As they neared the central group of buildings they heard a hilarious
and assertive song which sprang from the door and windows of the main
saloon. It was in jig time, rollicking and boisterous, but the words
had evidently been improvised for the occasion, as they clashed
immediately with those which sprang to the minds of the outfit,
although they could not be clearly distinguished. As they approached
nearer and finally dismounted, however, the words became recognizable
and the visitors were at once placed in harmony with the air of jovial
recklessness by the roaring of the verses and the stamping of the
time.

Oh we're red-hot cow-punchers playin' on our luck,
An' there ain't a proposition that we won't buck:
From sunrise to sunset we've ridden on the range,
But now we're oft for a howlin' change.

CHORUS

Laugh a little, sing a little, all th' day;
Play a little, drink a little-we can pay;
Ride a little, dig a little an' rich we'll grow.
Oh, we're that bunch from th' O-Bar-O!

Oh, there was a little tenderfoot an' he had a little gun,
An' th' gun an' him went a-trailin' up some fun.
They ambles up to Santa Fe' to find a quiet game,
An' now they're planted with some more of th' same!

As Hopalong, followed by the others, pushed open the door and
entered he took up the chorus with all the power of Texan lungs and