XLVIII.
Round spun the herd in a great black wheel,
Slower an' slower—ye've seen beneath
A biggish torrent a whirlpool spin,
Its waters black es the face of Death?
'Pear'd sort of like that the "millin'" herd
We kept by the leaders—HIM and me,
Neck by neck, an' he sung a tune,
About a young gal, nam'd Betsey Lee!
XLIX.
Jine in the chorus? Wal, yas, I did.
He sung like a regilar mockin' bird.
An' us cowboys allus sing out ef tew calm
The scare, ef we can, of a runnin' herd.
Slower an' slower wheel'd round the "mill";
The maddest old steer of a leader slow'd;
Slower an' slower sounded the hoofs
Of the hoss that HIM in front of me rode.
L.
Fainter an' fainter grow'd that thar song
Of Betsey Lee an' her har of gold;
Fainter an' fainter grew the sound
Of the unseen hoofs on the tore-up mold.
The leadin' steer, that cuss of a Joe
Stopp'd an' shook off the foam an' the sweat,
With a stamp and a beller—the run was done,
Wus glad of it, tew, yer free tew bet!
LI.
The herd slow'd up;—an' stood in a mass
Of blackness, lit by the lightnin's eye:
An' the mustang cower'd es something swept
Clus to his wet flank in passin' by.
"Good night tew ye, Pard!" "Good night," sez I,
Strainin' my sight on the empty air;
The har riz rustlin' up on my head,
Now that I hed time tew scare.
LII.
The mustang flinch'd till his saddle girth
Scrap'd on the dust of the tremblin' ground—
There cum a laugh—the crack of a whip,
A whine like the cry of a well pleas'd hound,
The noise of a hoss thet rear'd an' sprang
At the touch of a spur—then all was still;
But the sound of the thunder dyin' down
On the stony breast of the highest hill!