The horse-thief comes along at night
To steal our ponies true
We're always looking out for him,
And sometimes get him, too.
We ask him if he's ready
And when he says "I am,"
The bottoms of his feet they itch
For the grass of Uncle Sam.
And when the round-up's over
To town we go for fun.
The dollars we have hoarded up
Are blown in, every one.
Then broke, we hit the trail for camp
But we don't care a ——
Wages are good when the grass is good,
The grass of Uncle Sam.
Bunch Grass.
By the time the singer was half-way through most of the impromptu audience were singing the familiar air too. Their voices were none too sweet or soft, for the icy blasts of winter and the dust-laden breezes of summer did not tend to improve them; but it was with a right good will that they applauded Frank when he finished. The song over, the talk began again, quietly, with long pauses, while this man puffed his pipe or that rolled a cigarette. The light had entirely gone out of the sky now, and only the dim glow of the shack lamp through the open door showed one man to the other.
"Well, kid, think you can tame the buckskin?" drawled Jerry lazily.
"Sure—after a fashion. 'Lite' 'll never be an easy thing; he's got too much life in him, but we have got to know each other pretty well now and we'll get along all right."
"You get that little horse so's you can ride him and you'll have the best pony goin'." Matt spoke with conviction.
The talk grew more and more disjointed, and finally stopped altogether. Then one by one the men stalked without a word into the cabin, and in a few minutes all hands were drinking in the sleep as only thoroughly tired, healthy men can.