that in a book somewhere, but I ain't bankin' on it. What if the cuss can't carry a tune?"
"If there's a tunnel back of that waterfall, we'll need lights. We should have brought a lantern."
"We can get some pine-knots," suggested Jackson. "I've got matches. It's a peach of a night, ain't it?"
To the cowboy the ride was an adventure after his own heart. Like all his kind, he had a keen sense of the dramatic and he was going to enjoy every minute of the trip. Danger spiced it, so did the prospect of thwarting Hollister, and the violin held a lively place in his anticipations. The horses kept gallantly to their gait, the air was full of the balmy tang of resin and dry wood, crisp and cool, every breath an exhilaration. And, being supremely happy, Jackson commenced to chant one of the dolorous songs that are sung as lullabies to uneasy cattle when the thunder growls and the nightherds ride round their charge.
Oh, bury me on the hillside where the grasses gently wave,
With a score of my com-pan-y-uns to follow m^e to my grave.
With four of my good comrades to carry me on my bier,
To speak a partin' word for me an' shed a bitter tear,
I was a rovin' cowboy an' I broke my mother's heart,
With gamblin' an' with drun-ken-ness I drifted far apart.
Now let me be a warnin' to all who see me lie,
An' listen to the tale of one who wasn't fit to die.
There were innumerable verses, strung out to while away the monotony of night work, and Jackson, in a high-pitched tenor that was not all unmusical, recorded them faithfully to the tempo of the
