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W ELL, mates, I don't like stories; Or am I going to act A part around the campfire That ain't a truthful fact? So fill your pipes and listen, I'll tell you — let me see — I think it was in fifty, From that till sixty-three.
You've all heard tell of Bridger;
I used to run with Jim,
And many a hard day's scouting
I've done longside of him.
Well, once near old Fort Reno,
A trapper used to dwell;
We called him old Pap Reynolds,
The scouts all knew him well.
One night in the spring of fifty We camped on Powder River, And killed a calf of buffalo And cooked a slice of liver. While eating, quite contented, I heard three shots or four; Put out the fire and listened,— We heard a dozen more. 139