I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux,
An swallowed hot tamales, an cayenne.
I've rid a pitchin broncho 'till th' sky was underneath,
I've tackled every desert in th' land;
I've sampled XXXX whiskey 'till I couldn't hardly see,
An dallied with th' quicksands of the Grande.
I've argued with th' marshals of a half-a-dozen burgs,
I've been dragged free an fancy by a cow;
I've had three years' campaignin' with th' fightin, bitin' Ninth,
An never lost my temper—'till right now.
I've had the yaller fever an I've been shot full of holes,
I've grabbed an army mule plumb by its tail;
I've never been so snortin , really highfalutin mad
As when y'u up an hands me ginger ale!
Hopalong laughed joyously at a remark made by Waffles and the stranger glanced quickly at him. His merry, boyish face, underlined by a jaw showing great firmness and set off with an expression of aggressive self-reliance, impressed the stranger and he remarked to Red, who lounged lazily near him, that he was surprised to see such a face on so young a man and he asked who the player was.
"Oh, his name's Hopalong Cassidy," answered Red. "He's th' cuss that raised that ruction down in Mexico last spring. Rode his cayuse in a saloon and played with the loungers and had to shoot one before he got out. When he did get out he had to fight a whole bunch of Greasers an' even potted their marshal, who had th' drop on him. Then he returned and visited the marshal about a month later, took his gun away from him an' then cut th' cards to see if he was a prisoner or not. He's a shore funny cuss."
