“I’m wild, and woolly, and full of peas; I’m hard to curry above the knees; I’m a she-wolf from Bitter Creek, and It’s my night to ho-o-wl--”

And as they howled and stamped, the wheels of the caboose began to turn gently and to murmur.

The Virginian rose suddenly. “Will yu’ save that thirst and take a forty-dollar job?” “Missin’ trains, profanity, or what?” said Scipio.

“I’ll tell yu’ soon as I’m sure.” At this Scipio looked hard at the Virginian. “Why, you’re talkin’ business!” said he, and leaped on the caboose, where I was already. “I was thinkin’ of Rawhide,” he added, “but I ain’t any more.” “Well, good luck!” said Shorty, on the track behind us.

“Oh, say!” said Scipio, “he wanted to go on that train, just like me.” “Get on,” called the Virginian. “But as to getting a job, he ain’t just like you.” So Shorty came, like a lost dog when you whistle to him.

Our wheels clucked over the main-line switch. A train-hand threw it shut after us, jumped aboard, and returned forward over the roofs. Inside the caboose they had reached the third howling of the she-wolf.

“Friends of yourn?” said Scipio.

“My outfit,” drawled the Virginian.

“Do yu’ always travel outside?” inquired Scipio.

“It’s lonesome in there,” returned the deputy foreman. And here one of them came out, slamming the door

“Hell!” he said, at sight of the distant town. Then, truculently, to the Virginian, “I told you I was going to get a bottle here.” “Have your bottle, then,” said the deputy foreman, and kicked him off into Dakota. (It was not North Dakota yet; they had not divided it.) The Virginian had aimed his pistol at about the same time with his boot. Therefore the man sat in Dakota quietly, watching us go away into Montana, and offering no objections. Just before he became too small to make out, we saw him rise and remove himself back toward the saloons.