XXXVIII.

An' struck his side with my fist an' foot-- 'Twas jest like hittin' a rushin' stone, An' he thunder'd ahead--I couldn't boss The critter a mossel, I'm free tew own. The sweat come a-pourin' down my beard; Ef ye wonder wharfor, jest ye spread Yerself far a ride with a runnin' herd, A yawnin' gulch half a mile ahead.