She rode up to the wagon as the sun was getting low,
A slender little figure dressed in gray.
We told her to get down, of course, and pull up to the fire
And red hot chuck would soon be on its way.
An old slouch hat with a hole in the top was perched upon her head
A pair of bullhide chaps well greased and worn;
An old stock saddle scratched and scarred from working in the bush
And her slick maguey tied to her saddle horn.
| She said she'd rode from Lyano, four hundred miles away
Her pony was so tired he couldn't go;
She asked to stop a day or two and kind of rest him up,
Then maybe she could find her brother, Joe.
We could see that she'd ben crying, her little face was sad
When she talked her upper lip would tremble so.
She was a living image, we all saw at a glance
Of our little lost horse herder, Wrangler Joe.
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