I know he's no West Pointer—I've a notion, what is more,
That it isn't only Pointers who may-know the game of war,
And if he's a little partial to the medals on his chest
He's got a darned good right to be; he earned 'em in the West.
For I've follered him in winter through those blamed Montana snows
When the hills was stiff as granite and the very air was froze,
And seen him ridin' out in front to lead the double-quick
When the lines went into action on the banks of Rosebud Creek.
I've lurched across the Painted Plains, my temples like to burst,
And seen men suckin' out their veins to quench their burnin' thirst,