ed farther, as, under the bull's onslaught, a
piece of concrete broke from the top rail, exposing the reinforcing rod
within. "Fergus does like strange ones," he admitted.

Stonecypher said, "Don't let the mane bother you. There's one of these
long-haired Scotch cows in his ancestors. He's not really purple. Just
the way the light hits 'im."

Oswell chewed lacquered fingernails with steel dentures. His bloodshot
eyes studied the spotted and speckled Appaloosa mules chasing around the
pasture, but the sight failed to register on his brain. "The crowd likes
a good show on Dependence Day," he proclaimed. "I considered trying a
fat Aberdeen Angus with artificial horns for laughs, but this may do as
well. I must find some shade! I'll take him, Stonecypher, if fifteen
hundred in gold is agreeable."

"Sold," Stonecypher said. The word cracked in the middle.

While the ringmaster, muttering about trying bulldogs sometime, retired
to the narrow shadow of the dog house, the driver backed the truck to
the ramp. Stonecypher opened the gate and waved his handkerchief. The
bull charged into the truck, and the driver locked the heavy doors.

From within his red burnoose, Oswell produced a clinking bag. "Fifteen
hundred," he said. From other recesses, he withdrew documents,
notebooks, and a pencil. He said, "Here is a pass for you and one for
any woman-subject you may wish to bring. You'll want to see your first
bull on Dependence Day! And here is the standard release absolving you
of any damage the bull may do. Oh, yes! His name and number?"

"Number?"

"Yes, his brand."

"Not branded. Make it Number 1. Name's Moe."

Oswell chuckled. "Moe. Very good! Most breeders name them things like
Chainlightning and Thunderbird. Your GE number?"

"I'm not a Government Employee."

"You're not?" Oswell wheezed. "How unusual! Your colors? He'll wear your
colors in his shoulder."

"Yeah. Black."

"Black?"

"Dead black."

Oswell, scribbling, managed a faint smile. "Sorry I can't accept that
invitation to lunch." He struggled into the truck. "Hope this bull is
brave in the ring. Nice antique old place you have here! I don't see a
feed tower, but you surely don't use pasture--" The ringmaster's babble
passed down the road with the truck.

Stonecypher watched the vehicle descend the dangerous grade. He lifted
his square hat from his black hair, dropped it on the ground, and
crushed the reeds under a booted foot.

The temporary hous