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.