We was short of hands, the herd was large,
An' watch an' watch we divided the night;
We could hear the coyotes howl an' whine,
But the darn'd critters kept out of sight
Of the camp-fire blazin'; an' now an' then
Thar come a rustle an' sort of rush,
A rattle a-sneakin' away from the blaze,
Thro' the rattlin', cracklin' grey sage bush. 

IV. 

We'd chanc'd that night on a pootyish lot,
With a tol'ble show of tall, sweet grass--
We was takin' Speredo's drove across
The Rockies, by way of "Old Spookses' Pass"--
An' a mite of a creek went crinklin' down,
Like a "pocket" bust in the rocks overhead,
Consid'able shrunk, by the summer drought,
To a silver streak in its gravelly bed.