And when it was over and Billy’s identity had been divulged, the
Iron Man accepted the joke on himself with the best of humor. It
had been a splendid exhibition on Billy’s part. His mastery of
the sport, coupled with his self-control, had most favorably
impressed the crowd, and Saxon, very proud of her man boy, could
not but see the admiration all had for him.

Nor did she prove in any way a social failure. When the tired and
sweating players lay down in the dry sand to cool off, she was
persuaded into accompanying their nonsense songs with the
ukulele. Nor was it long, catching their spirit, ere she was
singing to them and teaching them quaint songs of early days
which she had herself learned as a little girl from Cady–Cady,
the saloonkeeper, pioneer, and ax-cavalryman, who had been a
bull-whacker on the Salt Intake Trail in the days before the
railroad.

One song which became an immediate favorite was:

“Oh! times on Bitter Creek, they never can be beat,
Root hog or die is on every wagon sheet;
The sand within your throat, the dust within your eye,
Bend your back and stand it–root hog or die.”

After the dozen verses of “Root Hog or Die,” Mark Hall claimed
to be especially infatuated with:

“Obadier, he dreampt a dream,
Dreampt he was drivin’ a ten-mule team,

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