Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp Part 15

I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways.

I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow, Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago.

_Anonymous._

[2] A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.

THE OUTLAW

WHEN my loop takes hold on a two-year-old, By the feet or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white, But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.

Though the taut rope sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain, Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain.

_For a man is a man and a steer is a beast, And the man is the boss of the herd; And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least, Must come down when he says the word._

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide, He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride.

Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top, Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke.

_For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, And the hawse may be prince of his clan, But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot And own that his boss is the man._

When the devil at rest underneath my vest Gets up and begins to paw, And my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw; When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild, And my temper has fractious growed, If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.

_For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast-- He kin brag till he makes you deaf, But the one, lone brute, from the West to the East, That he kaint quite break, is himse'f._ _Charles B. Clark, Jr._

THE DESERT

'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!

"He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.

He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of h.e.l.l, Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just one."

"His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, And I watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as I laughed, and died.

"And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast, But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh the last.

Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote; Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine.

Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; Hands that proffered a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup--empty, ere I could take; Then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! It was rude, fierce rain!

Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!

Dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead; But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail ahead.

_Henry Herbert Knibbs._

WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT

A-DOWN the road and gun in hand Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill; A-lookin' for some place to land Comes Whiskey Bill.

An' everybody'd like to be Ten miles away behind a tree When on his joyous, aching spree Starts Whiskey Bill.

The times have changed since you made love, O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!

The happy sun grinned up above At Whiskey Bill.

And down the middle of the street The sheriff comes on toe and feet A-wishin' for one fretful peek At Whiskey Bill.

The cows go grazing o'er the lea,-- Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!

An' aching thoughts pour in on me Of Whiskey Bill.

The sheriff up and found his stride; Bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,-- How are things on the Great Divide, O Whiskey Bill?

_Anonymous._

DENVER JIM

"SAY, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us, For I jist saw him across this way to the right; Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.

Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready Fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight; The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic An' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.

"Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my la.s.so, boys, If it ain't Denver Jim that's corralled here at last.

Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin'

All night for a couple about of your cast.

An' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin'

We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail.

Haven't seen anything that would answer description?

What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.

"Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'!

Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot?

Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation An' many a man would say take it and scoot.

But we don't belong to that denomination; You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim.

In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb.

"Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper?

Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask.

Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard, An' wish that this court will not bungle this task.

There, the old la.s.so circles your neck like a fixture; Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.

"What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,-- Well, give it to me till I make it all right, A moment or two will be only good manners, The judicious acts of this court will be white.

'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August, My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West, For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.

"'G.o.d bless you, my son, for thus sending that money, Remembering your mother when sorely in need.

May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger And happiness follow your generous deed.