The clack and clatter of the chain; the staggering pull to top the crest,
The brake-line slack; below, the plain and twenty mules, in pairs, abreast.

The heated tires that grind and smoke; the nimble leaders swinging wide;
The swirls of powdered dust that choke, and curl along the mountain side.

Careless of poise and keen of eye the skinner on the wheeler's back
Condemns his mules expressively — and takes a little jerkline slack.

" Roll on, old wagon, we're going home! Hump, you buck-skins, hop-it-along!
Jump, you Jerry-old-Jereboam. Listen — I'll sing you a little song:

" Oh, I had a girl in San Antone,
She had a beau lived down that way. ...
I met up with him one night alone. ...
That's why I'm skinnin' mules to-day.

" Oh, there was a hoss in San Antone;
I borrowed that hoss and I come away,
Fanning it fast on that white-faced roan. ...
That's why I'm skinnin' mules to-day. "

The blind wheel worries in the rut; the slow sand follows up the tire;
The distance shows a herder's hut below the ridge in sunset fire,

As o'er the grim wheel-gutted plain, silent beneath its weight of years,
The mules plod on with grunt and strain, with nodding heads and swinging ears;

A cowboy turns and waves his hand. Then, with the twinkle of his spur,
Rides slowly toward the foothill land, a lone and proud adventurer;

But reins and listens, nods and smiles with head aslant, as low and long
Across the hushed and stagnant miles he hears the echo of a song:

" I ain't going back to San Antone;
Have n't time to go down that way,
For I got a girl and a kid of my own. ...
That's why I'm skinnin' mules to-day. ...

" Skinning mules on the old Tejon,
And believe me, sister, it ain't no play;
But I got a girl and a kid of my own,
That's why I'm skinnin' mules to-day. "