There's no single move of yours, except when you're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes.

The cottonwood grove's full of creepin', crawlin' men.

Like Indians in the grass.

When you rode, which wasn't often lately, the sage was full of sneakin' men.
At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an' I reckon into the house.

Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This here grove's a hummin' bee-hive of mysterious happenin's.