While she sat there, musing, she remembered a scene that had occurred
not many a month before. She had been out walking one fall day, and had
gone from the house down past the corrals where a number of cattle newly
driven in from the range were penned. They were to be driven off for
shipment the next day. A bellowing caught her ear from one of the
enclosures and she saw two bulls standing horn to horn, their heads
lowered, and their puffing and snorting breaths knocking up the dust
while they pawed the sand back in clouds against their flanks. While
she watched, they rushed together, bellowing, and for a moment they
swayed back and forth. It was an unequal battle, however, for one of the
animals was a hardened veteran, scarred from many a battle on the range,
while the other was a young three-year old with a body not half so
strong as his heart. For a short time he sustained the weight of the
larger bull, but eventually his knees buckled, and then dropped heavily
against the earth. At that the older bull drew back a little and charged
again. This time he avoided the long horns of his rival and made the
unprotected flank of the animal his target. If he had charged squarely
the horns would have been buried to the head; but striking at an angle
only one of them touched the target and delivered a long, ripping blow.
With the blood streaming down his side, the wounded bull made off into a
group of cows, and when the victor pursued him closely, he at length
turned tail and leaped the low fence--for the corral was a new one,
hastily built for the occasion.
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