the cow-puncher made up a quartette and sang, "How dear to my heart
is the scenes of my chi-i-i-i-i-i-ldhood," "Old Black Joe," and so
forth, then laid down in faith no critter would trouble us that night.
And say! it was simply dead great when we was lyin' on top of old Baldy
Jones's Meza, the moonlight ketchin' the canyon lengthwise, and old
Aggy comin' down, down, down, "Rocked--in ther--cradle--of--the--deep."
Holy Smoke! he sounded fifty fathom. Honest, he made that slit in the
earth holler like an organ. We was that enthusiastic we oncored him,
leavin' our own pipes out. You talk about your theatres and truck!
Give me Agamemnon G., a white night, and several thousand square mile
of ghost-walk country--that's the music for me. He never waggled them
black whiskers--just naturally opened his mouth, and the hills on the
skyline pricked up their ears to listen. You could hear that big,
handsome roar go bouncin' along the crags and wakin' up the wildcats in
the cracks. Lord! what a stillness when the last echo stopped! Well,
that cow-puncher, he had a tear runnin' down the side of his nose, and
I never felt so happy miserable in my life.

The only words spoke was by Ag. "Mary and Martha!" says he, "I've
scart myself!" so we all rolled up.

Two days after we met a line of ore-wagons drug by mules. When we was
twenty foot away the cow-puncher and the first driver give a holler,
and in ten seconds they was shakin' hands and poundin' each other on
the back, sayin', "Why, you damned old this and that!" When a lull
come, the cow-puncher says, "Jack, let me present my friends!" so the
driver he shook hands with us and says, "Any friend of Billy's on your
meal ticket! Where you crowd of sand skinners headed for?" So, after
some talk, he understood. "You want a town," says he. "Well,"
p'inting with the butt of his whip, "eighteen miles over yonder you'll
find your place, if you're looking to make the sidewalks stand
perpendicular; and twenty mile over there, if you want to find some of
the nicest people outdoors. Pretty girls there, bet cher life. Chip
Jackson filled me full of lead two months ago to get his name
up--reg'lar kid trick; wanted to get a rep as the man that put out Jack
Hunter; he didn't put me out no more'n you see at present, but the folk
over at Cactus used me white. Nussed me. Gee! A dream, gents, a
dream! Real girls, with clothes that whispers like wind in the grass,
'Here I come! Here I