Unable to wear a boot and still hobbling on
crutches, I managed to Indian mount an old horse, my left foot still too
inflamed to rest in the stirrup. From the ranch we rode for the encinal
ridges and sandy lands to the southeast, where the fallow-weed still
throve in rank profusion, and where our heaviest steers were liable to
range. By riding far from the watering points we encountered the older
cattle, and within an hour after leaving the ranch I was showing some of
the largest beeves on Las Palomas.
How that beef buyer did ride! Scarcely giving the cattle a passing look,
he kept me leading the way from place to place where our salable stock
was to be encountered. Avoiding the ranchitos and wells, where the cows
and younger cattle were to be found, we circled the extreme outskirts of
our range, only occasionally halting, and then but for a single glance
over some prime beeves. We turned westward from the encinal at a gallop,
passing about midway between Santa Maria and the home ranch. Thence we
pushed on for the hills around the head of the Ganso. Not once in the
entire ride did we encounter any one but a Mexican vaquero, and there
was no relief for my foot in meeting him! Several times I had an
inclination to ask Mr.
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