I went to an auction somewhere up north of Columbia, I don't remember exactly where. They have these auctions every year, they'd round up a bunch of mustangs from out west and sell 'em. It was a government thing. I brought home two mustangs, one for me and one for Roscoe. They were young horses, never been around folks, didn't know anything about folks. I called mine Little Horse. Roscoe, he always wanted a mustang, but now that he had one, he didn't know what to do with it. 

I broke mine. It took a long time. I did it the easy way, I mean I never hurt him, I talked to him, and touched him all over and was easy. It took a while but we got there. We rode, and he, I don't know,—I couldn't get the buck out of him. It was like the wild was in there too deep. He had a lot of heart. Maybe more than me. 

But we had a lot of fun. None of us get what we want in the end. They never should have rounded him up and sold him. You take a quarter horse that's been bred for generations to ride, and you ride him. You take a mustang out of the wild, you can't ride 'em. And if you do, you've broken his spirit. That's the way it is.