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.


XXXIX.

Three hundred foot from its grinnin' lips
Tew the roarin' stream on its stones below.
Once more I hurl'd the mustang up
Agin the side of the cuss call'd Joe;
Twan't a mite of use--he riz his heels
Up in the air, like a scuddin' colt;
The herd mass'd closer, an' hurl'd down
The roarin' Pass, like a thunderbolt.


XL.

I couldn't rein off--seem'd swept along
In the rush an' roar an' thunderin' crash;
The lightnin' struck at the runnin' herd
With a crack like the stroke of a cowboy's lash.
Thar! I could see it; I tell ye, pard,
Things seem'd whittl'd down sort of fine--
We wasn't five hundred feet from the gulch,
With its mean little fringe of scrubby pine.