A-trying to head the cattle, a-trying to turn them about,
When his saddled night-horse stumbled and upon him did fall.
Now the poor boy will not see his mother when work is done this Fall."
"And now the rest—how he died," breathed Marcelina, and once more the troubadour smiled.
"We picked him up so gently and laid him on his bed,
A-standing all around the poor cowboy, a-thinking he was dead,
When he opened wide his blue eyes, looked around and said:
'Boys, I think those are the last steers I shall ever head.
So Bill, you take my saddle, and Charley, you take my bed,
And George, you take my six-shooter and be sure that I am dead.