracket iron in the back stall. Load them all into Mrs.

Cora's wagon." The ranch hand looked confused, but nodded. "Yes, sir." Pendleton looked back down at Hattie.

His harsh eyes had softened just a fraction. "Three barrels of iron for one coyote. That is a poor trade for me, little girl." "It is a fair trade, Mr.

Pendleton." Hattie said. "I will take the trade on one condition." Pendleton said, his voice dropping low.

"Amos Vance is a vulture. He sits in his clean office while we bleed in the dirt. You finish that big horse of yours. You finish it, and you make Vance look like the fool he is.

Understood?" "Understood." Hattie smiled.

Over the next 3 days, the story of the iron coyote spread through the valley. Arthur Pendleton was not a quiet man. When he went into town for a drink at the saloon, he placed the heavy iron coyote right on the mahogany bar for everyone to see. The ranchers and miners who had once mocked Hattie gathered around.

They touched the rough metal. They marveled at the craftsmanship. Dr. Harland, sitting at a corner table, simply smiled into his glass of whiskey.

Word traveled fast. Folks realized that the widow's daughter was not crazy. They realized she was attempting something impossible right under the nose of Amos Vance. In the American West, there was nothing people respected more than a quiet, stubborn defiance against a wealthy tyrant.

The very next morning, Hattie was at the forge. The fire was roaring again. She was heating a new batch of horseshoes from Pendleton's barrels. She heard the sound of wheels outside.

She walked to the barn door and stopped. Coming down the muddy driveway was a battered old wagon. It was driven by Hiram, the loud town blacksmith. Hiram pulled up to the barn.

He climbed down from his seat. He did not have his usual booming laugh. He looked deeply respectful. "Morning, Hattie."

Hiram said, taking off his heavy leather hat. "Good morning, Mr. Hiram." Hattie said, wiping her brow.