owered his nose to the shelled corn
seasoned with molasses, the rolled oats, and the ground barley in the
trough.

Stonecypher walked down the road to the staircase of stone that dammed
the old Kingsport Reservoir, abandoned long before Kings Lake covered
the city. A red electric truck crawled up the steep road hewn from the
slope of the gap formed by Dolan Branch. When the truck had crossed the
bridge below the buttressed dam, Stonecypher spoke to the fat and
sweltering man seated beside the driver. "I'm M. Stonecypher. Proud for
you to visit my farm. Dinner's ready up at the house."

"No, no time," smiled the fat man, displaying stainless steel teeth.
"Only time to see the bull. I thought we weren't going to make that
grade! Why don't those scientists develop synthetic elements, so that we
can have atomic power again? This radio-electric is so unreliable! I am
Ringmaster A. Oswell, naturally. This heat is excruciating! I had hoped
it would be cooler up here, but something seems to have happened to our
inland-oceanic climate this summer. Lead us to the bull, Stonecypher!"

Clinging to the slatted truck bed, Stonecypher directed the stoic driver
to the paddock. The electric motor rattled and stopped, and Ringmaster
Oswell wheezed and squirmed from the cab. The ringmaster wore a vaguely
Arabic costume, in all variations of red.

The bull lumbered bellowing around the fence. His horns raked white
gashes in the beech tree forming one corner. He tossed the feed trough
to splintering destruction.

"Magnificent!" Oswell gasped. Then the ringmaster frowned. "But he looks
almost purple. His horns are rather short."

"Stay back from the fence!" Stonecypher warned. "He's real wide between
the horns, ringmaster. I reckon the spread'll match up to standard. Same
stock my grandfather used to sell Boon Bullring before the water.
Wouldn't sell 'im, only the tenants are scared to come about the house."

Oswell fingered his balloon neck and mumbled, "But he's odd. That long
hair on his neck ... I don't know...."

The bull's horns lifted the mineral feeder from the center of the
paddock. The box rotated over the rails and crashed in a cloud of
floured oyster shells and phosphate salt at the ringmaster's feet.

Oswell took cover behind the truck driver, who said, "Fergus'd like him.
Jeeze! Remember dat brown and white spotted one he kilt last year on
Forrest Day? Da crowd like ta never stopt yelling!"

Ringmaster Oswell retreat