know, takes five men to look 'em up and keep run."

"What are they worth?"

"About thirty dollars a head."

I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughing
George. 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.