bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle
behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The
bull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by
shaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged.

Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of
playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the
side of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew
himself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a
bull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet
were sore, but he managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull,
up the precipitous bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into
the tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a
shallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper.

The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the
bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade,
snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could
not quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake
eloquently.

Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene,
wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him
have it?" he queried.

"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what
he's after, right now."

"Shall I shoot him?"