in' dividen's, bein' hard
times."

"Keep your two-bits," said the puncher. "This is on me. You're goin'
to furnish the chaser, Go to it and cinch up them there 'saddest.'"

"Bein' just two-bits this side of bein' a socialist, I guess I'll keep
me change. I ain't a drinkin' man--regular, but I never was scared of
eatin'."

Sundown gazed about the dingy room. Like most poets, he was not averse
to an audience, and like most poets he was quite willing that such
audience should help defray his incidental expenses--indirectly, of
course. Prospects were pretty thin just then. Two Mexican herders
loafed at the other end of the bar. They appeared anything but
susceptible to the blandishments of Euterpe. Sundown gazed at the
ceiling, which was fly-specked and uninspiring,

"Turn her loose!" said the puncher, winking at the bartender.

Sundown folded his long arms and tilted one lean shoulder as though
defying the elements to blast him where he stood:--

"Lives there a gent who has not heard,
Before he died, the saddest word?

"'What word is that?' the maiden cried;
'I'd like to hear it before I died.'

"'Then come with me,' her father said,
As to the stockyards her he led;

"Where layin' on the ground so low
She seen a tired and weary Bo.

"But when he seen her standin' 'round,
He riz up from the cold, cold ground.

"'Is this a hold-up game?' sez he.
And then her pa laughed wickedly.

"'This ain't no hold-up!' loud he cried,
As he stood beside the fair maiden's side.

"'But this here gal of mine ain't heard
What you Boes call the saddest word.'

"'The Bo, who onct had been a gent,
Took off his lid and low he bent.

"He saw the maiden was fed up good,
So her father's wink he understood.

"'The saddest word,' the Bo he spoke,
'Is the dinner-bell, when you are broke.'"

And Sundown paused, gazing ceilingward, that the moral might seep
through.

"You're ridin' right to home!" laughed the cow-boy. "You just light
down and we'll trail over to Chola Charley's and prospect a tub of
frijoles. The dinner-bell when you are broke is plumb correct. Got
any more of that po'try broke to ride gentle?"

"Uhuh. Say, how far is it to the next town?"

"Comin' or goin'?"

"Goin'."

"'Bout seventy-three miles, but there's nothin' doin' there. Worse'n
this."

"Looks like me for a job, or the next rattler goin' west. Any chanct
for a cook here?"

"Nope.