"Fits me to half a pound," says the puncher; "ain't nothin' suits me better than to fall against somethin' I don't know the name of. Darn calves; if there's anything I don't like some more than other things, calves is the party of the first part---- Yekhoo!" says he, "c'm round here, Mary Jane." With that he waved his leg over the saddle and we was off. "You fellers got any money?" says the puncher. We told him we was entirely innocent in that respect. "Well, I got fifty of my own, and two hundred the ole man give me to buy any likely stock I might see. He'll stand on one leg and talk naughty to me when he finds I've spent it, but, Lord! there's no use remembering things that ain't happened yet, and besides, _he_ was a hopper grass that flew, when _he_ was a youngster. So that's all right. Gosh! don't it feel good to be out in the real fresh air oncet more!" It sure was good. We made it, ride and tie, northeast by the compass. There's one good thing about these United States--so long's you keep movin' you're sure to run into a town somewheres. We spent three nights out. Every camp, before rollin' in, Ag and me and 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.