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An' cattle or mules or ponies or anythin' else, that makes a repast of locoweed which as a roole they don't, bein' posted instinctif that loco that a-way is no bueno goes crazy; what we-all in the Southwest calls 'locoed. "Whatever does this yere plant resemble? I ain't no sharp on loco, but the brand I encounters is green, bunchy, stiff, an' stands taller than the grass about it.
His back is arched like a greyhound's, he's about the thickness of a bowie-knife, he's got hoofs like a mule, an' sees his highest deevelopment in the wilds of Arkansaw. "But speakin' of locoweed, it's only o'casional that cattle or mules or broncos partakes tharof. Which I might repeat for the third time that, genial, they eschews it.
"Doc Peets informs me once when we crosses up with some locoweed over by the Cow Springs, that thar's two or three breeds of this malignant vegetable. He writes down for me the scientific name of the sort we gets ag'inst. Thar she is." And my friend produced from some recess of a gigantic pocketbook a card whereon the learned Peets had written oxytropis Lamberti.
Death; and the Donna Anna. "Locoweed? Do I savey loco?" The Old Cattleman's face offered full hint of his amazement as he repeated in the idiom of his day and kind the substance of my interrogatory. "Why, son," he continued, "every longhorn who's ever cinched a Colorado saddle, or roped a steer, is plumb aware of locoweed. Loco is Mexicano for mad crazy.
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