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THE TENDERFOOT 147
We started for the ranch next day; Brown augured me most all the way. He said that cow-punching was child play, That it was no work at all, — That all you had to do was ride, 'T was only drifting with the tide; Oh, how that old cow-puncher lied — He certainly had his gall.
He pot me in charge of a cavyard,
And told me not to work too hard,
That all I had to do was guard
The horses from getting away;
I had one hundred and sixty head,
I sometimes wished that I was dead;
When one got away, Brown's head turned red,
And there was hell to pay.
Straight to the bushes they would take, As if they were running for a stake, — I've often wished their neek they 'd break, But they would never fall. Sometimes I could not head them at all, Sometimes my horse would catch a fall, And I'd shoot on like a cannon ball Till the earth came in my way.
They saddled me up an old gray hack
With two set-fasts on his back;
They padded him down with a gunny sack
And used my bedding all.
When I got on he quit the ground,
Went up in the air and turned around,
And I came down and hit the ground, —
It was an awful fall.