Sweat trickled down the sides of his face and he absentmindedly wiped it with the back of one arm, then removed his straw hat, and slipped it further back on his head. Even the sparse shade of the mesquite tree wasn't enough to stop the heat from penetrating. Squinting, he scanned the small grazing herd of Texas Longhorns he had acquired from an old rancher south of the Big Thicket way. So far, he had accumulated a couple of mulberry blues, four duns, a red and white pepper and his pride and joy--the washed-out Jersey crème bull that stood majestically against the flat plains. Like a picture on a postcard, the bull stood, thick-boned, wide-shouldered, with horns that stretched the imagination. Everything from the sway back and flat ribs, to the determined look in his eyes said he was a real survivor. "What a picture you make, old fella." Joe sighed with satisfaction. Still, something was missing. At thirty-two Joe was financially stable, well respected, and had achieved most of what he set out to do.
