"What did _you_ catch hell for? You didn't imbibe no embalmin' fluid." Endicott grinned and the cowboy finished rolling his blanket. "Seems like we're in bad, some way. She didn't say nothin' much, but I managed to gather from the way she looked right through the place where I was standin' that I could be got along without for a spell. Her interruptin' me right in the middle of a song to impart that I'd be'n drinkin' kind of throw'd me under the impression that the pastime was frowned on, but the minute I seen you comin' through the brush like you was sneaking off at recess, I know'd you was included in the boycott an' that lets the booze out. Seein's our conscience is clear, it must be somethin' _she_ done that she's took umbrage at, as the feller says, an' the best thing we can do is to overlook it. I don't know as I'd advise tellin' her so, but we might just kind of blend into the scenery onobtrusive 'til the thaw comes. In view of which I'll just take a little drink an' sing you a song I heard down on the Rio Grande." Thrusting his arm into the end of his blanket roll, the Texan drew forth his bottle and, taking a drink, carefully replaced it. "This here song is _The Old Chisholm Trail_, an' it goes like this: "Come along; boys, and listen to my tale, I'll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm trail. Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. I started up the trail October twenty-third, I started up the trail with the 2-U herd. Oh, a ten dollar hoss and a forty dollar saddle-- And I'm goin' to punchin' Texas cattle. I woke up one morning on the old Chisholm trail, Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail. I'm up in the mornin' afore daylight And afore I sleep the moon shines bright. Old Ben Bolt was a blamed good boss, But he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss. Old Ben Bolt was a fine old man And you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land. My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud, My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd. Last time I saw him he was going cross the level A-kicking up his heels and a-runnin' like the devil. It's cloudy in the west, a-lookin' like rain, An' my damned old slicker's in the wagon again. Crippled my hoss, I don't know how, Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow. We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly, We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by. No chaps, no slicker, and it's pourin' down rain, An' I swear, by God, I'll never night-herd again. Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle, I hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle. Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the ranks, I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks. The wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall. Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to lose 'em all. I jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn, Best blamed cow-puncher ever was born.