YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle;Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!Uncle Ed's gettin' red — had too many dippers;Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.p. 123Bow down! right in town — and sashay down the middle;Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?All right! Fine night — Dance? There's nothin' in it!That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle . . .But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.Henry Herbert Knibbs.p. 124p. 125PART IIICOWBOY TYPESp. 126DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples —When there's water in its bed;Where no man is ever drunken —All prefer mescal instead;Where no lie is ever uttered —There being nothin' one can trade;Where no marriage vows are broken'Cause the same are never made.p. 127THE COWBOYHE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,And leggins of fancy fringed leather;He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,And he's happy in all kinds of weather;He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,For oh, he can ride like the devil;He is old for his years and he always appearsLike a fellow who's lived on the level;He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the lookOf a man that to fear is a stranger;Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserveFor his wild life of duty and danger.He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its earAt the rate of two-forty a minute;His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,And he hates and despises a coward;Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kindThough he'll fight till by death overpowered.p. 128Hence I say unto you,— give the cowboy his dueAnd be kind, my friends, to his folly;For he's generous and brave though he may not behaveLike your dudes, who are so melancholy.Anonymous.p. 129BAR-Z ON A SUNDAY NIGHTWE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,'Tis said — an' we know who 'tis —"Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,An' uses us in his biz."Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,An' you'd sure admit that's right,If you happened — an' unbeknown to us —Around, of a Sunday night.Th' week-day manners is stowed away,Th' jokes an' the card games halts,When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to playA toon — an' it ain't no waltz.It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,It delves through th' toughest crust,It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,Till we've got ter sing — er bust!With pipin' treble the kid starts in,An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"He leads, an' the rafters ring;"Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"We shouts it with force an' vim;p. 130"Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"—That's puttin' it up to Him!We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,But many a time an' oftWhen ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"Our hearts gets kinder soft.An' we makes some promises there an' thenWhich we keeps — till we goes to bed,—That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' menWhat ain't no saints, as I said.Percival Combes.p. 131A COWBOY RACEA PATTERING rush like the rattle of hailWhen the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,A long roll of hoofs,— and the earth is a drum!The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;A swift-swirling dust-cloud — a mad hurricaneOf swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sunThe gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!J. C. Davis.p. 132THE HABITI'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,—For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,"I'll never wander further till I come to die."But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trillIs, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."p. 133The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.Berton Braley.p. 134A RANGERHE never made parade of tooth or claw;He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,He was shy of exercisin' it with words.As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,And he labored with the sinners of the trail.Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,And nobody missed the woman very bad,While they'd just a little rather missed the man.But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,And then loped away to bring him back again,For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny borderAnd his business was to hunt for sinful men!So the trail it led him southward all the day,Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,Where the heat had drove the lizards from their playp. 135To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.And the mountains heaved and rippled far awayAnd the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and levelAnd the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.Came the yellow west, and on a far off riseSomething black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyesWhile he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighterAs he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higherThrough the mountains that look into Mexico,And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wireAnd the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fireAnd the canyon walls flung thunder back again,And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbledThat his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slackAnd he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,p. 136Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation backThat convinced the sinner — just above the eye.So the sinner sprawled among the shadows blackWhile the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddleWhile the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.When the sheriff got up early out of bed,How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with redThat came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger saidAnd you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim strangerAnd he labored with the sinners of the trail.Charles Badger Clark, Jr.p. 137THE INSULTI'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swineAn' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;I've tackled every desert in the land;I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly seeAn' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,An' I never lost my temper till right now.I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' madAs when you up and hands me ginger ale.Anonymous.p. 138"THE ROAD TO RUIN"[2]I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to knowWhen we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sellCorroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grinWhile others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woeAnd wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.p. 139I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.You know the one you liked the best? — thehang-manlaid him low,—Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,—He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,—Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.I visited the old church yard and there I saw the gravesOf 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.2A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.p. 140THE OUTLAWWHEN 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 stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain,Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steerAnd 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 hawseAnd 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 heelTill 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,p. 141But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod bootAnd own that his boss is the man.When the devil at rest underneath my vestGets 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.p. 142THE 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 holeFor 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 hell,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,p. 143And 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 lineI saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter floatInto 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 brimming 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!p. 144Dawn — 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.p. 145WHISKEY BILL,— A FRAGMENTA-DOWN the road and gun in handComes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;A-lookin' for some place to landComes Whiskey Bill.An' everybody'd like to beTen miles away behind a treeWhen on his joyous, aching spreeStarts Whiskey Bill.The times have changed since you made love,O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!The happy sun grinned up aboveAt Whiskey Bill.And down the middle of the streetThe sheriff comes on toe and feetA-wishin' for one fretful peekAt Whiskey Bill.The cows go grazing o'er the lea,—Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!An' aching thoughts pour in on meOf 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.p. 146DENVER 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-oakAs fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all readyFur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnicAn' that limb hangin' over him stands about right."Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, 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 temptationAn' many a man would say take it and scoot.p. 147But 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 lasso 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 tidingsSince your last loving letter came eastward to bless."'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,p. 148Remembering your mother when sorely in need.May the angels from heaven now guard you from dangerAnd happiness follow your generous deed.How I long so to see you come into the doorway,As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.May the days be but few when again I can greet you,My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'"Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',I think you'd do better to answer them lines;An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell herThat a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the dayWhen her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,As the tenderest memories came like a blessingFrom the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,p. 149Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;For higher than law is the love of a mother,—It reversed the decision,— the court was adjourned.Sherman D. Richardson.p. 150THE VIGILANTESWE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,A halt, a swift parley, a pause — then at lastA stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheerAgainst the blue steel of the sky; ghastly whiteEvery on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;Little we love the wild task that we seek;Are they dainty to deal with — the fear-rigid limb,The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;God made us strong to avenge Him the weak —To dispense his sure wages of sin — which is death.We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;p. 151Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,That safety and honor may tread in our path;The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!Margaret Ashmun.p. 152THE BANDIT'S GRAVE'MID lava rock and glaring sand,'Neath the desert's brassy skies,Bound in the silent chains of deathA border bandit lies.The poppy waves her golden glowAbove the lowly mound;The cactus stands with lances drawn,—A martial guard around.His dreams are free from guile or greed,Or foray's wild alarms.No fears creep in to break his restIn the desert's scorching arms.He sleeps in peace beside the trail,Where the twilight shadows play,Though they watch each night for his returnA thousand miles away.From the mesquite groves a night bird callsWhen the western skies grow red;The sand storm sings his deadly songAbove the sleeper's head.His steed has wandered to the hillsAnd helpless are his hands,p. 153Yet peons curse his memoryAcross the shifting sands.The desert cricket tunes his pipesWhen the half-grown moon shines dim;The sage thrush trills her evening song —But what are they to him?A rude-built cross beside the trailThat follows to the westCasts its long-drawn, ghastly shadowAcross the sleeper's breast.A lone coyote comes by nightAnd sits beside his bed,Sobbing the midnight hours awayWith gaunt, up-lifted head.The lizard trails his aimless wayAcross the lonely mound,When the star-guards of the desertTheir pickets post around.The winter snows will heap their driftsAmong the leafless sage;The pallid hosts of the blizzardWill lift their voice in rage;The gentle rains of early springWill woo the flowers to bloom,And scatter their fleeting incenseO'er the border bandit's tomb.Charles Pitt.p. 154THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAILSEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divideWhich parts the falling rain,— the eastern slopeSends down its waters to the southern seaThrough Double Mountain's winding length of stream;The western side spreads out into a plain,Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leaguesAt last into the rushing Rio Grande,—See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,The dim reminders of the olden times,The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,The hunt of buffalo and antelope;The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;The call of California's golden flood;The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"Which set our fathers' faces from the east,To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,To people all the regions 'neath the sun —Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.It winds — this old forgotten cattle trail —Through valleys still and silent even now,p. 155Save when the yellow-breasted desert larkCries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,In quivering notes set in a minor key;The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,The desert's blank immutability.The coyote's howl is heard at dark from someLow-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolfThey yelp in concert to the far off stars,Or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rageThat lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.The prairie dogs play sentinel by dayAnd backward slips the badger to his den;The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,A staring buzzard floating in the blue,And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,—Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.All else is mute and dormant; vacantlyThe sun looks down, the days run idly on,The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying fallsSmothering the records of the westward caravans,Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless gravesMake milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.Across the Brazos, Colorado, throughConcho's broad, fair valley, sweeping onBy Abilene it climbs upon the plains,The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastesOf alkali and hunger gaunt and death),—And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.Anon it lingers by a hidden springp. 156That bubbles joy into the wilderness;Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,And went to death and to a nameless grave.For ages and for ages through the pastComanches and Apaches from the northCame sweeping southward, searching for the sun,And charged in mimic combat on the sea.The scions of Montezuma's low-browed racePerhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,Who bore the westward fever in their brain,The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,Braved danger, death, and found a resting placeWhile traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him downTo rest beyond the trail that bears his name;A granite mountain makes his monument;The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,Go gently past his long deserted camps.No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,No more he leads them in the border fight.No more the mavericks, winding stream of hornsp. 157To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songsAnd cries, the pistol's sharp report,— the free,Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.And some men say when dusky night shuts down,Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plainHard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener earsHave heard from deep within the bordering hillsThe tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,The rumble of a moving wagon train,Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,—On westward, westward, as they in olden timeWent rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.John A. Lomax.p. 158THE SHEEP-HERDER[3]
YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle;Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!Uncle Ed's gettin' red — had too many dippers;Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.p. 123Bow down! right in town — and sashay down the middle;Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?All right! Fine night — Dance? There's nothin' in it!That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle . . .But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.Henry Herbert Knibbs.
YIP! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;You an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall!Say "How!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle;Shake yo'r leg lively at the Cowboys' Ball.
Big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin';Everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high;Lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin';Keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye.
Yah! Hoo! Larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin'Jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head;Hi! Yip! Never slip, and never think of stoppin',Just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead!
High heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers;Real old rally round the dipper and the keg!Uncle Ed's gettin' red — had too many dippers;Better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg!
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow.p. 123Bow down! right in town — and sashay down the middle;Got to keep a-movin' for to see the show!
Yes, mam! Warm, mam? Want to rest a minute?Like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars?All right! Fine night — Dance? There's nothin' in it!That's my pony there, peekin' through the bars.
Bronc, mam? No, mam! Gentle as a kitten!Here, boy! Shake a hand! Now, mam, you can see;Night's cool. What a fool to dance, instead of sittin'Like a gent and lady, same as you and me.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! tunin' up the fiddle;Well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all!Right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle . . .But this beats dancin' at the Cowboys' Ball.Henry Herbert Knibbs.
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DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples —When there's water in its bed;Where no man is ever drunken —All prefer mescal instead;Where no lie is ever uttered —There being nothin' one can trade;Where no marriage vows are broken'Cause the same are never made.
DOWN where the Rio Grande ripples —When there's water in its bed;Where no man is ever drunken —All prefer mescal instead;Where no lie is ever uttered —There being nothin' one can trade;Where no marriage vows are broken'Cause the same are never made.
p. 127
HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,And leggins of fancy fringed leather;He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,And he's happy in all kinds of weather;He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,For oh, he can ride like the devil;He is old for his years and he always appearsLike a fellow who's lived on the level;He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the lookOf a man that to fear is a stranger;Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserveFor his wild life of duty and danger.He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its earAt the rate of two-forty a minute;His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,And he hates and despises a coward;Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kindThough he'll fight till by death overpowered.p. 128Hence I say unto you,— give the cowboy his dueAnd be kind, my friends, to his folly;For he's generous and brave though he may not behaveLike your dudes, who are so melancholy.Anonymous.
HE wears a big hat and big spurs and all that,And leggins of fancy fringed leather;He takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots,And he's happy in all kinds of weather;He's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course,For oh, he can ride like the devil;He is old for his years and he always appearsLike a fellow who's lived on the level;He can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the lookOf a man that to fear is a stranger;Yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserveFor his wild life of duty and danger.He gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet,And for fashion, oh well! he's not in it;He can rope a gay steer when he gets on its earAt the rate of two-forty a minute;His saddle's the best in the wild, woolly West,Sometimes it will cost sixty dollars;Ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks,But his knowledge is not got from your scholars;He is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal,And he hates and despises a coward;Yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kindThough he'll fight till by death overpowered.p. 128Hence I say unto you,— give the cowboy his dueAnd be kind, my friends, to his folly;For he's generous and brave though he may not behaveLike your dudes, who are so melancholy.Anonymous.
p. 129
WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,'Tis said — an' we know who 'tis —"Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,An' uses us in his biz."Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,An' you'd sure admit that's right,If you happened — an' unbeknown to us —Around, of a Sunday night.Th' week-day manners is stowed away,Th' jokes an' the card games halts,When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to playA toon — an' it ain't no waltz.It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,It delves through th' toughest crust,It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,Till we've got ter sing — er bust!With pipin' treble the kid starts in,An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"He leads, an' the rafters ring;"Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"We shouts it with force an' vim;p. 130"Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"—That's puttin' it up to Him!We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,But many a time an' oftWhen ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"Our hearts gets kinder soft.An' we makes some promises there an' thenWhich we keeps — till we goes to bed,—That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' menWhat ain't no saints, as I said.Percival Combes.
WE ain't no saints on the Bar-Z ranch,'Tis said — an' we know who 'tis —"Th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch,An' uses us in his biz."Still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss,An' you'd sure admit that's right,If you happened — an' unbeknown to us —Around, of a Sunday night.
Th' week-day manners is stowed away,Th' jokes an' the card games halts,When Dick's ol' fiddle begins to playA toon — an' it ain't no waltz.It digs fer th' things that are out o' sight,It delves through th' toughest crust,It grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight,Till we've got ter sing — er bust!
With pipin' treble the kid starts in,An' Hell! how that kid kin sing!"Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin,"He leads, an' the rafters ring;"Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue,"We shouts it with force an' vim;p. 130"Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"—That's puttin' it up to Him!
We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z,But many a time an' oftWhen ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me,"Our hearts gets kinder soft.An' we makes some promises there an' thenWhich we keeps — till we goes to bed,—That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' menWhat ain't no saints, as I said.Percival Combes.
p. 131
A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hailWhen the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,A long roll of hoofs,— and the earth is a drum!The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;A swift-swirling dust-cloud — a mad hurricaneOf swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sunThe gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!J. C. Davis.
A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hailWhen the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,A long roll of hoofs,— and the earth is a drum!The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;A swift-swirling dust-cloud — a mad hurricaneOf swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sunThe gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!J. C. Davis.
p. 132
I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,—For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,"I'll never wander further till I come to die."But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trillIs, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."p. 133The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.Berton Braley.
I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,—For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I,"I'll never wander further till I come to die."But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.
I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay,But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill,An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.
I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail,But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail.I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trillIs, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."p. 133
The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear,An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill;For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.Berton Braley.
p. 134
HE never made parade of tooth or claw;He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,He was shy of exercisin' it with words.As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,And he labored with the sinners of the trail.Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,And nobody missed the woman very bad,While they'd just a little rather missed the man.But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,And then loped away to bring him back again,For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny borderAnd his business was to hunt for sinful men!So the trail it led him southward all the day,Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,Where the heat had drove the lizards from their playp. 135To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.And the mountains heaved and rippled far awayAnd the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and levelAnd the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.Came the yellow west, and on a far off riseSomething black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyesWhile he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighterAs he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higherThrough the mountains that look into Mexico,And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wireAnd the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fireAnd the canyon walls flung thunder back again,And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbledThat his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slackAnd he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,p. 136Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation backThat convinced the sinner — just above the eye.So the sinner sprawled among the shadows blackWhile the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddleWhile the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.When the sheriff got up early out of bed,How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with redThat came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger saidAnd you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim strangerAnd he labored with the sinners of the trail.Charles Badger Clark, Jr.
HE never made parade of tooth or claw;He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw,He was shy of exercisin' it with words.As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law,All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail;He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger,And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad,Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan,And nobody missed the woman very bad,While they'd just a little rather missed the man.But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad,And then loped away to bring him back again,For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny borderAnd his business was to hunt for sinful men!
So the trail it led him southward all the day,Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake,Where the heat had drove the lizards from their playp. 135To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.And the mountains heaved and rippled far awayAnd the desert broiled as on the devil's prong,But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and levelAnd the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.
Came the yellow west, and on a far off riseSomething black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyesWhile he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries,Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark,And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighterAs he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.
Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higherThrough the mountains that look into Mexico,And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wireAnd the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fireAnd the canyon walls flung thunder back again,And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbledThat his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.
Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slackAnd he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy,p. 136Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation backThat convinced the sinner — just above the eye.So the sinner sprawled among the shadows blackWhile the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddleWhile the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.
When the sheriff got up early out of bed,How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with redThat came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger saidAnd you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale;He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim strangerAnd he labored with the sinners of the trail.Charles Badger Clark, Jr.
p. 137
I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swineAn' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;I've tackled every desert in the land;I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly seeAn' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,An' I never lost my temper till right now.I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' madAs when you up and hands me ginger ale.Anonymous.
I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swineAn' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;
I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath;I've tackled every desert in the land;I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly seeAn' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;
I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow;I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth,An' I never lost my temper till right now.
I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' madAs when you up and hands me ginger ale.Anonymous.
p. 138
I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to knowWhen we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sellCorroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grinWhile others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woeAnd wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.p. 139I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.You know the one you liked the best? — thehang-manlaid him low,—Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,—He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,—Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.I visited the old church yard and there I saw the gravesOf 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.
I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to knowWhen we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.
The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sellCorroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.
Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grinWhile others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woeAnd wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.p. 139
I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.You know the one you liked the best? — thehang-manlaid him low,—Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.
You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,—He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,—Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.
I visited the old church yard and there I saw the gravesOf 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.
2A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.
2A famous saloon in West Texas carried this unusual sign.
p. 140
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 stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain,Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steerAnd 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 hawseAnd 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 heelTill 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,p. 141But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod bootAnd own that his boss is the man.When the devil at rest underneath my vestGets 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.
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 stringAnd the latigoes creak and strain,Yet I've got no fear of an outlaw steerAnd 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 hawseAnd 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 heelTill 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,p. 141But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod bootAnd own that his boss is the man.
When the devil at rest underneath my vestGets 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.
p. 142
'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 holeFor 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 hell,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,p. 143And 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 lineI saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter floatInto 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 brimming 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!p. 144Dawn — 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.
'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 holeFor 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 hell,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,p. 143And 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 lineI saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter floatInto 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 brimming 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!p. 144
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.
p. 145
A-DOWN the road and gun in handComes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;A-lookin' for some place to landComes Whiskey Bill.An' everybody'd like to beTen miles away behind a treeWhen on his joyous, aching spreeStarts Whiskey Bill.The times have changed since you made love,O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!The happy sun grinned up aboveAt Whiskey Bill.And down the middle of the streetThe sheriff comes on toe and feetA-wishin' for one fretful peekAt Whiskey Bill.The cows go grazing o'er the lea,—Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!An' aching thoughts pour in on meOf 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.
A-DOWN the road and gun in handComes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;A-lookin' for some place to landComes Whiskey Bill.An' everybody'd like to beTen miles away behind a treeWhen on his joyous, aching spreeStarts Whiskey Bill.
The times have changed since you made love,O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!The happy sun grinned up aboveAt Whiskey Bill.And down the middle of the streetThe sheriff comes on toe and feetA-wishin' for one fretful peekAt Whiskey Bill.
The cows go grazing o'er the lea,—Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!An' aching thoughts pour in on meOf 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.
p. 146
"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-oakAs fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all readyFur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnicAn' that limb hangin' over him stands about right."Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, 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 temptationAn' many a man would say take it and scoot.p. 147But 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 lasso 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 tidingsSince your last loving letter came eastward to bless."'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,p. 148Remembering your mother when sorely in need.May the angels from heaven now guard you from dangerAnd happiness follow your generous deed.How I long so to see you come into the doorway,As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.May the days be but few when again I can greet you,My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'"Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',I think you'd do better to answer them lines;An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell herThat a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the dayWhen her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,As the tenderest memories came like a blessingFrom the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,p. 149Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;For higher than law is the love of a mother,—It reversed the decision,— the court was adjourned.Sherman D. Richardson.
"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-oakAs fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all readyFur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight;The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnicAn' that limb hangin' over him stands about right.
"Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, 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 temptationAn' many a man would say take it and scoot.p. 147But 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 lasso 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 tidingsSince your last loving letter came eastward to bless.
"'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,p. 148Remembering your mother when sorely in need.May the angels from heaven now guard you from dangerAnd happiness follow your generous deed.How I long so to see you come into the doorway,As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.May the days be but few when again I can greet you,My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.'
"Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin',I think you'd do better to answer them lines;An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso,An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell herThat a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the dayWhen her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away."
O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright,As the tenderest memories came like a blessingFrom the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light.Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning,p. 149Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned;For higher than law is the love of a mother,—It reversed the decision,— the court was adjourned.Sherman D. Richardson.
p. 150
WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,A halt, a swift parley, a pause — then at lastA stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheerAgainst the blue steel of the sky; ghastly whiteEvery on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;Little we love the wild task that we seek;Are they dainty to deal with — the fear-rigid limb,The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;God made us strong to avenge Him the weak —To dispense his sure wages of sin — which is death.We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;p. 151Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,That safety and honor may tread in our path;The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!Margaret Ashmun.
WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!
Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast,Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear,A halt, a swift parley, a pause — then at lastA stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheerAgainst the blue steel of the sky; ghastly whiteEvery on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear;Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!
Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim;Little we love the wild task that we seek;Are they dainty to deal with — the fear-rigid limb,The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek?Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath;God made us strong to avenge Him the weak —To dispense his sure wages of sin — which is death.
We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will,Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide;p. 151Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still,And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide,That safety and honor may tread in our path;The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side,As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath.
We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West —We scatter the wicked like straw!We are the Nemeses, never at rest —We are Justice, and Right, and the Law!Margaret Ashmun.
p. 152
'MID lava rock and glaring sand,'Neath the desert's brassy skies,Bound in the silent chains of deathA border bandit lies.The poppy waves her golden glowAbove the lowly mound;The cactus stands with lances drawn,—A martial guard around.His dreams are free from guile or greed,Or foray's wild alarms.No fears creep in to break his restIn the desert's scorching arms.He sleeps in peace beside the trail,Where the twilight shadows play,Though they watch each night for his returnA thousand miles away.From the mesquite groves a night bird callsWhen the western skies grow red;The sand storm sings his deadly songAbove the sleeper's head.His steed has wandered to the hillsAnd helpless are his hands,p. 153Yet peons curse his memoryAcross the shifting sands.The desert cricket tunes his pipesWhen the half-grown moon shines dim;The sage thrush trills her evening song —But what are they to him?A rude-built cross beside the trailThat follows to the westCasts its long-drawn, ghastly shadowAcross the sleeper's breast.A lone coyote comes by nightAnd sits beside his bed,Sobbing the midnight hours awayWith gaunt, up-lifted head.The lizard trails his aimless wayAcross the lonely mound,When the star-guards of the desertTheir pickets post around.The winter snows will heap their driftsAmong the leafless sage;The pallid hosts of the blizzardWill lift their voice in rage;The gentle rains of early springWill woo the flowers to bloom,And scatter their fleeting incenseO'er the border bandit's tomb.Charles Pitt.
'MID lava rock and glaring sand,'Neath the desert's brassy skies,Bound in the silent chains of deathA border bandit lies.The poppy waves her golden glowAbove the lowly mound;The cactus stands with lances drawn,—A martial guard around.
His dreams are free from guile or greed,Or foray's wild alarms.No fears creep in to break his restIn the desert's scorching arms.He sleeps in peace beside the trail,Where the twilight shadows play,Though they watch each night for his returnA thousand miles away.
From the mesquite groves a night bird callsWhen the western skies grow red;The sand storm sings his deadly songAbove the sleeper's head.His steed has wandered to the hillsAnd helpless are his hands,p. 153Yet peons curse his memoryAcross the shifting sands.
The desert cricket tunes his pipesWhen the half-grown moon shines dim;The sage thrush trills her evening song —But what are they to him?A rude-built cross beside the trailThat follows to the westCasts its long-drawn, ghastly shadowAcross the sleeper's breast.
A lone coyote comes by nightAnd sits beside his bed,Sobbing the midnight hours awayWith gaunt, up-lifted head.The lizard trails his aimless wayAcross the lonely mound,When the star-guards of the desertTheir pickets post around.
The winter snows will heap their driftsAmong the leafless sage;The pallid hosts of the blizzardWill lift their voice in rage;The gentle rains of early springWill woo the flowers to bloom,And scatter their fleeting incenseO'er the border bandit's tomb.Charles Pitt.
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SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divideWhich parts the falling rain,— the eastern slopeSends down its waters to the southern seaThrough Double Mountain's winding length of stream;The western side spreads out into a plain,Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leaguesAt last into the rushing Rio Grande,—See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,The dim reminders of the olden times,The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,The hunt of buffalo and antelope;The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;The call of California's golden flood;The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"Which set our fathers' faces from the east,To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,To people all the regions 'neath the sun —Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.It winds — this old forgotten cattle trail —Through valleys still and silent even now,p. 155Save when the yellow-breasted desert larkCries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,In quivering notes set in a minor key;The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,The desert's blank immutability.The coyote's howl is heard at dark from someLow-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolfThey yelp in concert to the far off stars,Or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rageThat lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.The prairie dogs play sentinel by dayAnd backward slips the badger to his den;The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,A staring buzzard floating in the blue,And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,—Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.All else is mute and dormant; vacantlyThe sun looks down, the days run idly on,The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying fallsSmothering the records of the westward caravans,Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless gravesMake milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.Across the Brazos, Colorado, throughConcho's broad, fair valley, sweeping onBy Abilene it climbs upon the plains,The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastesOf alkali and hunger gaunt and death),—And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.Anon it lingers by a hidden springp. 156That bubbles joy into the wilderness;Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,And went to death and to a nameless grave.For ages and for ages through the pastComanches and Apaches from the northCame sweeping southward, searching for the sun,And charged in mimic combat on the sea.The scions of Montezuma's low-browed racePerhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,Who bore the westward fever in their brain,The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,Braved danger, death, and found a resting placeWhile traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him downTo rest beyond the trail that bears his name;A granite mountain makes his monument;The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,Go gently past his long deserted camps.No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,No more he leads them in the border fight.No more the mavericks, winding stream of hornsp. 157To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songsAnd cries, the pistol's sharp report,— the free,Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.And some men say when dusky night shuts down,Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plainHard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener earsHave heard from deep within the bordering hillsThe tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,The rumble of a moving wagon train,Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,—On westward, westward, as they in olden timeWent rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.John A. Lomax.
SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divideWhich parts the falling rain,— the eastern slopeSends down its waters to the southern seaThrough Double Mountain's winding length of stream;The western side spreads out into a plain,Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leaguesAt last into the rushing Rio Grande,—See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,The dim reminders of the olden times,The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,The hunt of buffalo and antelope;The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;The call of California's golden flood;The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"Which set our fathers' faces from the east,To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,To people all the regions 'neath the sun —Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.
It winds — this old forgotten cattle trail —Through valleys still and silent even now,p. 155Save when the yellow-breasted desert larkCries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,In quivering notes set in a minor key;The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,The desert's blank immutability.The coyote's howl is heard at dark from someLow-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolfThey yelp in concert to the far off stars,Or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rageThat lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.The prairie dogs play sentinel by dayAnd backward slips the badger to his den;The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,A staring buzzard floating in the blue,And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,—Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.All else is mute and dormant; vacantlyThe sun looks down, the days run idly on,The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying fallsSmothering the records of the westward caravans,Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless gravesMake milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.
Across the Brazos, Colorado, throughConcho's broad, fair valley, sweeping onBy Abilene it climbs upon the plains,The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastesOf alkali and hunger gaunt and death),—And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.Anon it lingers by a hidden springp. 156That bubbles joy into the wilderness;Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,And went to death and to a nameless grave.For ages and for ages through the pastComanches and Apaches from the northCame sweeping southward, searching for the sun,And charged in mimic combat on the sea.The scions of Montezuma's low-browed racePerhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,Who bore the westward fever in their brain,The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,Braved danger, death, and found a resting placeWhile traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.
Brave old Mackenzie long has laid him downTo rest beyond the trail that bears his name;A granite mountain makes his monument;The northers, moaning o'er the low divide,Go gently past his long deserted camps.No more his rangers guard the wild frontier,No more he leads them in the border fight.No more the mavericks, winding stream of hornsp. 157To Kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songsAnd cries, the pistol's sharp report,— the free,Wild days in Texas by the Rio Grande.And some men say when dusky night shuts down,Dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star,One sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plainHard by Mackenzie's trail; and keener earsHave heard from deep within the bordering hillsThe tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows,The rumble of a moving wagon train,Sometimes far echoes of a frontier song;Then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,—On westward, westward, as they in olden timeWent rangeing o'er the old Mackenzie Trail.John A. Lomax.
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