He weren't even eighteen if n he were a day,
But we signed `em up without much to say
We were short a cowhands at of Bar 49,
Skeet was sick and weren't feelin' too fine
And of Curly Bob said he was a goin' far,
With a good-lookin' blonde he met at a bar.
"Where's ya from, Buck?" the trail boss done ask
as he took a tall swig and then passed the flask
"Why, I's from Buck Snort," the young'un reply
As he heaved down a gulp of that deadly red eye.
Well, Tooly and me watched Buck as he drank
Ta see if he be a real cowboy or a fish outa the tank.
And although we thought he turned green at the gill,
That young Buck done downed her and had his fill.
"Whoa, save some fer me!" the trail boss confined,
"You'll find plenty more here at of Bar 49."
"So, I's got the job?" Young Buck brashly opined.
"You'll fit right in;'' the boss replied, "you'll do jest fine!"
We had to teach young Buck more than a thing of two,
But he caught on real fast and was a natural fer the crew.
And in less than a year ya could never have been told,
That Buck weren't like the others and not half as old.
After awhile, a ridin' over this dusty and lonely sod,
Some of the boys got to thinkin' that it be a little odd
That young Buck never had much to say `bout his maw
Some even supposed Buck might be runnin' from the law.
And Buck never said nothin' much `bout his dear of dad
Other than he didn't remember 'em-he was long dead.
Well, ya know how tongues wag even out here this far
Never gave it no thought till the sheriff drove up in his car.
Seems theys lookin' fer a young fella that done killed a coot
What killed the boy's mother in some domestic dispute.
Said the boy was seventeen `bout a year ago or so he guess
And there be reports he was headin' out here to the West.
Said he done and up and run away after his ma died,
And I guess it kinda hurt to think that young Buck had lied.
The sheriff didn't blame the kid and mighta done the same,
But he had to track `em down-bring `em back like game.
Well, of Tooly overheard us and blurted out like a boast
That he'd seen that kid last year headin' out fer the coast.
And Skeet, who had recovered, said "yep, that was the one
Said he was goin' to San Francisco to have himself some fun."
Then I said, "You're right... I guess I do recollect that kid
Didn't seem the ranchin' type-could tell he was on the skid."
Well, the sheriff thanked us kindly and said he'd check it out
Then drove in a cloud of dust down to the lower rural route.
We saw young Buck a peekin' from the bunkhouse real sad
"It's OK, Buck," I called, "jest the law lookin' fer someone bad."
