Now sech a eepisode, properly elab'rated, might feed your attention an' hold it spellbound some.
"Son, if I was to turn myse'f loose on, great an' little, the divers incidents of the trail, it would consoome days in the relation.

I could tell of cactus flowers, blazin' an' brilliant as a eye of red fire ag'in the brown dusk of the deserts; or of mile-long fields of Spanish bayonet in bloom; or of some Mexican's doby shinin' like a rooby in the sunlight a day's journey ahead, the same one onbroken mass from roof to ground of the peppers they calls _chili_, all reddenin' in the hot glare of the day.
"Or, if you has a fancy for stirrin' incident an' lively scenes, thar's a time when the rains has raised the old Canadian ontil that quicksand ford at Tascosa--which has done eat a hundred teams if ever it swallows one!--is torn up complete an' the bottom of the river nothin' save b'ilin' sand with a shallow yere an' a hole deep enough to drown a house scooped out jest beyond.

An' how since I can't pause a week or two for the river to run down an' the ford to settle, I goes spraddlin' an' tumblin' an' swimmin' across on Tom, my nigh wheeler, opens negotiations with the LIT ranch, an' Bob Roberson, has his riders round-up the pasture, an' comes chargin' down to the ford with a bunch of one thousand ponies, all of 'em dancin' an' buckin' an' prancin' like chil'en outen school.

Roberson an' the LIT boys throws the thousand broncos across an' across the ford for mighty likely it's fifty times.

They'd flash 'em through--the whole band together--on the run; an' then round 'em up on the opp'site bank, turn 'em an' jam 'em through ag'in.