THE RANGE RIDER
Up and saddle at daybreak,Into the hills with the light,While still on piñon and cedarLingers the wings of night;Clatter of hoofs in the cañon,Scatter of horns on the trail;Dim forms lost in the chaparral,Fleeing like frightened quail.Follow! the deer behind themPant in a beaten race;Light in its flight is slowerThan a mountain steer in chase.’Ware! That black bull charges;Head down, red eyes aglow;Crack! Crack! the pistol flashes—God, but a noble foe!His black bulk reels from the pathway,The horses reek and sweat;Unsaddle a space and breathe them,The day’s before us yet:Look back from our bed of brackenHere on the world’s green roof,You’d lie at less ease in the green belowBut for pistol and sure-set hoof.What! Is your nerve so shaken?A man can die but once!Who shirks the game for the chance-sent endIs a coward soul, or a dunce.—The turn of a loose-cinched saddle,The plunge of a keen-curved horn—Play down to-day—and to-morrowWho cares that we were born!