crisp dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often by
the well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs and
picturesque with flying riata. He rode powerful native roan, wild-eyed,
untiring in stride and unbroken in nature. Alas! the curves of beauty
were concealed by the cumbrous MACHILLAS of the Spanish saddle, which
levels all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the cruel
bit that can gripe, and if need be, crush the jaw it controls.

Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me, as we
again bear down into sunlit space. Can this be "Chu Chu," staid and
respectable filly of American pedigree--Chu Chu, forgetful of plank
roads and cobblestones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white
feet beneath me? George laughs out of a cloud of dust. "Give her her
head; don't you see she likes it?" and Chu Chu seems to like it, and
whether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous of
the roan, "blood" asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude
of years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creek
widens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the opposite side,
carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us. Cattle are
scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast
restless herds. George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as
if to include them all in his vaquero's loop, and says, "Ours!"

"About how many, George?"

"Don't know."

"How many?"

"'Well, p'r'aps three thousand head," says George, reflecting. "We don't