(In the silence after the storm, three men stand by the corral. Behind them — dust and sweat; before them — captured freedom.) JACK: “A wild treasure, gentlemen… worth the chase.” WYATT (quietly): “Maybe. Though I’m not sure who caught whom.” COLE: “Look at her… that’s no mare. That’s the wind — letting us touch it for a moment.” (No one speaks. The breeze stirs her mane again.)
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