Perhaps a recollection of the domestic economy of the Tryan household is expressed in that look, for George averts his eye and says, apologetically: "I've tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you know he says it ain't no use to settle down, just yet.

We must keep movin'.

In fact, he built the shanty for that purpose, lest titles should fall through, and we'd have to get up and move stakes further down." Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a herd we are passing, and with an exclamation he puts his roan into the center of the mass.

I follow, or rather Chu Chu darts after the roan, and in a few moments we are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs.
"TORO!" shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the band opens a way for the swinging riata.

I can feel their steaming breaths, and their spume is cast on Chu Chu's quivering flank.
Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes as Jove might have chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as peacefully range the downs of Devon, but lean and hungry Cassius-like bovines, economically got up to meet the exigencies of a six months' rainless climate, and accustomed to wrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding dust.
"That's not our brand," says George; "they're strange stock," and he points to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign of Venus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing.