Apache Johnson and Texas Ned Saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead To station themselves ten miles away An' act as judges an' see fair play; While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart Stayed back fer to give us an even start. I got aboard of my broncho bird An' we came to the scratch an' got the word; An' I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. The first three miles slipped away first-rate; Then bronc began fer to lose his gait. But I warn't oneasy an' didn't mind With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. So I jogged along with a cowboy song Till all of a sudden I heard that gong A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear-- _Ting, ting, ting, ting,_--too infernal near; An' lookin' backwards I seen that chump Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump. I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt; But his wind got weak, an' I tell you, boss, I seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss. Still, the plucky brute took another shoot An' pulled away from the wheel galoot. But the animal couldn't hold his gait; An' the idea somehow entered my pate That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip He'd own that hoss at the end of the trip. Closer an' closer come tenderfoot, An' harder the whip to the hoss I put; But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face Ran up to my side with his easy pace-- Rode up to my side, an' dern his hide, Remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride; Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match, An' on his britches give it a scratch, Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day, An' as fresh as a daisy scooted away. Ahead he went, that infernal gong A-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along, An' the smoke from his cigarette came back Like a vaporous snicker along his track. On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead, His feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread, Till he faded away in the distance, an' when I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again He war thar with the boys at the end of the race, That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face. Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar Nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar; So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand An' told him that broncho awaited his brand. Then I axed him his name, an' where from he came, An' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game. Tom Stevens he said war his name, an' he come From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom. Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled That very identical wheel round the world.