If the cow were soothed it was quite otherwise with Tex: his hair almost bristled as the rider went past, near enough for the heavy knife to have sped through the air and sunk haft-deep between his shoulders. "Chatter Spence!" sprang to Tex’s lips. "Who’s he driving for?" a question that he was still asking himself when another herder neared him, whose choice of lullaby was probably influenced by that of his companion, for he was calling out in most lugubrious voice: ’Buffalo gals, are you comin’ out to-night, Comin’ out to-night, comin’ out to-night? Buffalo gals, are you comin’ out to-night To dance by th’ light of th’ moon?’ "It’s all wrong," the singer broke off to say in a sing-song voice, that, as far as the cattle were concerned, had all the effect of a melody. "It’s all wrong," he repeated. "There ain’t no moon. ’To dance by th’ light of th’ stars,’" he corrected, and then: "Gentlemen, I rises to a question of order. I don’t want to dance. I ’m too blasted sore to dance—I ’m too sore to be a-sittin’ on this cross-eyed, rat-tailed, flea-bitten son-of-a-dog, too; an’ if I ain’t relieved pretty soon, Shanghai is a-goin’ to hear—" his voice trailed away and the words were no longer distinguishable. Tex cautiously sat up. "That’s Argue Bennett. And Shanghai is with them. Why, d—n it! There must be a whole brood of Ike’s chickens roosting around here. I ’m going to find them, even if I miss Hoppy in doing it." He started to arise and back away before the first singer should approach again, only to drop back into his former prone position at the sound of a third singer, coming from his right. Bennett and Spence heard him too and were more than ready to resign the herd by the time he and his companion arrived. Bennett did not hesitate to announce his bitter condemnation of the way things were being done. "That you, Ship?" he called. "That’s me," came the answer. "Shore it’s you," agreed Bennett, in sarcastic acknowledgment. "I ’d a’ bet every cow I own it’s you. An’ I goes on record as bettin’ every cow _you_ own that Cracker is a-ridin’ ’longside you. Do I win?" "You win with yore own stock but I objects to you winnin’ with mine. It _might_ a’ been Shanghai." "Yes, it _might_; but if it was I ’d a’ dropped dead from surprise. What I want to know is: what call has Shanghai got to hold down all th’ soft snaps? Is he any better’n we are? Echo answers no—Echo bein’ Chatter Spence, who has n’t got pride enough to disagree with a hen."