This latter, who's that obstinate an' resentful he won't go back to camp when I wallops him on that gray mare mornin', allows he'll secrete himse'f an' Tom off to one side an' worrit me up.

While he's manooverin' about he gets the half-inch rope he's draggin' tangled good an' fast in a mesquite bush.
It shorely holds him; that bush is old Jerry's last picket---his last camp.

Which he'd a mighty sight better played his hand out with me, even if I does ring in a trace-chain on him at needed intervals.

Jerry jest nacherally starves to death for grass an' water.

An' what's doubly hard the lovin' Tom, troo to the last, starves with him.