"Why, you can get whisky for that!" "You can read the sign, can't you ?" insists Texas Pete.
"I can read it all right ?" says the man, tryin' a new deal, "but they tell me not to believe more'n half I read." But that don't go; and Mr.Emigrant shells out with the rest.
I didn't blame them for raisin' their howl.

Why, at that time the regular water holes was chargin' five cents a head from the government freighters, and the motto was always "Hold up Uncle Sam," at that.
Once in a while some outfit would get mad and go chargin' off dry; but it was a long, long way to the Springs, and mighty hot and dusty.
Texas Pete and his one lonesome water hole shorely did a big business.
Late one afternoon me and Gentleman Tim was joggin' along above Texas Pete's place.

It was a tur'ble hot day--you had to prime yourself to spit--and we was just gettin' back from drivin' some beef up to the troops at Fort Huachuca.

We was due to cross the Emigrant Trail--she's wore in tur'ble deep--you can see the ruts to-day.

When we topped the rise we see a little old outfit just makin' out to drag along.
It was one little schooner all by herself, drug along by two poor old cavallos that couldn't have pulled my hat off.