f the two. When Red had picked himself up and things had quieted down
again the subject was changed, and several hours later they rode into
Muddy Wells, a town with a little more excuse for its existence than
Buckskin. The wells were in an arid valley west of Guadaloupe Pass, and
were not only muddy but more or less alkaline.

CHAPTER. X. Peace Hath its Victories

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 even Billy
joined in. The sight that met their eyes was typical of the men and the
mood and the place. Leaning along the walls, lounging on the table and
straddling chairs with their forearms crossed on the backs were nine
cowboys, ranging from old twenty to young fifty in years, and all were
shouting the song and keeping time with their hands and feet.

In the center of the room was a large man dancing a fair buck-and-wing
to the time so uproariously set by his companions. Hatless,
neck-kerchief loose, holsters flapping, chaps rippling out and close,
spurs clinking and perspiration streaming from his tanned face, danced
Bigfoot Baker as though his life depended on speed and