“_Ur-r-ra, ur-r-ra, ur-rrrra!_” said Estrada softly to them, “_Ur-r-ra!_”--and they gave way before him, backing, whirling, pawing at the earth, the bolder ones rolling their red eyes, blowing futile defiance through their dust-grimed nostrils. Now and then a couple of them, truculent, locked horns for an instant, made a little whirlpool of private strife in the brown stream, but at Estrada’s shout, his whirling quirt, his swung _sombrero_, they gave up; they went on again in their sacrificial procession. Estrada, what time he rode close enough to him and the steers were not bellowing too loudly, gave him bits of information. They would be loaded into the cattle cars at noon, if all went well; they would not reach San Francisco for two days or three, perhaps; yes, the railroad company was obliged to water them--Estrada really did not know exactly what the law was, but there was a law, he was comfortably sure. Yes--_those_ were “_loco_” steers; the _señor_ would do well to keep his distance from them--they might be sufficiently loco to hook his horse, and his horse, unhappily, was not entirely trustworthy. The ones with the huge and hideous swellings at the sides of their heads had “lumpy jaw”; it was hard to tell the _señor_ exactly what caused it--a foxtail wedged between the teeth, perhaps, made the beginning. No, he shrugged, there was no cure that he had ever heard of; if it could be taken in the beginning--but it was never taken in the beginning. No, it did not hurt the meat, except that, as the _señor_ saw, the lumpy-jawed steers were always poor; he thought--he was not certain of this, but he had heard that they went to feed the prisoners in State’s Prison. This was a very fine herd; the _señorita_ had excellent feeding pastures; she was a remarkable judge of stock. And she was very kind, the _señorita_; the _señor_ could see for himself that she allowed the cattle to go at a walk; she would not allow them to be driven with dogs or with whips. That was very kind, and it was also very sensible; dogs made them nervous and made them hurry too much; they lost profitable pounds in transit; and the packers did not like you to use whips--they made bruises on the meat. Was not the _señorita_ a wonderful horsewoman? He himself had seen her riding after the herd, just as she was riding to-day, at the age of seven. A proud man, the father of _Señorita_ Ginger, the old _Señor_ Alejandro McVeagh; a proud family. He let his raven-black eyes rest upon his companion for an instant. If the _señor_ would let himself go _loose_ in the saddle, he would find himself riding in greater comfort.