“I’d run along and play with him then if I were you,” was the girl’s sarcastic comment.  “Maybe if you learn how to swear and sing some of his beautiful songs he’ll give you part of his whiskey.”  She turned away abruptly and became absorbed in the preparation of supper, and Endicott, puzzled as he was piqued, at the girl’s attitude, joined the two who were busy with the pack.  “He’s just perfectly stunning in that outfit,” thought Alice as she watched him disappear in the timbers.  “Oh, I don’t know—­sometimes I wish—­” but the wish became confused somehow with the sizzling of bacon.  And with tight-pressed lips, she got out the tin dishes.

“What’s the matter, Win—­steal a sheep?” asked the Texan as he paused, blanket in hand, to regard Endicott.

“What?”

“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.