Sharp and clear a rifle shot Woke the echoes of the spot.

"I am wounded," cried Venero, as he swayed from side to side; "While there's life there's always hope; Slowly onward I will lope,-- If I fail to reach the cow-ranch, Bessie Lee shall know I tried.

"I will save her yet," he cried, "Bessie Lee shall know I tried,"

And for her sake then he halted in the shadow of a hill; From his chapareras he took With weak hands a little book; Tore a blank leaf from its pages saying, "This shall be my will."

From a limb a pen he broke, And he dipped his pen of oak In the warm blood that was spurting from a wound above his heart.

"Rouse," he wrote before too late; "Apache warriors lie in wait.

Good-bye, Bess, G.o.d bless you darling," and he felt the cold tears start.

Then he made his message fast, Love's first message and its last, To the saddle horn he tied it and his lips were white with pain, "Take this message, if not me, Straight to little Bessie Lee;"

Then he tied himself to the saddle, and he gave his horse the rein.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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, b.l.o.o.d.y blizzard of the States.

I'm the celebrated slugger; I'm the Beast.

I can s.n.a.t.c.h a man bald-headed while he waits.

He's a double-jawed hyena!

He's the villain of the scena!

He can s.n.a.t.c.h 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 d.a.m.n 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-h.e.l.ling; 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 b.l.o.o.d.y In-ji-ans.

I'd rather eat a pan of dope, I'd rather ride without a rope, I'd rather from this country lope, Than-- Than to-- Than to fight-- Than to fight the b.l.o.o.d.y In-ji-ans.

A MAN NAMED HODS

Come, all you old cowpunchers, a story I will tell, And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well; And if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to h.e.l.l.

Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man named Hods; He wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods.

But he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules, And 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools.

Up on the plains old Hods he got and there his trouble began.

Oh, he sure did get in trouble,--and old Hodsie wasn't no man.