If Turk stood guard gettin' up was hard, and even harder to start the day. There came a day we were windin' our way down the Bozeman trail. We were given the word to push this herd clear on ahead to the rail. Curly Bill in the lead put the hooks to his steed and set a hurried pace. Turk Wiggin's bag was ridin' drag, and he kept every cow in it's place.
Every poke likes to trail some old cow's tail across the prairie sand.
It sets a mood no city dude will ever get from such a barren land. Then old Turk went right to work a singin' his terrible banshee wail. Turk's voice had power but the mood went sour, and it pierced like a driven nail. That very night as we lay packed tight in our bedrolls beneath the sky, We formed a plan for this singin' man and the plan was for him to die. We just couldn't take that raspin' rake, when Turk broke into a song.