The old Texan piped up lugubriously, a twinkle in his tired eyes:
“Come, all you old cow-punchers, a story I will tell,
And if you’ll be quiet I’m sure I’ll sing it well,
And if you boys don’t like it, you sure can go to hell!”
A shout of laughter greeted this unexpected proposition. “Fair enough.” “Go to it, Sam!” “Give us the rest!” urged the chap-clad young giants around the fire.
Yerby took up his theme in singsong fashion, and went through the other stanzas, but as he finished he groaned again.
“My laig sure is hurting like sixty. I’m going home. Wish one of you lads would run up a hawss for me. Get the roan with the white stockings, if you can.”
“I’ll go with you, Sam,” announced Rogers. “I’m expecting an important business letter and I expect it’s waiting at the house for me. Be with you to-morrow, boys.”
After they had gone Falkner made comment to young King satirically: “What with busted laigs and important letters and night drives, we’re having quite an exodus from camp, wouldn’t you say?”
“Looks like,” agreed King. “Tha’s the way with married men. They got always to be recollectin’ home ties. We been on this round-up quite a spell, an’ I reckon they got kinda homesick to see their better halfs, as you might say.”