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Below: Chronology of Kiskaddon's Work and Life More about Cowboy Miner Productions Index
of poems in Western Poems
About Open Range; Collected Poems of Bruce Kiskaddon Open Range; Collected Poems of Bruce Kiskaddon separate page
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Selected Poems by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)
An Old Western Town
"Augerin"
All Dressed Up
Alone
The Army Mule
The Balky Horse
The Bell Mare
The Broncho Twister's Prayer
The Bundle Stiff
The Bunk House Mirror
The Chuck Wagon
The Cow Boy's Dream
The Cowboys Christmas Dance
The Creak of the Leather
Doing Her Best
Drinkin' Water
The Drouth
The Duel
The Dutch Oven
An Experiment
Forgotten
The General Store
Ghost Canyon Trail
The Ghosts at the Diamond Bar
A Habit
Half Broke
He Didn't Belong
Her Colt
Her Neighbor's Kids
His Old Clothes
Hook 'em Cow
Hosses and Flies
How a Cowpuncher Rode
Introductory
It Might Have Been Me or It Might Have Been You
Judgment Day
Long Eared Bull
The Long Horn Speaks
The Midwinter Bath
Movin' to Winter Range
The Old Night Hawk separate page
The Old Time Christmas
On Foot
Pullin' Leather
The Quitter
Rain
Second Guard
The Stampede
Startin' Out
Summer Time
A Tangle
The Tangle
That Letter
That Little Blue Roan
They Can Take It
They Don't Thank You
Thinkin' it Over
The Time to Decide
A Tough Start
The Veiled Rider
When They've Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall
When You're Throwed
Winter Time
You Never Tell That
The Christmas Tree (separate page)
Merry Christmas (separate page)The Long Horn Speaks (illustrated)
The Old Night Hawk (poem)
Concernin' Bill (story)...and more
...and more
IntroductoryThe following poem was written as in introduction to Rhymes of the Ranges published in 1924 by Bruce Kiskaddon.
These are just a few rhymes of old friends and old times,
And I hope before I am through –
Just once in a while they will bring a broad smile,
To the face of some old buckaroo.Wherever he worked in the days that are past,
On the mountain, the plain or the valley,
What matters is now if he tied hard and fast,
Or tumbled his steer with a dally.If he wrangled the bunch, if he rode gentle strings,
If he topped off the wild ones that shimmy –
If he rode with his leathers through centre fire rings,
Or sat on a double-rigged rimmy.If he worked for big outfits far out on the plains,
Where they never had use for a packer,
Or back in the hills in the snow and the rains,
With the regular old greasy sacker.If he worked as a drifter and trusted to luck,
If he managed a bunch of his own;
If he cooked at the wagon and put up the chuck,
Or held down a line camp alone.They are plain simple tales, of the round-ups and trails,
When he worked on the range with the cattle;
Not of wild woolly nights, nor of gambling hall fights,
But the days and the nights in the saddle.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
When They've Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall
Though you're not exactly blue,
Yet you don't feel like you do
In the winter, or the long hot summer days.
For your feelin's and the weather
Seem to sort of go together,
And you're quiet in the dreamy autumn haze.
When the last big steer is goaded
Down the chute, and safely loaded;
And the summer crew has ceased to hit the ball;
When a fellow starts to draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shipping cattle in the fall.
Only two men left a standin'
On the job for winter brandin',
And your pardner, he's a loafing by your side.
With a bran-new saddle creakin',
But you never hear him speakin',
And you feel it's goin' to be a quiet ride.
But you savvy one another
For you know him like a brother—
He is friendly but he's quiet, that is all;
For he' thinkin' while he's draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.
And the saddle hosses stringin'
At an easy walk a swingin'
In behind the old chuck wagon movin' slow.
They are weary gaunt and jaded
With the mud and brush they've waded,
And they settled down to business long ago.
Not a hoss is feelin' sporty,
Not a hoss is actin' snorty;
In the spring the brutes was full of buck and bawl;
But they 're gentle, when they're draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.
And the cook leads the retreat
Perched high upon his wagon seat,
With his hat pulled 'way down furr'wd on his head.
Used to make that old team hustle,
Now he hardly moves a muscle,
And a feller might imagine he was dead,
'Cept his old cob pipe is smokin'
As he lets his team go pokin',
Hittin' all the humps and hollers in the road.
No, the cook has not been drinkin'—
He's just settin' there and thinkin'
'Bout the places and the people that he knowed
And you watch the dust a trailin'
And two little clouds a sailin',
And a big mirage like lakes and timber tall.
And you're lonesome when you're draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.
When you make the camp that night,
Though the fire is burnin' bright,
Yet nobody seems to have a lot to say,
In the spring you sung and hollered,
Now you git your supper swallered
And you crawl into your blankets right away.
Then you watch the stars a shinin'
Up there in the soft blue linin'
And you sniff the frosty night air clear and cool.
You can hear the night hoss shiftin'
As your memory starts driftin'
To the little village where you went to school.
With its narrow gravel streets
And the kids you used to meet,
And the common where you used to play baseball.
Now you're far away and draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon
For they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.
And your school-boy sweetheart too,
With her eyes of honest blue—
Best performer in the old home talent show.
You were nothin' but a kid
But you liked her, sure you did—
Lord! And that was over thirty years ago.
Then your memory starts to roam
From Old Mexico to Nome.
From the Rio Grande to the Powder River,
Of the things you seen and done—
Some of them was lots of fun
And a lot of other things they make you shiver.
'Bout that boy by name of Reid
That was killed in a stampede—
'Twas away up north, you helped 'em dig his grave,
And your old friend Jim the boss
That got tangled with a hoss,
And the fellers couldn't reach in time to save.
You was there when Ed got his'n—
Boy that killed him's still in prison,
And old Lucky George, he's rich and livin' high.
Poor old Tom, he come off worst,
Got his leg broke, died of thirst
Lord but that must be an awful way to die.
Then them winters at the ranches,
And the old time country dances—
Everybody there was sociable and gay.
Used to lead 'em down the middle
Jest a prancin' to the fiddle—
Never thought of goin' home till the break of day.
No! there ain't no chance for sleepin',
For the memories come a creepin',
And sometimes you think you hear the voices call;
When a feller starts a draggin'
To the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.
From Kiskaddon's 1924 version in Rhymes of the Ranges.
Alone
The hills git awful quiet, when you have to camp alone.
It’s mighty apt to set a feller thinkin’.
You always half way waken when a hoss shoe hits a stone,
Or you hear the sound of hobble chains a clinkin’.
It is then you know the idees that you really have in mind.
You think about the things you’ve done and said.
And you sometimes change the records that you nearly always find
In the back of almost every cow boy’s head.
It gives a man a sorter different feelin’ in his heart.
And he sometimes gits a little touch of shame,
When he minds the times and places that he didn’t act so smart,
And he knows himself he played a sorry game.
It kinda makes you see yourself through other people’s eyes.
And mebby so yore pride gits quite a fall.
When yore all alone and thinkin’, well, you come to realize
You’re a mighty common feller after all.
The Balky Hoss
The pleasant recollections if the ones
that mostly last,
But there’s sometimes other memories
come a creepin’ from the past.
How you lost your summer’s wages,
on a horse you thought could run.
How a big buck stood and watched
you when you didn’t have a gun.
Then one evening at a shindig,
you thought you was doin’ fine
Till some people come and told you
you was gittin’ out of line.
You rode ten miles to a dance once.
When you got there you was sore.
You had got your dates all tangled.
It had been the night before.
You have got some recollections
of some gal that let you down,
But remember when your hoss balked
on the main street right in town.
Yes, you had a sneaky feelin’
that you mebby wasn’t boss
When he turned around and throwed
his head across the other hoss.
You would like to took a rifle and
have downed him with some slugs.
He was lookin’ at you pig eyed
standin’ crosswise in the tugs.
You hated the old critter
till you wisht that he was dead.
You would like to took a hammer
and just knocked him in the head.
Then the crowd all gathered round
you fer to git in on the show.
Every one of them could tell you
what to do to make him go.
There was some that said he’d ort
to be jest tickled with a switch.
Some said beat him with a stay chain,
others said to git a twitch.
Some said to git a jocky stick
and that would help perhaps
While others said to put one ear
inside the head stall straps.
Some said punch him in the belly.
Others said pick up his feet.
And one allowed he ort to
have a little bite to eat.
The tough guys said to choke him
and to shut off all his wind.
Or mebbyso to knock him down
and let him up ag’in.
One said that he could start him
with some paper and a match.
Or put a rope behind his knees
and saw to make him stretch.
Oh yes, there was a hundred things
they wanted you to try.
One was to take tobacker juice
and squirt it in his eye.
You tried to keep your temper.
You was shakin’, you was pale.
Every now and then some wise guy
asked you if he was fer sale.
But it wasn’t no use tryin’
and your temper got plum lost
When some feller on the side walk
yelled and asked how much he cost.
And when you got to hatin’
every body in your heart,
The hoss got tired waitin’,
straightened out and made a start.
It surely was a big relief
to git out on the road.
Got some cuss words off your stummick;
eased your mind quite a load.
You swore to God you’d never drive
that hoss to town ag’in.
You swapped him to another man.
You thought he didn’t know.
But he hadn’t any trouble gittin’
that old hoss to go.
It sort of set you thinkin’
and the idee come to you,
That there might be balky hosses,
but there’s balky drivers too.
The Broncho Twister’s Prayer
This poem was recited at Bruce Kiskaddon’s funeral.
It was a little grave yard
on the rolling foot hill plains:
That was bleached by the sun in summer,
swept by winter’s snows and rains;
There a little bunch of settlers
gathered on an autumn day
‘Round a home made lumber coffin,
with their last respects to pay.
Weary men that wrung their living
from that hard and arid land,
And beside them stood their women;
faded wives with toil worn hands.
But among us stood one figure
that was wiry, straight and trim.
Every one among us know him.
‘Twas the broncho twister, Jim.
Just a bunch of hardened muscle
tempered with a savage grit,
And he had the reputation
of a man that never quit.
He had helped to build the coffin,
he had helped to dig the grave;
And his instinct seemed to teach him
how he really should behave.
Well, we didn’t have a preacher,
and the crowd was mighty slim.
Just two women with weak voices
sang an old time funeral hymn.
That was all we had for service.
The old wife was sobbing there.
For her husband of a life time,
laid away without prayer.
She looked at the broncho twister,
then she walked right up to him.
Put one trembling arm around him and said,
"Pray. Please won’t you Jim?"
You could see his figure straighten,
and a look of quick surprise
Flashed across his swarthy features,
and his hard dare devil eyes.
He could handle any broncho,
and he never dodged a fight.
‘Twas the first time any body ever saw
his face turn white.
But he took his big sombrero
off his rough and shaggy head,
How I wish I could remember what
that broncho peeler said.
No, he wasn’t educated.
On the range his youth was spent.
But the maker of creation
know exactly what he meant.
He looked over toward the mountains
where the driftin’ shadows played.
Silence must have reined in heaven
when they heard the way Jim prayed.
Years have passed since that small funeral
in that lonely grave yard lot.
But it gave us all a memory, and a lot
of food for thought.
As we stood beside the coffin,
and the freshly broken sod,
With that reckless broncho breaker
talkin’ heart to heart with God.
When the prayer at last was over,
and the grave had all been filled,
On his rough, half broken pony,
he rode off toward the hills.
Yes, we stood there in amazement
as we watched him ride away,
For no words could ever thank him.
There was nothing we could say.
Since we gathered in that grave yard,
it’s been nearly fifty years.
With their joys and with their sorrows,
with their hopes and with their fears.
But I hope when I have finished,
and they lay me with the dead,
Some one says a prayer above me,
like that broncho twister said.
Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
The Long Horn Speaks
The old long horn looked at the prize winning steer,
And he grumbled, "What sort of a thing is this here?
He ain't got no laigs and his body is big,
I sort of suspicion he's crossed with a pig.
Now me! I can run, I can gore, I can kick,
But that feller's too clumsy for all of them tricks.They're breedin' such critters and callin' em Steers!
Why the horns that he's got ain't as long as my ears.
I cain't figger what he'd have done in my day.
They wouldn't have stuffed me with grain and with hay;
Nor have polished my horns and have fixed up my hoofs,
And slept me on beddin' in under the roofs.Who'd have curried his hide and have fuzzed up his tail?
Not none of them riders that drove the long trail.
They'd have found mighty quick jest how fur her could jump
When they jerked a few doubles of rope off his rump.
And to me it occurs he would not look so slick
With his tail full of burrs and his hide full of ticks.I wonder jest what that fat feller would think,
If he lived on short grass and went miles fer a drink.
And wintered outdoors in the sleet and the snow.
He wouldn't look much like he does at the show.
I wouldn't be like him; no, not if I could.
I caint figger out why they think he's so good.His short laigs and his white baby face--
I could finish him off in a fight or a race.
They've his whole fam'ly hist'ry in writin', and still,
He ain't fit fer nothin' exceptin' to kill.
And all of them judges that thinks they're so wise,
They look at that critter and give him first prize."
Drinkin’ Water
When a feller once comes to a pond or a tank,
It is better to ride out a ways from the bank.
Fer the water is clearer out there as a rule,
And besides it is deep and a little more cool.And out toward deep water, you notice somehow,
You miss a whole lot of that flavor of cow.
You can dip up a drink with the brim of yore hat,
And water makes purty good drinkin’ at that.You mebby spill some down the front of yore shirt,
But any old waddy knows that doesn’t hurt.
There may be some bugs and a couple insecks
But it all goes the same down a cow puncher’s neck.I know there is plenty of folks would explain
Why such water had ort to be filtered or strained.
Sech people as that never suffered from thirst,
Or they’d think of it later and drink it down first.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
The Duel
Old Pan Handle Johnny was quick on the draw,
And a wonderful shot was old Billy McGraw.
Old Billy McGraw he expresed the belief
That Pan Handle Johnny was eatin his beef.Well, Johnny got mad when he heard about that,
and he started to look fer where Billy was at.
And all kinds of wagers was goin’ right soon,
When the boys laid their bets in the Lone Star saloon.We knowed when they’d finished they’d only be one,
And some fellers bet that they wouldn’t be none.
The only thing gave ‘em reason to bet,
Was the lay of the land when the two fellers met.If they fought at close quarters or after ‘twas night,
Well, Pan Handle Johnny would finish the fight.
But take it in daylight at thirty five paces
Old Billy could shoot the spots out of the aces.They was ten steps apart when them two fellers met.
The sun had gone down but it wasn’t dark yet.
Johnny fired four shots before Billy could draw.
Three of ‘em went wild and one shot hit McGraw.Old Billy shot once and he knocked Johnny dead
Then he deemized plum sudden the bystanders said.
And the fellers all won that had bet on a draw
Between Pan Handle Johnny and Billy McGraw.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
Forgotten
Yes, he used to be a cow hoss
that was young and strong and fleet
Now he stands alone, forgotten,
in the winter snow and sleet.
Fer his eyes is dim and holler
and his head is turnin’ gray,
He has got too old to foller—
"Jest a hoss that’s had his day."They’ve forgotten how once he packed ‘em
at a easy swingin’ lope.
How he braced his sturdy shoulders
when he set back on a rope.
Didn’t bar no weight nor distance;
answered every move and word,
Though his sides were white with lather
while he held the millin’ herd.Now he’s stiff and old and stumbles,
and he’s lost the strength and speed
That once took him through the darkness,
‘round the point of a stampede
And his legs is scarred and battered;
both the muscle and the bone.
He is jest a wore out cow hoss
so they’ve turned him out alone.They have turned him out to winter
best he can amongst the snow.
There without a friend and lonesome,
Do you think he doesn’t know?
Through the hours of storm and darkness
he had time to think a lot.
That hoss may have been forgotten,
but you bet he aint forgot.He stands still. He aint none worried,
fer he knows he’s played the game
He’s got nothin’ to back up from.
He’s been square and aint ashamed.
Fer no matter where they put him
he was game to do his share
Well, I think more of the pony
than the folks that left him there.From Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems, 1947
How a Cow Puncher Rode
I have often been asked by the people I knowed,
To tell ‘em the way that a cow puncher rode.
Now them cow hands they didn’t all ride jest the same.
They rode a’most every old style you could name.Of course, most of the hands that was workin’ around,
Would ride with long stirrups, and straight up and down.
Some rode with ‘em medium, some rode with ‘em short.
In fact there was stirrups, and len’ths of all sorts.I know of one feller that quarreled with his brother,
Because he rode with one stirrup longer than t’other.
Some stuck their laigs foreward and held their heels low.
Some held their laigs back and turned down their toe.Some held their feet still, but some figity cuss
Would keep kickin’ his feet and makin’ a fuss.
There was some that set straight,
but there’s others that humped
Till they set on their hoss as a sort of a lump.There was some of them riders kep’ close to their seat.
While others was half of the time on their feet.
Some bogged on the cantel and rode away back,
While others would jig like they rode on a tack.There was some kep’ their elbows down close to their side.
And others ag’in that would let ‘em spread wide.
While some of ‘em flopped up their elbows so high,
You would think mebbyso they was tryin’ to fly.There was them that would ride with their hand on the horn.
Some looked plum contented and some looked forlorn.
There was them, fer some reason I couldn’t explain,
Whirled a piece of their rope or the end of a rein.There was some of them fellers set off to one side.
In fact I can’t tell how a cow boy did ride.
When I figger it out, there is only one guess.
They rode like they thought they could do it the best.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
Judgment Day
Once I dremt while I was sleepin’
That the earth had passed away,
And the boss of all creation
Made a work on Judgment Day,
They was folks of every color
They was folks of every breed
And they cut’ em into bunches
"Cordin’ to their race and creed.Top hand angels done the cuttin’
They knowed how to handle things,
Some would change and help the others
While they’d smoke and rest their wings.
And I seed a bunch of fellers
They was holdin’ on the side.
Grazin’ soter loose and easy
And the angels workin’ wide.He had judged and classed the others
By a book of rules he used,
Then he called out to the angels
"Now bring on the buckaroos!"
Angels bunched and shoved ‘em forward,
Some surprised but not dismayed.
Amblin’ up to face the judgment
Came that grizzled wild brigade.Each one pulled his hat on tighter
That they done from habit’s force,
It’s a trick of most rough riders
When they mount a buckin’ horse.
Some was young and some was older,
Some walked with a limpin’ stride.
Some still had the high healed boots on
They was wearin’ when they died.They all stood in line to answer
Fer the way they’d spent their days.
And they faced the boss of Heaven
With a cool and level gaze.
And the boss of all creation
Give them boys a kerful look,
And sez to a top hand angel,
"Bring me out that range law book."Well, I turned and asked an angel
Why the judgment book was changed,
And they judged that bunch of cow boys
By the laws that ruled the range.
And he answered very solemn
That the reason was because
You could never judge a cow boy
By another feller’s laws.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
Pullin’ Leather
Yes, a cow boy has his troubles,
and he shore is out of luck,
Out a dozen miles from nowheres
and his hoss begins to buck.
And he picks a place to practice
on some mighty ugly grounds,
For you’d land amongst the cactus
if he ever got you down.So you aim to keep a straddle
and you’ll ride him if you can,
‘Elst they’ll be a dehorned saddle,
or they’ll be a one armed man.
You don’t look like much vaquero,
he is floppin’ yore shirt tails.
You have lost yore old sombrero
and you’ve broke some finger nails.People say that pullin’ leather
don’t show ridin’ skill. That’s true.
But you’d like to stick together
till the argyment is through.
When you’re a slippin’ and a slidin’,
you’ll admit at all events
If it doesn’t show good ridin’
that it shows a heap of sense.When you’re throwed it ain’t so pleasant
with a dozen miles to walk.
No there ain’t nobody present,
and the hoss of course cain’t talk.
You are hangin’ on and prayin’.
You ain’t makin’ no grand stand.
You jest aim to keep a stayin’
and you’ll do the best you can.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
That Letter
I rode to that box a settin’ on a post beside the trail,
That our outfit used fur getting’ all their messages and mail.
There I got a little letter and the envelope was pink,
It shore set me feelin’ better but it soter made me think.
Yes the feelin’ was surprisin’ onderneath my Stetson hat.
I could feel my hair a risin’ like the bristles of a cat.Well I tore the letter open and I read it through and through.
All the time I was a hopin’ I would savvy what to do.
Men is quick upon the trigger, comes to tangle ups and fights,
But a woman, you can’t figger what she means by what she writes.
It was purty and invitin’ like a sunny day in spring,
She had done a heap of writin’ but she hadn’t said a thing.Now, when men folks start to writin’ you can mostly onderstand,
And the stuff that they’re a sightin’ stands out plain jest like a brand
They don’t never do no playin’ they’ve a sort of sudden way,
For they start right in by sayin’ what they started out to say.
Men is given to expressin’ what they mean, right then and there,
But a woman keeps you guessin’ till your mind goes everywhere.Fer a spell I’d do some thinkin’ then I’d start again and read;
I kept frownin’ and a blinkin’ till at last I got her lead.
In that letter there was lurkin’ jest one simple plain idee.
When I got my mind a workin’ it was plain enough to see.
Fer she said her and her mother, come a Saturday next week
Would be over with her brother to the dance on Turkey Creek.On the start, you see, I never had no notice what she meant.
She had fixed it up right clever in the way the letter went.
Man! I shore did whoop and beller when the idee hit me fair.
She would come without no feller and she aimed to meet me there.
It shore made me like her better for that bashful gal of mine,
Went and built that whole durned letter, jest to write that single line.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
The Old Time Christmas
I liked the way we used to do,
when cattle was plenty and folks was few.
The people gathered frum far and near, and
they barbacued a big fat steer.
The kids tried stayin' awake because,
they reckoned they might ketch Santa Claus.
Next mornin' you'd wake 'em up to see,
what he'd been and put on the Christmas tree.It was Christmas then fer the rich and pore,
and every ranch was an open door.
The waddy that came on a company hoss
was treated the same as the owner and boss.
Nobody seemed to have a care,
you was in among friends or you wasn't there.
For every feller in them days knew
to behave hisself as a man should do.Some had new boots, which they'd shore admire
when they warmed their feet in front of the fire.
And the wimmin folks had new clothes too,
but not like the wimmin of these days do.
Sometimes a drifter came riding in,
some feller that never was seen agin.
And each Christmas day as the years went on
we used to wonder where they'd gone.I like to recall the Christmas night.
The tops of the mountains capped with white.
The stars so bright they seemed to blaze,
and the foothills swum in a silver haze.
Them good old days is past and gone.
The time and the world and the change goes on.
And you cain't do things like you used to do
when cattle was plenty and folks was few.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
The Cowboys Christmas Dance
Winter is here and it aint so nice tendin'
the feeders and choppin' ice.
Nasty weather to stir about.
Cold in the morning's a gittin' out.
Puts a sting in your ears and nose;
gotta watch out or you'll freeze yore toes.
Blowin' your breath on a frosty bit.
Makes you feel like you want to quit.You like one part of it any way,
That's when you git yore Christmas day.
Plenty of feed and a right good chance
to shake yore feet at a country dance.
Fiddles a playin' jest watch 'em go.
"Aleman left an' doce do!"
Don't keer none for the cold and storms.
Dancin' around you soon git warm.Folks all in from the hills and flats.
Ears tied up onder their hats.
Tough on the horses they drove and rode
shiverin' there with their backs all bowed.
It's the only time that folks has to spare
so the hosses had got to stand their share.
You turn 'em out when they git rode down
but you got to keep workin' the year around.Winter time but it aint so bad.
When it comes around yore sorter glad.
Even though it's nasty weather
folks has a chance to git together.
And plenty of folks that was half way mad
found out their neighbors was not as bad
Yes lots of trouble is checked in advance
by a sociable crowd at a Christmas dance.Reprinted with permission from Classic Rhymes by Bruce Kiskaddon, Cowboy Miner Productions, 1998
The Chuck Wagon
She ain't what she was in the days of her glory.
Fer years she has stood in the cotton wood shade.
But if she could talk, she could tell you some story,
Of her days on the range, and the part that she played.The old mess box built in her back, is still standin'.
But the canvas is gone that we put on her bows.
Each year she went out fer the round up and brandin',
And came back from the beef hunt along with the snows.When we got on the camp ground I sure did admire,
How the cook and the wrangler would unhitch the team.
Then they throwed the old dutch oven into the fire--
Them biscuits he baked I can taste in my dreams.With the boys sleepin' 'round her she looked sort of lonely,
Like a small country church in a little grave yard.
But she looked plenty good when you slid off your pony,
When you came into camp fer to wake the next guard.But the wagon was home and we gathered around her'
Chuck riders came in when the pickin's was short;
Some of 'em would eat till they'd mighty nigh founder--
It was there in the night we held kangaroo court.I liked them old hands with their gaze cool and level.
They furnished the subject fer many a tale.
It was little they feared either man, beast or devil,
Them riders that follered the chuck wagon's trail.But the time I liked best, as I clearly remember;
Is one every cow puncher likes to recall.
When the work was all finished along in November,
And he follered the chuck wagon home in the fall.Bruce Kiskaddon
This poem is included in our collection of Chuckwagon poems.
It Might Have Been Me or It Might Have Been You
You have heard lots of stories how cow boys behaved,
There was some of them reckless and some of them brave;
And some jest plain waddies that worked with the crew.
Such as might have been me or they might have been you.
But the boys acted different I generally found,
If there chanced to be people hangin' around,
Than they did out alone where nobody could see.
Was it that way with you? It was that way with me.
On the round up a man with a hoss that would buck
Didn't seem to consider he'd met with bad luck.
While the boys helped him saddle he'd laff and he'd joke.
He would pull down his hat and he'd roll up a smoke.
His head might be poundin' in onder his shirt,
But he'd pull off the blind and he'd give him the quirt.
And he'd ride or get throwed like a real buckaroo.
Yes, that might a been me or it might a been you.
But out in a water lot some where alone
A boy trapped a fresh hoss, a big mean lookin' roan.
How gentle and easy he got in the saddle
Jest to see how he'd act when he once got a straddle.
He eased him around the corral on a walk
And give him an ear full of kind gentle talk
He sure didn't hurry although it was late.
He slid off real careful and opened the gate.
He set about like he was ridin' on eggs.
And he felt him out light with the calves of his legs.
Yes he jest stole a ride fer the fust mile or two.
Well, that might a been me and it might a been you.
Bruce Kiskaddon
His Old Clothes
The chuck wagon trailer had just got his card
To attend the spring round up. He stood in the yard
And studied a minute and scratched his gray head,
Then brought in a gunny sack out of the shed.
He emptied it out on the clean kitchen floor
And took a good look at the clothes he once wore.
Yes tehre was the hat, stained with sweat and with grease
And some faded worn Levis that bagged at the knees.
A brush coat and chaps that were scarred up and wrinkled
And a pair of big spurs that still jingled and tinkled.
A pair of old boots and a heavy wool shirt,
Two long hoggin' strings and a Mexican quirt.
He grinned mighty cheerful and said to his wife,
"I'll give them old waddies the start of their life.
I'll wear my old chaps and my boots and cross L's
I was wunst a brush popper, a rider from Hell."
His wife sure looked wild when she heard what he said.
She begun to get mad, she was sure turnin' red;
Of a sudden she changed and she said with a smile,
"Sure, put 'em on Daddy and wear 'em a while."
The first was the shirt. How that old waddy swore.
It jest wouldn't go on and it ripped and it tore.
The boots they jest wouldn't go onto his feet
And the old Levi pants was too small in the seat.
In the last twenty years he had gained forty poing
And the old leather brush coat it wouldn't go 'round.
Now chaps on a street suit don't look very well
And them low oxford shoes isn't built for cross L's.
If he wore decent clothes he could not wear the hat
So his plan to play cow boy was finished at that.
He would have to go dressed like he always had done
Though to wear his old outfit would sure have been fun.
But his woman she really surprised him at that
Fer she got him new boots and a new Stetson hat.
He got in the front seat but she drove the car.
You know how old fellers with younger wives are.
When he got to the round up he met all the boys
And had him a day such as old folks enjoys.
He looked 'em all over and right then he knew
They had all wore the clothes that their wives told them to.
Bruce Kiskaddon
All Dressed UpThings is pickin' up as most folks knows,
So I sent to town fer to git new clo'es.
Some onderwear and a big hat box,
A couple of shirts and a passel of socks.
Some overalls and other truck,
Three red bandannys throwed in fer luck.
My boots aint new but they'll do right well,
I reckon I'll make them last a spell.
I'll be the pride of the whole derned spread.
With a fust class Stetson on my head.
A bran new slicker tied on behind--
It's strange how yore clo'se improves your mind.
Nice new clo'es purtects the hide
And sorter contents a man inside.
Clo'es does a heap toward makin' the man.
Try goin' without and you'll onderstand.Bruce Kiskaddon
Second Guard
You are sleepin' in your hot roll when some body kicks your tarp.
When you roll out of your blankets why the wind feels cold and sharp.
It was Tex come in to wake you, but he needn't kick so hard.
Ain't no need to kill a feller 'cause he's pulled fer second guard.
Johnnie's over at the fire with the old black coffee pot.
Coffee like all hands admire, plenty stout and plenty hot.
You both drink a shot of coffee and you roll and light a smoke.
Then you crawl up on your night hoss. Neither one of you has spoke.
You relieve old Lonesome Barry, him that's got the squeaky voice.
Allus singin' Annie Larry, Lord he makes a rotten noise.
Well, you sing "The Texas Ranger" and you give your hoss the rein.
Johnny starts around to meet you singin' "Good Bye Lizy Jane."
Your old hoss walks slow and steady, with his nose close to the ground.
Though your ears is cocked and ready, still you don't git nary sound,
'Cept the creakin' of your saddle and the singin' of your pard,
And the breathin' of the cattle, as you ride the second guard.
Stars is out so bright they're blazin' and sometimes you see one fall.
Joshuas a standin' 'round you like old men that's bent and tall.
You can see the old moon risin' and you hear the sand rats play.
Second guard is awful lonesome, but it's int'restin' some way.
Now you wish there was a country were they allus had good feed.
Where there ain't no buckin' hosses and the cattle don't stampede.
Pretty women and good likker, and where shootin cranks, ain't barred.
Where the cooks all make good biscuits, and there ain't no second guard.
Bruce Kiskaddon
The Midwinter Bath
I'm home plenty early, I reckon--
It's too soon to start cookin' grub,
So before I begin with my bakin'
I'll take me a bath in that tub.
I'll build up a plenty big fire,
And git all the kittles well filled;
If there's one thing that I don't admire,
It's gittin' in water that's chilled.
That wind is some cold and plum nosey--
It's comin' right in through the cracks--
But I'll fix the place up warm and cozy,
And stuff that broke window with sacks.
Wow! Wow! But it sure makes you shiver--
A man wouldn't really suppose
It would chill him plum into the liver,
The minute he takes off his clothes.
Now, there is old Billy McRady--
He's eighty, and got his third wife.
She's quite a respectable lady--
And old Bill never bathed in his life.
When did I bathe last -- I remember,
Although I ain't put the date down--
I had one the first of November,
The last time I went into town.
It's weak'nin', a man can't deny it,
But I'm takin' a chance, anyway;
It won't hurt a feller to try it,
For this here is Volunteen day.
I'll git that new bar of Fels Napthy
And doll myself sweet an' clean,
And come out all purty an' happy--
Like somebody's sweet Volunteen.
Ouch! Say, but my feet must be tender--
But then a man should understand,
When he feels of the water, remember,
That his feet ain't as tough as his hand.I don't think it hurts your endurance,
Except when a feller just soaks,
For baths is a common occurrence
Among the society folks.
The men, kids and the women
Put on little short-legged skirts,
And goes in the ocean a swimmin';
They don't reckon as how that it hurts.
I've read about them in "The Tattler,"
Great goodness! jest look at them heels;
I'm sheddin' my hide like a rattler--
It's turrible how a man peels,
I'v got some clean under-clothes ready,
But the others is still warm for me;
I'll got at this thing sort of steady--
Too much of it mightn't agree.
Les' see, now-November, December--
And this here is Volunteen Day;
I'll mark down the date and remember
I'm good 'till the first of next May.
It may cause a feller to weaken,
It may sort of shorten Life's path;
But I'll tell you right here, plainly speakin',
I sure do enjoy a good bath!
Bruce Kiskaddon
This poem is included in our Cowboy Valentine and Love Poetry collection
The Time to Decide
Did you ever stand on the ledges,
On the brink of the great plateau
And look from their jagged edges
On the country that lay below?
When your vision met no resistance
And nothing to stop your gaze,
Till the mountain peaks in the distance
Stood wrapped in a purple haze.
On the winding water courses
And the trails on the mountain sides,
Where you guided your patient horses
On your long and lonesome rides.
When you saw Earth's open pages
And you seemed to understand
As you gazed on the work of ages,
Rugged and rough, but grand.
There, the things that you thought were strongest
And the things that you thought were great,
And for which you had striven longest
Seemed to carry but little weight.
While the things that were always nearer,
The things that you thought were small;
Seemed to stand out grander and clearer.
As you looked from the mountain wall.
While you're gazing on such a vision
And your outlook is clear and wide,
If you have to make a decision,
That's the time and place to decide
Although you return to the city
And mingle again with the throng;
Though your heart may be softened by pity
Or bitter from strife and wrong.
Though others should laugh in derision,
And the voice of the past grow dim;
Yet, stick to the cool decision
That you made on the mountain's rim.
The Creak of the Leather
It's likely that you can remember
A corral at the foot of a hill
Some mornin' along in December
When the air was so cold and so still.
When the frost lay as light as a feather
And the stars had jest blinked out and gone.
Remember the creak of the leather
As you saddled your hoss in the dawn.When the glow of the sunset had faded
And you reached the corral after night
On a hoss that was weary and jaded
And so hungry yore belt wasn't tight.
You felt about ready to weaken
You knowed you had been a long way
But the old saddle still kep a creakin'
Like it did at the start of the day.Perhaps you can mind when yore saddle
Was standin' up high at the back
And you started a whale of a battle
When you got the old pony untracked.
How you and the hoss stuck together
Is a thing you caint hardly explain
And the rattle and creak of the leather
As it met with the jar and the strain.You have been on a stand in the cedars
When the air was so quiet and dead
Not even some flies and mosquitoes
To buzz and make noise 'round yore head.
You watched for wild hosses or cattle
When the place was as silent as death
But you heard the soft creak of the saddle
Every time the hoss took a breath.And when the round up was workin'
All day you had been ridin' hard
There wasn't a chance of your shirkin'
You was pulled for the second guard
A sad homesick feelin' come sneakin'
As you sung to the cows and the moon
And you heard the old saddle a creakin'
Along to the sound of the tune.There was times when the sun was shore blazin'
On a perishin' hot summer day
Mirages would keep you a gazin'
And the dust devils danced far away
You cussed at the thirst and the weather
You rode at a slow joggin' trot
And you noticed somehow that the leather
Creaks different when once it gets hot.When yore old and yore eyes have grown hollow
And your hair has a tinge of the snow
But there's always the memories that follow
From the trails of the dim long ago.
There are things that will haunt you forever
You notice that strange as it seems
One sound, the soft creak of the leather,
Weaves into your memories and dreams.
Her Colt
Startin' OutOther hosses takes an interest in a colt that's young and small.
The way they act you'd think they'd never seen a colt atall.
They would nip him and torment him if his mother wasn't there.
But they don't do much inspectin' when they meet up with the mare.
It's her that makes 'em savvy not to monkey with that colt.
She backs her ears and peels her teeth; you bet she'll take a holt.
If that don't make 'em understand, they'll learn the way it feels,
When she lashes out and takes 'em in the ribs with both her heels.
She must watch the other hosses, she must teach that colt to mind,
And there's times perhaps the bosses gits a little out of line.
She knows he ain't no problem child. He's just like all his brothers,
And she's a mare that's got a colt, the same as all the others.
Of course she hasn't read no books how children should be raised.
She doesn't keep a record of her familie's birthdays.
But if you watch from day to day you'll find she'll make it through.
And do about as good as job as anyone can do.
Calendar Poem
When the boys start out on circle, they most always travel slow.
'Cause their breakfast isn't settled, and they've got a ways to go.
And perhaps a couple fellers is a little stiff and sore,
From the ridin' and the brandin' that they did the day before.
The hands do a little talkin' but they watch the country 'round.
And the hosses keep a walkin' while the saddles settle down.
The old Boss he "Gives the powders," as he lets 'em ease along;
There won't be no time for no talkin' when they once get goin' strong.
He keeps chawin' his tobacker, and he spits and works his jaws,
While he talks about the water holes, the canons and the draws.
Purty soon they start a ridin' and they throw the circle far.
Puffs of dust along the sky line show you where the riders are.
You might think there were no cattle in that country anywhere,
Till the circle starts to narrow and the dust hangs in the air.
By noon time the round up's gathered, and it makes you wonder how
Such a little bunch of riders ever found so many cows.
He Didn't BelongIn camp he was awkward, the sort of a man
That would upset a bucket or step in a pan.
He never took notice of what you was doin'.
He would ride up too close to a hoss you was shoein.'
When you was corralin' the hosses some mornin'
He'd show up in the gateway without any warnin'.
He would leave a gate open fer jest a short while,
Then furgit it and ride off fer several mile.
He would finally go back there and shut it ag'in,
Never thinkin' of stock that got out or got in.
If he knowed any scandal he'd spill it all right,
Where it started a quarrel or mebby a fight.
He was friendly and kind, he was honest and willin'.
But a feller folks lots of times felt just like killin'
No matter how hard that pore feller would try,
He did everything wrong and he didn't know why.
Calendar Poem, 1944 and also in Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems
Thinkin' it Over
It's odd but there is one thing most people like to do.
To spend a while beside the grave of some one that you knew.
You do it when you've time enough to make a quiet ride.
To see the fleecy clouds above and watch the shadows glide.
You think of things he did and said, and of the ways he had.
And now to think that he is dead. It makes you feel plum sad.
It brings the old days back again, you live them one by one.
You think of things that happened then, and what you should have done.
They say there'll be a Judgment Day when dead men rise again.
So I suppose he'll have to stay just where he is till then.
But then you reckon that the one who made the world knows best.
He takes them when their work is done and lets them have their rest.
And when at last our strength has failed we make our last long ride.
We leave this world and take the trail across the great divide.
So when it's time to make the change we'll go where they have gone.
We'll meet them on another range somewhere in the beyond.
The Army Mule
Sometimes mules got in the army 'cause they'd pulled a wicked trick.
Had some trouble with a feller and the feller he got kicked.
That man's neighbors joined in singin', while the parson blessed his soul;
"Shall We Meet Beyond the River Where the Surges Cease to Roll."
But the mule he liked the army when he got his trainin' done.
And the soldiers didn't seem to hold his past against him none.
For the packer and the "Skinner," take 'em as a general rule,
Has a past a heap more shady than the average army mule.
No they didn't starve or beat him, and he did his share of work.
They knowed how they ort to treat him and the mule he didn't shirk
If you know the way to use him he's a mighty handy tool,
And the people that abused him rank a lot below the mule.
There mebby is a stubborn streak that runs among the breed.
Don't try to move a wheel mule up and work him in the lead.
That works in both directions and you buck the self same deal
If you try to make the lead mule back and work him on the wheel.
He will keep a heavy wagon movin' right along the road.
In among the hills and mountains he will pack a heavy load.
He might light out for some reason that you never could explain,
But you'll find him at the picket line in time to get his grain.
'Course you have to be admittin' that a mule has got his tricks.
He ain't harmless like a kitten, and he means it when he kicks.
But you'll find him mighty useful, and you'll find he ain't no fool,
If you chance to get acquainted with a real old army mule.
Summer Time
There's a heap of times when ridin' after cattle shore is tough.
When every thing is goin' wrong, or else the weather's rough.
The whole world seems ag'in you. You can do yore level best,
But you ain't a gittin' nowheres and yore nearly dead for rest.But it's purty in the summer when yore ridin' through the hills.
Where the tall green grass is growin' and the air is soft and still.
Cows and calves is fat and gentle. They jest look at you and stare.
You can hear the little insecks go a buzzin' in the air.You may run onto some places that is mighty steep to climb,
But you ain't in any hurry, and you give the hoss his time.
You figger that it ain't so bad, a bein' a cow poke,
And you feel so plum contented you don't even want to smoke.No, a cow boy's life ain't easy when you git it figgered down.
He don't have a lot of comforts that the people have in town.
But he don't deserve no sympathy fer how his life is spent.
Fer there's times he's jest a bathin' in a ocean of content.There is nothin' there to bother him, he doesn't have to hurry.
He is doin' what he wants to do, he isn't in a hurry.
Yes, it pays up fer the frost bites, all the falls and all the spills,
On them lovely days in summer when he's ridin' in the hills.
Hosses and Flies
It is right interestin' how hosses flight flies.
They stand so both tails protect both pair of eyes.
They git close together, a touchin' the hide,
So the flies only git a good chance at one side.But them flies bite their bellies and crawl up their legs
They light and they walk and they eat and lay eggs.
And the hosses keep fussin' and stompin' around
Till they wear themselves out and tromp holes in the ground.The flies keep a workin' and give 'em no rest
Till they take out and run to get rid of the pests.
But them flies seem to figger that hoss blood's worth while
Fer they'll keep after hosses fer several mile.You know that I never could make out jest why,
BUt a hoss seems a natural feed fer a fly.
He will leave any thing that he happens across
If he sees any chance to git bitin' a hoss.
The Dutch Oven
You mind that old oven so greasy and black,
That we hauled in a wagon or put in a pack.
The biscuits she baked wasn't bad by no means,
And she had the world cheated fer cookin' up beans.
If the oven was there you could always git by,
You could bake, you could boil, you could stew, you could fry.
When the fire was built she was throwed in to heat
While they peeled the potaters and cut down the meat.
Then the cook put some fire down into a hole.
Next, he set in the oven and put on some coals.
I allus remember the way the cook did
When he took the old "Goncho" and lifted the lid.
He really was graceful at doin' the trick.
The old greasy sackers they just used a stick.
Boy Howdy! We all made a gen'l attack.
If the hoss with the dutch oven scattered his pack.
You mind how you lifted your hoss to a lope
And built a long loop in the end of your rope.
You bet them old waddies knowed what to expect.
No biscuits no more if that oven got wrecked.
We didn't know much about prayin' or lovin'
But I reckon we worshipped that greasy old oven.
And the old cowboy smiles when his memory drifts back
To the oven that rode in the wagon or pack.This poem is included in our collection of Chuckwagon poems.
A Habit
Now most old cow punchers don't take off their hat,
They nacherlly wear 'em wherever they're at.
There ain't nothin' he really should take it off for;
Some wears 'em in bed if they're sleepin' out doors.Now this here old feller is washin' his hide,
It's likely the cabin ain't chilly inside,
He has got him some soap and has started to rub;
He kept his hat on when he got in the tub.His head isn't cold and he hasn't been drinkin';
He just put his hat on without ever thinkin'.
He mebbe ain't used to a bath tub at that.
But he's shore plum accustomed to wearin' his hat.But there ain't any reason to worry at that,
When he washes his head he'll run on to the hat.
And when he does fine it, I really don't know
If he'll take off the hat, or jest let his head go.
When You're Throwed
If a feller's been astraddle since he's big enough to ride,
And has had to throw a saddle onto every sort of hide;
Though it's nothin' they take pride in, most of fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin', has at various times got throwed.It perhaps is when you're startin' on a round up some fine day,
That you feel a bit onsartin' 'bout some little wall eyed bay.
Fer he swells to beat the nation while yore cinchin' up the slack,
And he keeps a elevation in your saddle at the back.He starts rairin' and a jumpin' and he strikes when you git near.
But you cuss him and you thump him till you git him by the ear.
Then your right hand grabs the saddle and you ketch a stirrup too,
And you aim to light astraddle like a wholly buckaroo.But he drops his head and switches and he gives a back'ards jump.
Out of reach your stirrup twitches and your right spur grabs his rump.
And, "Stay with him!" shouts some feller. But you know it's hope forlorn.
And you feel a streak of yeller as you choke the saddle horn.Then you feel one rein droppin' and you know he's got his head,
And your shirt tail's out and floppin' and the saddle pulls like lead.
Then it ain't no use a tryin' for your spurs begin to slip
Now you're upside down and flyin' and horn tears from your grip.Then you get a vague sensation as upon the ground you roll,
Like a vi'lent separation twixt your body and your soul.
And you land again a hummick where you lay and gap fer breath,
And there's sumpthin' grips your stummick like the awful clutch of death.Yes the landscape round you totters when at last you try to stand,
And you're shaky on your trotters and your mouth is full of sand.
They all swear you beat a circus or a hoochy koochy dance,
Moppin' up the canon's surface with the busom of your pants.There's fellers gives perscriptions how them bronchos should be rode.
But there's few that gives descriptions of the times when they got throwed.
The Bunk House Mirror
That old bunk house mirror that most of us knew
I remember it yet, and I know that you do.
One corner broke out, and a sort of a crack
That run half way across and a quarter way back.
The cheap wooden frame with the varnish all gone,
But the grease and the dirt and the fly specks stayed on.And then the quicksilver was missin' in spots,
But that didn't bother a cow hand a lot.
He picked the good places and managed to shave
As he looked at his face in the ripples and waves,
No wonder the mirror was terribly wrecked
When you thought of the voices it had to reflect.And the comb that hung down from a string underneath.
It was chuck full of gum though it lacked a few teeth.
And there on the bench was a rusty wash pan
Where we smeared yeller soap on our faces and hands.
The bosses them days didn't go fer expense.
You could buy the whole outfit fer ninety five cents.But boy let me tell you that old lookin' glass
Has reflected the faces of men with a past.
I wonder it didn't back up with surprise
If it read what was lurkin' just back of their eyes.
I will bet there's a lot of old hands can recall
That battered old mirror that hung on the wall.
They Can Take It
Yes, it's just a bunch of hosses standin' out there in the rain.
The reason they are doin' it is easy to explain.
There is no shelter handy, so to travel ain't no good;
And they wouldn't go into a barn, not even if they could.It is just a little weather, and they're plenty used to that.
Like a cow boy in the open, livin' onderneath his hat.
All the hosses and the people that has lived their life outside,
Seems to have a constitution that can take it on the hide.Without a bit of thinkin' I could tell you right from here,
Of hosses livin' on the range as long as thirty year.
While the hosses that's in stables, and was always roofed and fed,
Lots of them before they're twenty, has been hauled off plenty dead.So it seems the way with people, and it seems the way with stock,
And the cedar grows the toughest when it's right amongst the rocks.
That's why hosses, men, and women, if they're made of proper stuff,
Gits along a whole lot better if they're raised a little rough.
"Augerin"
There's a time that you remember,
In October or September.
Mebbe early in November,
When the summer work is done.When the air was soft and meller
And you met up with some feller,
That's a right good story teller,
And you set there in the sun.Yes, you done a little jokin',
And some whittlin' and some smokin',
While your hosses went a pokin'
And a nibblin' in the grass.There was really nothin' to it
And you didn't mean to do it;
But before you hardly knew it,
Why a lot of time had passed.Well, it wasn't so excitin',
Like a buckin' hoss or fightin',
Or a rattle snake a bitin',
But when all was said and done;All your life you never tire
Of the yarns told by some liar,
That you really did admire,
As he set there in the sun.From Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems, 1947
Ghost Canyon Trail
There are strange things told of spirits bold,
And the trail to Sante Fe,
There is many a tale of the Chisholm trail,
And the trail to Laramie.
But this is the tale of an obscure trail
That few men travelled on;
Where a spirit was known to ride alone,
'Twixt the midnight hour and dawn.It would wind and creep through canyons deep
And over the mesa wide.
The men who knew this trail were few,
Where the phantom used to ride.
At times was heard a careless word
Some drinking man let fall,
But 'twas held a joke by the rangeland folk,
That no one believed atall.I learned the truth from a hard youth.
He was one of those reckless men
Who could ride in the lead of a night stampede,
Ot the dust of the broncho pen.
On a winter night when the stars were bright
And the dying moon was low,
He was holding his course on a jaded horse
And the pace that he made was slow.The cow horse flinched and cringed, till the cinch
Was almost against the ground.
His quivering ears showed deathly fear
And the cow boy looked around.
He felt the thrill of a clammy chill,
As it travelled along his spine,
For he saw at his side a phantom ride,
With never a word or sign.He kept his place, for he set his pace
To the cow boy's jogging speed.
There came no sound on the frozen ground
From the tread of his phantom steed.
He showed a flash of a long moustache
And a tilted campaign hat.
There straight and strong with stirrups long
The phantom trooper sat.They were all alone. And the pale moon shone
Through the ghost at the cow boy's side.
His courage fled as he rode with the dead
Alone on the mesa wide.
No sign of flight, no show of fight
The buckaroo displayed,
For slugs of lead won't hurt the dead,
Through the mist of a vapor shade.With the mesa past they came at last
To a canyon wide and dark,
Where some stone huts stood in the cottonwoods
That had long been an old land mark.
Each ruined shack had a chimney black,
And a roofless crumbling wall.
A living spring was the only thing
That was useful to men atall.The chilling breeze through the leafless trees,
Gave a dreary, dismal moan.
The trooper stayed in the ghastly shade
And cow boy rode alone.
Strange tales are head of what occurred
At that place in the years gone by,
Ere that restless soul of the night patrol
Rode under the starlit sky.What the trooper knows, or where he goes,
Nobody has ever found.
But the tale is told of the lone patrol
By the older settlers 'round.
There's a cow boy trip with a face that's grim,
Will never forget that ride
On a winter night in the pale moon light,
By the phantom trooper's side.From Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems, 1947
Movin' to Winter Range
Way up along the mountain side and up on the mesas high.
You watch the silent shadows glide as the clowds go driftin' by.
The leaves on the brush turns red and brown. It's fall up there you know
And it's time to bring the cattle down, it won't be long till snow.Back down to the winter range agin; they have been up there since spring
You must move 'em out or they'll git snowed in, jest hear the cow boys sing.
They reckon it aint so bad at that; they're travellin' right along
The hosses and cows and steers is fat and the calves is big and strong.A lot of them old cows knows the road. They're out on the point and walkin'
They're a going back down just like they knowed the same as if they'd been talkin'
But man if them steers knowed what was ahead they'd give it another look.
It won't be long till they'll all be dead and on the butcher's hook.The fall is the cow man's harvest time; it's then he collets and pays
And the cow boy shore earns every dime he makes through the summer days.
September is when the fall begins; it won't be long till the snow
And so they are driftin' the cattle in to the winter range below.From Western Poems, 1935
(spelling and punctuation as in the original)
Turnin' the Summer Hosses Out to Graze
Now the summer time is over and the winter time is here
You can feel it in the cold and frosty days.
You have done put up the bull boards when you shipped the old last steer,
And you've turned the summer hosses out to graze.
If you watch you'll often see 'em stringin' up along the pass,
Mostly led by old white "Tarp" and "Pinto Bill."
They have been down to the water and they're goin' back fur grass,
Where the warm sun hits the south side of the hill.
There is "Jug" and "Buck" and "Brownie" and that cuttin' pony "Chow."
Them there laigs of his ain't longer than a duck's
He's been in the work all summer and he's kind and gentle now,
But you wait till spring and see the way he bucks.
Yes they watch the sun a shinin' and they watch the bright stars blink,
All that bunch of hosses, blacks and sorrels and bays.
And you know I sometimes wonder what a cow hoss really thinks
When you turn your summer horses out to graze.
From Western Poems, 1935
An Experiment
I'm jest a old hard and fast "Rimmy"
That's allus worked one certain way.
I was talkin' to Eddie and Jimmie,
And it's better to dally they say.
You often have heard people talkin'
That it don't hurt a feller to try.
Now I never was much hand fer knockin',
But I'm willin' to state that's a lie.
It was on the beef hunt last September
I jumped a big three-year-old steer.
He gave me a few to remember,
He went through the bresh like a deer.
He certainly knowed how to do it.
He was leavin' from there like a bat.
But I sez, jest you help yourself to it,
I'll soon be around where you're at.
The hoss I was ridin', I'm saying,
Was lazy but not very slow.
He had the world cheated fer stayin',
If you'd spur him you bet he could go.
That steer? Hadn't no chance to turn him,
He wasn't the turn around breed.
So I reckoned I'd start in and learn him
By breakin' the critter to lead.
I sent my old loop his direction,
I jerked at it and let my rope cross,
Then I aimed to establish connection
Betwixt that said steer and my hoss.
I dabbed fer my winds on "Old Sally,"
But the hoss sort of shirked and hung back.
I thought I had room fer a dally
But the steer got away with my slack.
Then my whole constitution jest buckles,
Like when somebody tromps on your corn.
Fer the end of my rope and my knuckles,
Was all that I got on the horn.
My hand was all busted and mangled.
Got one crooked finger now. See?
Well, I follered the steer till he tangled,
And got him tied up to a tree.
There is certain sad memories that lingers,
And I reckon that this one will last.
I may break my neck, not my fingers,
But I'll risk it and tie hard and fast.From Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems, 1947
On Foot
That night hoss he got the gate open. You find the next mornin' he's gone.
And there by the fence lays your saddle, but nothin' to put the thing on.
Might walk up to one with a bridle, and that's jest about your last hope;
On foot you can never corral 'em; they'll run at the sight of a rope.There's water out there in the paster, them hosses don't have to come in.
You may be their owner or master, but when will you ride 'em ag'in?
You git near "Old Paint" with a bridle, he generally lets you walk up,
But now he starts runnin' and dodgin' and playin' around like a pup.You notice a couple of buzzards up yonder twixt you and the sun;
A sailin' around and a watchin'; well, mebby they reckon it's fun.
They call man the "Lord of Creation," I never could figger out why.
All the critters on Earth can outrun him and even a buzzard can fly.He may be allright when he's ridin but once he gits down on the ground,
He's about as much good as a turtle, with nothin' to pack him around.
On hoss back or in a big city, a man may show up purty fair,
But he's only an object fer pity, on foot twenty miles frum nowhere.From Rhymes of the Ranges and Other Poems, 1947
That Little Blue Roan
Most all of your boys have rode horses like that.
He wasn't too thin but he never got fat.
The old breed that had a moustache on the lip;
He was high at the wethers and low at the hip.
His ears always up, he had wicked bright eyes
And don't you furgit he was plenty cow wise.His years and his fets and his pasterns was black
And a stripe of the same run the length of his back.
Cold mornin's he'd buck, and he allus would kick
No hoss fer a kid or a man that was sick.
But Lord what a bundle of muscle and bone;
A hoss fer a cow boy, that little blue roan.For afternoon work or for handlin' a herd,
He could turn any thing but a lizzard or bird.
For ropin' outside how that cuss could move out.
He was to 'em before they knowed what 'twas about.
And runnin' down hill didn't faize him aytall.
He was like a buck goat and he never did fall.One day in the foot hills he gaive me a break
He saved me from makin' a awful mistake,
I was ridin' along at a slow easy pace,
Takin' stock of the critters that used in that place,
When I spied a big heifer without any brand.
How the boys ever missed her I don't onderstand.
Fer none of the stock in that country was wild,
It was like takin' candy away from a child.She never knowed jest what I had on my mind
Till I bedded her down on the end of my twine.
I had wropped her toes up in an old higgin' string,
And was buildin' a fire to heat up my ring.
I figgered you see I was there all alone
Till I happened to notice that little blue roan.That hoss he was usin' his eyes and his ears
And I figgered right now there was somebody near.
He seemed to be watchin' a bunch of pinon,
And I shore took a hint from that little blue roan.Instead of my brand, well, I run on another.
I used the same brand that was on the calf's mother.
I branded her right pulled her up by the tail
With a kick in the rump for the make the brute sail.
I had branded her proper and marked both her ears,
When out of the pinions two cow men appears.They both turned the critter and got a good look
While I wrote the brand down in my own tally book.
There was nothin to do so they rode up and spoke
And we all three set down fer a sociable smoke.
The one owned the critter I'd happened to brand,
He thanked me of course and we grinned and shook hands
Which he mightn't have done if he only had known
The warnin' I got from that little blue roan.From Western Poems, 1935
The Cow Boy's Dream
A cow boy and his trusty pal
Were camped one night by an old corral;
They were keeping a line on the boss's steers
And looking for calves with lengthy ears.
The summer work was long since through
And only the winter branding to do.
When he went to rest there was frost on his bed
But he pulled the tarp up over his head;
And into his blankets he burrowed deep,
He soon got warm and was fast asleep.
He dreamed he was through with his wayward past
And had landed safe in Heaven at last.
A city was there with its pearly gate
And the golden streets were wide and straight
The marble palaces gleamed and shone
And the choir sang 'round the great white throne.
Outside there were trees and meadows green--
Such a beautiful range he had never seen,
Great rivers of purest waters flowed
Though it never rained nor it never snowed.
He stood aside on the golden street,
There were heavy spurs on his booted feet,
His bat wing chaps were laced with whang,
But he listened and looked while the angels sang.
He noticed he was the only one
With a broad brimmed hat and a big six gun.
So he said to a saint, "I'd shore admire
To be dressed like one of that angel choir,
Instead of these chaps and spurs and gun;
And I reckon as how it could be done."
So they took him into a room aside
And they fastened wings on his toughened hide.
They fitted him out with a flowing robe,
Like the lady who looks in the crystal glove.
They gave him a crown and a golden harp
And the frost lay thick on the cow boy's tarp.
He twanged his harp and he sang a while,
Then he thought of something that made him smile.
Said he "I reckon these wings would do
To show some mustangs a thing or two.
I'll jump a bunch and I'll yell and whoop,
I'll kick their tails and I'll flop and swoop;
I'll light a straddle of one of the things,
And I'll flop his flanks with my angel wings.
I'll ride him bare-back, but if I fail,
And he bucks me off, I'll simply sail."
He hunted wild horses in his dream,
But all he found was the charist team
That Old Elija drove in there,
And to pick on them would hardly be fair.
So he seated himself beneath a tree
And rested his crown upon his knee.
He watched the beautiful angels go
Flying and fluttering to and fr
