I only hope he will not be a thin-chested, cigarette-smoking
dude, because it will be a sacrilege of nature. He must undoubtedly have
played forward at Princeton or Yale, or be unworthy.
As we stood, a massive bull emerged from the body of the herd, his head
thrown high, tail stiff with anger, eye rolling, and breath coming
quick. He trotted quickly forward, and, lowering his head, charged
through the "punchers." Instantly a small Soledad girl was after him,
the vaqueros reining back to enjoy the strange ride with their eyes. Her
hat flew off, and the long curls flapped in the rushing air as her pony
fairly sailed over the difficult ground. The bull tore furiously, but
behind him swept the pony and the child. As we watched, the chase had
gone a mile away, but little Miss Yellowcurls drew gradually to the far
side of the bull, quartering him on the far side, and whirling on,
headed her quarry back to her audience and the herd. The rough-and-ready
American range boss sat sidewise in his saddle and thought--for he never
talked unnecessarily, though appreciation was chalked all over his pose.
The manager and madam felt as though they were responsible for this
wonderful thing. The Mexican cowboys snapped their fingers and eyes at
one another, shouting quick Spanish, while the American part of the
beholders agreed that it was the "limit"; "that as a picture," etc.;
"that the American girl, properly environed "; "that this girl in
particular," etc.
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