We were still doing fall roundup at the beginning of June.
Working out of the rockhouse pretty close to the moon.
The stars covered us like a blanket, we froze our buns.
We had an old Franklin stove where the cooking was done.
Myself and old Shorty, doing the work of ten other men.
Riding day after long day in an attempt to bring all the strays in.
The cattle were wary, most of them slicks,
They'd always see us coming, they knew our tricks.
When we were seen, sometimes a couple miles away,
up went their tails and the chase was well under way.
We lost more cows than we gathered, that's how it went.
We would only give up when our horses were spent.
Maybe a month or two later we'd stumble on them again.
I'm telling you, it ain't no lie, those wild cows ran like the wind.
I've never seen wilder country, I've never chased wilder cows.
Everything, straight up and down sometimes into the clouds.
The country was big We sometimes rode fifty miles a day
From the  Book Cliffs to the Green River 30 miles away
 Ain't nothing like chasing cows through thickets of willows.
Without bullhide chaps it's like being a pincushion for arrows.
Those were the times of my life, my days of high adventure.
I may be to old for it now, but I can definitely feel the lure.
D.L. Crockett -- 8/11/24