Just at dusk a horse of brown Wet with sweat came panting down The little lane at the cow-ranch, stopped in front of Bessie's door; But the cowboy was asleep, And his slumbers were so deep, Little Bess could never wake him though she tried for evermore. You have heard the story told By the young and by the old, Away down yonder at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came; Of that sharp and bloody fight, How the chief fell in the fight And the panic-stricken warriors when they heard Venero's name. And the heavens and earth between Keep a little flower so green That little Bess had planted ere they laid her by his side. DOGIE SONG The cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks, Some short, some heavy, more long; But don't matter what he looks like, They all sing the same old song. On the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys, In the south where the days are long, The bosses are different fellows; Still they sing the same old song. "Sift along, boys, don't ride so slow; Haven't got much time but a long round to go. Quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip; I've cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip. Bunch the herd at the old meet, Then beat 'em on the tail; Whip 'em up and down the sides And hit the shortest trail." THE BOOZER I'm a howler from the prairies of the West. If you want to die with terror, look at me. I'm chain-lightning--if I ain't, may I be blessed. I'm the snorter of the boundless prairie. He's a killer and a hater! He's the great annihilator! He's a terror of the boundless prairie. I'm the snoozer from the upper trail! I'm the reveler in murder and in gore! I can bust more Pullman coaches on the rail Than anyone who's worked the job before. He's a snorter and a snoozer. He's the great trunk line abuser. He's the man who puts the sleeper on the rail. I'm the double-jawed hyena from the East. I'm the blazing, bloody blizzard of the States. I'm the celebrated slugger; I'm the Beast. I can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits. He's a double-jawed hyena! He's the villain of the scena! He can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits. DRINKING SONG Drink that rot gut, drink that rot gut, Drink that red eye, boys; It don't make a damn wherever we land, We hit her up for joy. We've lived in the saddle and ridden trail, Drink old Jordan, boys, We'll go whooping and yelling, we'll all go a-helling; Drink her to our joy. Whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose, Whenever you get to town; Drink it straight and swig it mighty, Till the world goes round and round! A FRAGMENT I'd rather hear a rattler rattle, I'd rather buck stampeding cattle, I'd rather go to a greaser battle, Than-- Than to-- Than to fight-- Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.