bull with which we were all familiar. The old ranchero's hatred to wild
cattle had caused him that morning to risk a long shot at this outlaw,
wounding him. Juan Leal and Enrique Lopez, who were there, had both
tried their marksmanship and their ropes on him in vain. Dragging down
horses and snapping ropes, the bull made his escape into a chaparral
thicket. He must have been exceedingly nimble; for I have seen Uncle
Lance kill a running deer at a hundred yards with a rifle. At any rate,
the entire squad turned out after dinner to renew the attack. We saddled
the best horses in our _remuda_ for the occasion, and sallied forth
to the lair of the _ladino_ bull, like a procession of professional
bull-fighters.

The chaparral thicket in which the outlaw had taken refuge lay about a
mile and a half back from the river and contained about two acres. On
reaching the edge of the thicket, Uncle Lance called for volunteers to
beat the brush and rout out the bull. As this must be done on foot,
responses were not numerous. But our employer relieved the embarrassment
by assigning vaqueros to the duty, also directing Enrique to take one
point of the thicket and me the other, with instructions to use our
ropes should the outlaw quit the thicket for the river. Detailing
Tiburcio, who was with us that afternoon, to assist him in leading the
loose saddle horses, he divided the six other men into two squads under
Theodore Quayle and Dan Happersett. When all was ready, Enrique and
myself took up our positions, hiding in the outlying mesquite brush;
leaving the loose horses under saddle in the cover at a distance. The
thicket was oval in form, lying with a point towards the river, and we
all felt confident if the bull were started he would make for the timber
on the river. With a whoop and hurrah and a free discharge of firearms,
the beaters entered the chaparral. From my position I could see Enrique
lying along the neck of his horse about fifty yards distant; and I had
fully made up my mind to give that bucolic vaquero the first chance.
During the past two weeks my enthusiasm for roping stray bulls had
undergone a change; I was now quite willing that all honors of the
afternoon should fall to Enrique. The beaters approached without giving
any warning that the bull had been sighted, and so great was the strain
and tension that I could feel the beating of my horse's heart beneath
me. The suspense was finally broken by one or two shots in rapid