\ Class _Bi:^Ji^J.5 Bnn V . L 2 4 S S S az 2 COPWIIGHT DEPOSm Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/sunsaddleleather01clar SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER •/OtX^64»6^ \^>OiA//\ SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER INCLUDING GRASS GROWN TRAILS AND NEW POEMS C^)^/x^x^ BADGER CLARK ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY L. A. HUFFMAN Sixth Edition BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS Copyright, 191 5, 191 7, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr. Copyright, 191 9, 1920, by Badger Clark Copyright, 1917, 1922, by Richard G. Badger The Illustrations are from Copyrighted Originals by L. A. Huffman, Miles City, Montana. All Rights Reserved 6^ ; s^ 0)Cl.A6o9532 Made in the United States of America The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. APR -8 '22' TO MY FATHER, who, in his long life, has seldom been conscious of a man's rough exterior, or unconscious of his obscurest virtue. PREFACE Cowboys are the sternest critics of those who would represent the West. No hypoc- risy, no bluff, no pose can evade them. Yet cowboys have made Badger Clark's songs their own. So readily have they circu- lated that often the man who sings the song could not tell you where it started. Many of the poems have become folk songs of the West, we may say of America, for they speak of freedom and the open. Generous has been the praise given ^ww and Saddle Leather, but perhaps no criticism has summed up the work so satisfactorily as the comment of the old cowman who said, "You can break me if there's a dead poem in the book, I read the hull of it. Who in H is this kid Clark, anyway? I don't know how he knowed, but he knows," That is what proves Badger Clark the real poet. He knows. Beyond his wonderful Vll Preface presentation of the West is the quality of uni- versal appeal that makes his work real art. He has tied the West to the universe. The old cow^man is not the only one who has wondered who Badger Clark was. Charles Wharton Stork, speaking of Sun and Saddle Leather, said: "It has splendid flavor and fine artistic handling as well. I should like to know more of the author, whether he was a cow-puncher or merely got inside his psychology by imagination." Badger Clark was born January i, 1883, at Albia, Iowa. His ancestors on his father's side were of Puritan stock and had called themselves Americans for seven generations. His mother's people were Pennsylvania Quak- ers. His paternal grandfather, a Vermonter, moved West in 1857 and invested heavily in a town site and manufacturing interests in southern Missouri. He was an Abolitionist and indiscreet enough to say so. The climate of southern Missouri was particularly insa- lubrious for Abolitionists at that period, and Mr. Clark's neighbors took such an ardent interest in his opinions that he, with his two viii Preface sons, slept away from home for two months because they were expecting to be the guests of honor at a tar-and-feather party and did not care to involve the women-folk of the family. As the Civil War drew on, the tar-and- feather threat was complicated with strong possibilities of hemp and this, with malaria, made the location so unattractive that Mr. Clark trailed north into Iowa, arriving on free soil with his family^ two wagon loads of household effects, and about one hundred and fifty dollars in money. The father of the author, after this border experience, naturally enlisted in the Union army, and served in the Western forces until disabled by wounds before Vicksburg. Re- turning north he entered the ministry of the Methodist church and continued therein for the rest of his active life, retiring in 191 5 after an exceptionally successful and honored career of fifty-one years in the pulpit. Shortly after the birth of Badger Clark the family moved to Dakota, which was then frontier territory, and the cowboy poet's first ix Preface taste of pioneering was at the age of six months, when his mother, in the absence of his father and elder brothers, carried him on one arm while she drove a plow team and turned enough sod to save the home from one of the sudden prairie fires of the early days. He grew up in, and with, the state of South Dakota, spending his 'teen years in the Black Hills at Deadwood. Deadwood at that time was trying to live down the reputation for exuberant indecorum which she had acquired during the gold rush, but her five churches operating two hours a week could make little headway against the competition of two dance halls and twenty-six saloons running twenty- four hours a day. This "wide open" condi- tion of things familiarized Mr. Clark with the free-and-easy moral atmosphere of the old West, but at the same time had the odd effect of making him a teetotaler in defiance of all the older poetic traditions. During his youth he showed no particular literary tendencies beyond an insatiable ap- petite for books. Luckily for his health this was balanced by an equally strong passion for Preface outdoor life, — hunting, fishing, camping or anything of that sort, providing it was not suf- ficiently practical to interfere with concurrent dreaming. During two vacations of his high school course he went overland into western Wyoming and spent the summer on the ranch of an uncle at the foot of the Big Horn Moun- tains. Having finished the high school with no particular scholastic honors, he entered Da- kota Wesleyan University and studied there for a year. At the end of that time he was given an opportunity to go to Cuba in con- nection with one of the colonizing enterprises undertaken there at the close of the Spanish war, and lack of money and a romantic tem- perament led him to abandon his studies for the promise of a more adventurous life under tropic skies,— a step he afterward regretted. The colonization project fell through and his fellow colonists returned to the States, but he had fallen in love with opalescent surf and the rustle of warm trade winds in the palms, and so, in the spirit of the lotos-eaters and xi Preface with about the same business prospects, he stayed. While working on a Camaguey plantation a year later he had the misfortune to be pres- ent at a dispute between his employer and two native neighbors over a boundary fence in the jungle. In the course of the argument one of the natives was shot and Clark, with the usual fate of innocent bystanders, shortly found himself in irons and on the yv^ay to the carceL During the two weeks which elapsed before the arrival of the cash for his bail, he spent his time in a cell with seventeen Span- ish negroes and a dog-eared copy of the Rubaiyat handed in by an American friend on the outside. For six months thereafter he divided his attention between plantation work, paludic fever, and a practical course in Spanish legal' procedure, at the end of which time he was tried and acquitted, and then turned his face toward home in much the same mental and material condition as the prodigal son of old. The summer of his return was spent very much to his taste, with a surveying party in • • Xll Preface the Bad Lands of South Dakota. That fall he took up an agency for a correspondence school but indifference to the charms of the business game and a constitutional aversion to dunning anybody militated against his success and he resigned in a few months to accept the city editorship of a small daily paper in Lead, South Dakota. This pleased him better, but he became too deeply interested in it and overwork, together with the after effect of tropical fever, led to a sentence of exile from his beloved Black Hills for at least two years, in obedience to which he journeyed south to Arizona. In the cow country near the Mexican bor- der, Badger Clark stumbled unexpectedly in- to paradise. He was given charge of a small ranch and the responsibility for a bunch of cattle just large enough to amuse him but too small to demand a full day's work once a month. The sky was persistently blue, the sunlight was richly golden, the folds of the barren mountains and the wide reaches of the range were full of many lovely colors, and his nearest neighbor was eight miles away. xiii Preface The cowmen who dropped in for a mOal now and then in the course of their intermin- able riding appeared to have ridden directly out of books of adventure, with old young faces full of sun wrinkles, careless mouths full of bad grammar, strange oaths and stranger yarns, and hearts for the most part as open and shadowless as the country they daily ranged. In the evenings as Clark placed his boot heels on the porch railing, smote the strings of his guitar, and broke the tense silence of the warm, dry twilight with song, he often won- dered, as his eyes rested dreamily on the spikey yuccas that stood out sharp and black against the clear lemon color of the sunset west, why hermit life in the desert was tradi- tionally a sad, penitential affair. In a letter to his mother a month or two after settling in Arizona, he found prose too weak to express his utter content and perpe- trated his first verses. She, with natural pride, sent the verses to a magazine, the old Pacific Monthly^ and a week or two later the desert dweller was astonished beyond measure to XIV Preface receive his first editorial check. The discov- ery that certain people in the world were willing to pay money for such rhymes as he could write bent the whole course of his sub- sequent life, for good or evil, and the occa- sional lyric impulse hardened into a habit which has consumed much of his time and most of his serious thought since that date. The verses written to his mother were Ridin\ the first poem in his first book. Sun and Saddle Leather, and the greater part of the poems in both Sun and Saddle Leather and Grass Grown Trails were written in Arizona. He remained in the border country for four years and finally said good-bye to the desert with regret. He appears to have left some- thing behind to keep his memory green, how- ever, for seven years after his departure his High Chin Boh was discovered to be a popu- lar song among the cowboys in a certain sec- tion of the Southwest, and was printed in Poetry as a true Western folksong of unknown authorship. As Badger Clark says: "Regarding the High Chin Boh business, it is so far back and, XV Preface with my usual carelessness, I have neglected to preserve any documentary evidence bear- ing on it, that I fear I can't give you much of value. The thing began once when I was with an outfit of ten men driving seven hun- dred cattle to the shipping point after the roundup, acting as cook because the regular incumbent had gone to town and looked upon the wine when it is red. One night when I was washing my pots and kettles I heard the boys around the fire discussing a cow-puncher over in the mountains who, the week before, had roped a bobcat and 'drug' it to death. The boys spent some time swapping expert opinions on the incident, so it stuck in my mind, incubated, and eventually hatched out The Glory Trail, "Nobody said anything about the poem, good or bad, as I remember, and I reckoned it had fallen rather flat until, some years later, about three years ago, I think, a distant friend sent me a copy of Poetry which featured High Chin Bob, I found a real native folksong which the cowboys were accustomed to carol in their long rides over the romantic wilder- xvi Preface nesses of the Southwest, a song like Melchi- zedek, without father or mother, which prob- ably had naturally ^just growed' in the rocky soil where it now flourished. What was my amazement, in examining this literary curi- osity, to find that it was my Glory Trail, with slight alterations, such as the omission of one line in the refrain, such rubbings down and chippings off as might happen to it in passing from mouth to mouth. I own that the ^folk- song' version is in some points more striking, and easy than my more labored original, and I believe it is better known. "Frothingham, you remember, took it for his Songs of Men and I recently noticed that Rupert Hughes mentions High Chin Bob in a familiarly friendly way in his novel. Beauty, and no doubt many a country newspaper in the West has run the lines. When I was in California a year or so ago I became acquaint- ed with H. H. Knibbs and I noticed that he introduced me to everybody as the author of High Chin Bob, So, under another name than the one its dad bestowed at the christen- xvii Preface ing, this poem has become probably the most widely known son of its father. *'By the way, I have never heard High Chin Bob sung, and have some curiosity as to its homemade musical setting. If I ever meet some one who knows it, I'll make him warble it, if I have to use a sixshooter." At present Badger Clark lives in Hot Springs, South Dakota. Recently he has learned that it is easier to talk to five hundred people than to five, and that sometimes his fel- low citizens would rather hear him read his own verse than read it themselves, which fur- nishes a new source of pleasure in a very quiet life. He is thirty-eight years old and unmar- ried. He is a church member of irreproach- able daily walk and conversation but some- what uncertain orthodoxy. He never wears a starched collar and generally appears in a coat only when meteorological conditions or an occasion of ceremony make it necessary. He is six feet tall. One who knows him intimately thus writes of the author: "Badger Clark is loved in his own home town but is not worshipped as a xviii Preface celebrity, for which fact, doubtless, no one is more thankful than he himself. It leaves him free to visit the public library, take part in local election squabbles, and be rated as a good citizen. He can sing in the church choir or join in the Christmas pageant as one of the grown-up children of the congregation. He is free to use his alert sense of humor, and in turn is glad to be the target for the wit of others. He can write verse on local subjects and they will be printed in the weekly news- paper and read without his fellow townsmen thinking the author odd." The first edition of Sun and Saddle Leather appeared in 1915. It was a modest little vol- ume of fifty-six pages bound in antique boards; but to prove how easily copies were disposed of, the publisher wrote this letter to the author : "Do you happen to have a spare copy of the first edition of Sun and Saddle Leather? Some evil-minded person has lifted the last copy I had. "I would be tickled to death to send you a xix Preface copy of the last edition to replace, if you are willing to make a swap." But even the author did not have one, for this was his answer : *'I'm sorry, but my last copy of the first edi- tion of Sun and Saddle Leather disappeared long ago. All I have in that line is one copy of the third edition that was so thumbed and soiled from using it to read out of in public that it would tempt nobody to steal it. "I suppose that I should have preserved at least one copy of the first edition for its his- toric interest, but, like Henry Ford, I am in- clined to think that history is ^mostly bunk,' at least any sentimental tenderness over one's personal history. 'So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.' Beautiful, but bunk, bunk, bunk. Let's rather grow tearfully enthusias- tic over the fortieth edition." In 1917 the second edition appeared. It was illustrated by L. A. Huffman, whose pictures have had their place in every sub- sequent edition. Back in 1878 Mr. Huffman began to take photographs with crude cam- eras which he made himself. These same XX Preface photographs were the first of the now famous Huffman pictures comprising something like six thousand historic subjects, beginning with the Indians and buffaloes round about Fort Keogh on the Yellowstone, where he was post photographer in General Miles's army. Mr. Huffman knows his West thoroughly and his pictures help others to know it. Having his poems run into a second edi- tion did not make Badger Clark believe that he was straight on the road to wealth or fame for this was how he inscribed a copy: When my Pegasus is lopin*, Ory-eyed and on the bust, And the cares of common livin* Sprawl behind me in the dust, And the breath of inspiration Comes a driftin' down the wind, Then a finer life than writin' Would be mighty hard to find. Just a-writin', a-writin', Nothin' I like half so well As a-slingin' ink and English— If the stuff will only sell When Fm writin'. XXI Preface The same year appeared the first edition of Grass Grown Trails, William S. Hart wrote : ^'May these trails never be wholly obliterated! I love the West and them, and thoroughly appreciate anything which so beautifully il- lustrates and typifies it as this last volume of Badger Clark's does." In 1919 a third edition of Sun and Saddle Leather was brought out containing addi- tional poems. In 1920 appeared a collected edition of Badger Clark's work, containing all the poems in Sun and Saddle Leather, all those in Grass Grown Trails and nine new poems hitherto unpublished in book form. To prove that some authors are grateful, this is what Badger Clark wrote his publisher when he had seen the book: "I am now ready to die. Hitherto I have felt that I have never done anything right- fully to prove up on my world-without-end six-by-three homestead, but now I have earned that spot of deep repose. And now I am ready for the 'Sure enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.' I have achieved my XXI 1 Preface achievement. I have done done it, as the Tex- anos used to say. I am the parent of a child, a real child, a grown child — no mewling, thirty-page infant in pasteboard swaddling clothes, no gas-pipe-legged adolescent look- ing out at the world with scared eyes that mutely beg: Tlease like me'; but a splendid, rounded-out, mature specimen of progeny, quietly elegant in garb, and bearing itself with calm confidence, conscious of the friend- ship and commendation of a variety of people, real people, distinguished people, people who (be it uttered in confidence) ought to know better. And I am its dad : bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, heart of my heart, it stands and nobody can even pick out its more ami- able traits and say: ^That came from the mother's side.' 'Come, lovely and soothing death,' you bleak, bloodless, black humbug, you; come whenever you're ready. I've beaten you! You can't kill me! "Where was I? Pardon me! *B'ar with me, y'r honor,' as I once heard a cow country lawyer say when he was trying to plead a case under a burden of emotion and mixed drinks. xxiii Preface But, Badger, it has taken me the best part of fifteen years to make that book and now, as I look at it, I sing to myself: *By gosh! it was worth it!' I have stood wistfully by and watched the companions of my youth go into real estate and insurance and the ministry and medicine and standing in the world, w^onder- ing if I wasn't after all, a variegated damfool for trying to scale the perpendicular side which Parnassus presents to the half -educated. But to-night I envy no man on earth — not Rockefeller, not Doug. Fairbanks, not even Gamaliel Harding as he leads admiring mil- lions toward the promised land of Normalcy. •^Blessed is that man who has found his work. Let him ask no other blessedness.' Why Car- lyle, you dear, crusty old son-of-a-gun, you're dead right, and when I meet you beyond the last divide I'll humble myself before you for having thought, sometimes, that those words of yours were mere inspirational bunk. "Well to return to coherency, if I can, the new Siamese-twins edition of Sun and Saddle Leather and Grass Grown Trails is really a source of some slight satisfaction to me. I xxiv Preface have before me collections of Wilfred Wilson Gibson, and John Masefield and they, though thicker, don't look a bit better — mechanically. YouVe done me proud. Thank you." The present sixth edition, we hope, will speak for itself. Dr. W. T. Hornaday said of the book: ^'Some of the Sun and Saddle Leather poems have taken hold of me with a grip that only imbecility ever can shake loose. I have seen many poems and verses come out of the wild portions of the West; but these are the best. They are real poetry!" Sun and Saddle Leather and Grass Grown Trails are Western songs, simple and ringing and yet with an ample vision that makes them unique among poems written in a local ver- nacular. The spirit of them is eternal, the spirit of youth in the open, and their back- ground is "God's Reserves," the vast reach of Western mesa and plain that will always remain free — "the way that it was when the world was new." Every poem carries a breath of plains, wind-flavored with a tang of camp smoke; XXV Preface and, varied as they are in tune and tone, they do not contain a single note that is labored or unnatural. They are of native Western stock, as indigenous to the soil as the agile cow ponies whose hoofs evidently beat the time for their swinging measures; and it is this quality, as well as their appealing music, that has already given them such wide popularity. East and West. That they were 'born in the saddle and written for love rather than for publication is a conviction that the reader of them can hard- ly escape. From the impish merriment of From Town to the deep but fearless piety of The Cowboy's Prayer, these songs ring true; and are as healthy as the big, bright country whence they came. In prefaces to earlier editions I made free to quote from the poems and to attempt to point out their peculiar excellencies. With modesty unusual in authors. Badger Clark wrote : "By the way, Mr. Badger loaded most of the odium for the biographical preface to Sun and Saddle Leather onto you at the time xxvi Preface it first appeared, and I suppose you are re- sponsible for the extended version of the late edition. It is said that modern women are deficient in spinning, weaving and other arts familiar to their great grandmothers, but when it comes to the proverbially difficult stunt of fabricating a silk purse out of a sow's ear, you are THERE. Thank you." R. H. XXVll CONTENTS SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER PAGE RiDiN* 39 There is some that like the city. The Song of the Leather 42 When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky. A Bad Half Hour 45 Wonder why I feel so restless. From Town 47 We're the children of the open and we hate the haunts 0' men. A Cowboy's Prayer 50 Oh Lord J I've never lived where churches grow. The Christmas Trail 52 The wind is blowin cold down the mountain tips of snow. A Border Affair • • 55 Spanish is the lovin tongue. The Bunk-House Orchestra .... 57 Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out. XXIX Contents The Outlaw 60 When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old. The Legend of Boastful Bill .... 62 At a roundup on the Gily. The Tied Maverick 66 Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast, A Roundup Lullaby 68 Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine. The Trail o' Love 71 My love was swift and slender. Bachin' 74 Our lives are hid; our trails are strange. The Glory Trail 77 'Way high up the Mogollons. Bacon 81 You re salty and greasy and smoky as sin. The Lost Pardner 83 / ride alone and hate the boys I meet. God's Reserves 86 One time, 'way back where the year marks fade. The Married Man 89 There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door. The Old Cow Man . ..... 92 / rode across a valley range. XXX Contents The Plainsmen 95 Men of the older, gentler soil. The Westerner 98 My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains. The Wind is Blowin' loi My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars. On Boot Hill 103 Up from the prairie and through the pines. grass grown trails The Coyote 107 Trailing the last gleam after. The Free Wind 109 / went and worked in a drippin mine. The Medicine Man 112 The trail is long to the bison herd. The Piano at Red's 114 'Twas a hole called Red's Saloon, A Ranger 116 He never made parade of tooth or clam. On the Drive 121 OA, days whoop by with swingin lope. Saturday Night 123 Out from the ranch on a Saturday night. Southwestern June 125 Lazy little hawse, it's noon. xxxi Contents The Night Herder 127 / laughed when the dawn was a-peepin. Hawse Work 129 Stop! there's the wild bunch to right of the trail. Half-Breed .132 Fathers with eyes of ancient ire» To Her 134 Cut loose a hundred rivers. The Locoed Horse 136 As I was ridin all alone. The Long Way 138 Two miles of ridin from the school, without a bit of trouble. Freightin' .141 Forty miles from Tagg art's store. The Rains 144 Youve watched the ground-ho/s shadow and the shiftin weather signs. The Border 148 When the dreamers of old Coronado. The Bad Lands 151 No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide. The Springtime Plains 154 Heart of me, are you hearing? On the Oregon Trail 156 We're the prairie pilgrim crew, xxxii Contents The Forest Rangers 159 Red is the arch of the nightmare sky. The Yellow Stuff 161 By the rim rocks on the hill. The Sheep-Herder 163 All day across the sagebrush flat. The Old Prospector 167 There^s a song in the canyon below me, God of the Open 169 God of the open, though I am so simple. The Passing of the Trail 171 There was a sunny, savage land. Latigo Town 174 You and I settled this section together. The Buffalo Trail 176 Deeply the bujfalo trod it. The Camp Fire's Song 177 / reared your fathers long ago. new poems Plains Born 183 Westward from the greener places. The Old Camp Coffee-Pot 185 Old camp-mate, black and rough to see. My Enemy 187 All mornin in the mesa's glare. xxxiii Contents The Fighting Swing 189 Once again the regiments marching down the street. The Smoke-Blue Plains 192 Kissed me from the saddle and I still can feel it burning. Others 194 The daybreak comes so pure and still. Jeff Hart 196 Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch to war. Battle 198 Do you mind that old fight in The Rattles? In the Hills 200 The shadow crawls up canyon walls; the rim rocks flush to pink. xxxiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Badger Clark Frontispiece FACING PAGE When my feet is in the stirrups And my hawse is on the bust 40 There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick . 66 We have gathered fightin pointers from the famous bronco steed , 90 The taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain . . • • I16 / wait to hear him ridin up behind 1 42 There's land where yet no ditchers dig Nor cranks experiment; It's only lovely, free and big And isn't worth a cent 1 68 When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays, Richer and statelier then you II reign, Alother of men whom the world will praise. And your sons will love you and sigh for you. Labor and battle and die for you. But never the fondest will understand The way we have loved you, young, young land 194 XXXV SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER RIDIN' There is some that like the city — Grass that's curried smooth and green, Theaytres and stranglin' collars, Wagons run by gasoline — But for me it's hawse and saddle Every day without a change, And a desert sun a-blazin' On a hundred miles of range. Just a-ridin\ a-ridin^ — Desert ripplin* in the sun, Mountains blue along the skyline — / don^t envy anyone When Fm rid in . When my feet is in the stirrups And my hawse is on the bust, With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin' From a cloud of golden dust, And the bawlin' of the cattle Is a-comin' down the wind Then a finer life than ridin' Would be mighty hard to find. 39 Sun and Saddle Leather Just a-ridin , a-ridin' — Splittin long cracks through the air, Stirrin up a baby cyclone, Rippin up the prickly pear As I'm ridin\ I don't need no art exhibits When the sunset does her best, Paintin' everlastin' glory On the mountains to the west And your opery looks foolish When the night-bird starts his tune And the desert's silver mounted By the touches of the moon. Just a-ridin , a-ridin\ Who kin envy kings and czars When the coyotes down the valley Are a-singin' to the stars. If he's rid in ? When my earthly trail is ended And my final bacon curled And the last great roundup's finished At the Home Ranch of the world 40 Sun and Saddle Leather I don't want no harps nor haloes, Robes nor other dressed up things — Let me ride the starry ranges On a pinto hawse with wings! Just a-ridin^ a-ridin' — Nothin^ Td like half so well As a-roundin up the sinners That have wandered out of Hell, And a-ridin\ 41 Sun and Saddle Leather THE SONG OF THE LEATHER When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky Through the desert so empty and bright, When I'm watchin' the miles as they go craw- lin' by And a-hopin' I'll get there by night, Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day, But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way: '^Kasy — easy — easy — For a temperit pace aint a crime. Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease, For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze. We kin get there in plenty of time.' ff When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope, And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies, 42 Sun and Saddle Leather When Fm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes, Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing And I work to the lievelier tune that they sing: '^Reach ^im! reach ^im! reach *iml If you lather your hawse to the heel! There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick; Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick — Pull your hat down and fling in the steeir When IVe rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride, With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west And my sleepiness fightin' my pride, Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd be- low 43 Sun and Saddle Leather And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow: ^^ Sleepy — sleepy — sleepy — We was ordered a close watch to keep, But ril sing you a song in a drowsy old key; All the world is a-snoozin' so why shouldn't we? Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep!* 44 Sun and Saddle Leather A BAD HALF HOUR Wonder why I feel so restless ; Moon is shinin' still and bright, Cattle all is restin' easy, But I just kain't sleep tonight. Ain't no cactus in my blankets, Don't know why they feel so hard — 'Less it's Warblin' Jim a-singin' "Annie Laurie" out on guard. "Annie Laurie" — wish he'd quit it! Couldn't sleep now if I tried. Makes the night seem big and lonesome, And my throat feels sore inside. How my Annie used to sing it! And it sounded good and gay Nights I drove her home from dances When the east was turnin' gray. Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift" And her eyes like quiet streams, "And her face" — I still kin see it Much too frequent in my dreams; 45 Sun and Saddle Leather And her hand was soft and trembly That night underneath the tree, When I couldn't help but tell her She was ^^all the world to me." But her folks said I was "shiftless," "Wild," "unsettled," — they was right, For I leaned to punchin' cattle And I'm at it still tonight. And she married young Doc Wilkins — Oh my Lord! but that was hard! Wish that fool would quit his singin^ "Annie Laurie" out on guard! Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin' Of the things that happened then. Good old times, and all apast me! Never seem to come again — My turn? Sure. I'll come a-runnin'. Warm me up some coffee, pard — But I'll stop that Jim from singin* "Annie Laurie" out on guard. 46 Sun and Saddle Leather FROM TOWN WeVe the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, But we had to come to town to get the mail. And we're ridin' home at daybreak — 'cause the air is cooler then — All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin', All our toilets show a touch of disarray, For we found that city life is a constant round of strife And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray. Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear And the chaparral is tremblin* all aroun' For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a mid- night dream of terror When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town! 47 Sun and Saddle Leather We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede. From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin' 'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends, And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat. While my merry pardners entertained his friends. Sing Vr out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news. Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down. We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin and it's just our night for howlin When we're ridin up the rocky trail from town. 48 Sun and Saddle Leather Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves, Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange, And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds Still is useful in the language of the range. Sing *er out, my hold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown, We*re the sons o* desolation, we're the out- laws of creation — Ee — yowf a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town! 49 Sun and Saddle Leather A COWBOY'S PRAYER (Written for Mother) Oh Lord, Pve never lived where churches grow. I love creation better as it stood That day You finished it so long ago And looked upon Your work and called it good. I know that others find You in the light That's sifted down through tinted window panes, And yet I seem to feel You near tonight In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well. That You have made my freedom so com- plete; That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell. Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. Just let me live my life as I've begun And give me work that's open to the sky; Make me a pardner of the wind and sun. And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. 50 Sun and Saddle Leather Let me be easy on the man that's down ; Let me be square and generous with all. I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when Fm in town, But never let 'em say Tm mean or small! Make me as big and open as the plains, As honest as the hawse between my knees. Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. You know about the reasons that are hid. You understand the things that gall and fret; You know me better than my mother did. Just keep an eye on all that's done and said And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside. And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead That stretches upw^ard toward the Great Divide. 51 Sun and Saddle Leather THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead; It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe [head. And mournin' with the gray clouds over- Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet [blue, And I whistle like the air was warm and For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks, I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars. And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buz- zard's wing And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars. But the bright campfire light only dances for a night, 52 Sun and Saddle Leather While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks, 'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you. Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun 'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains. Ay, the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot, And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew. Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you. Good folks, Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you. Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran. 53 Sun and Saddle Leather And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin^ of us all To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man. But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed ; 'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night- guard through, And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks, Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you. The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk be- hind the hill, But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see, And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will. There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me. Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait, For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. Old folks, I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. 54 Sun and Saddle Leather A BORDER AFFAIR Spanish is the lovin' tongue, Soft as music, light as spray. 'Twas a girl I learnt it from, Livin' down Sonora way. I don't look much like a lover, Yet I say her love words over Often when Fm all alone — '^Mi amor, mi corazonJ' Nights when she knew where Fd ride She would listen for my spurs. Fling the big door open wide, Raise them laughin' eyes of her And my heart would nigh stop beatin' When I heard her tender greeting'. Whispered soft for me alone '^Mi amor! mi corazon^* ' Moonlight in the patio, Old Senora noddin' near, Me and Juana talkin' low So the Madre couldn't hear — How those hours would go a-flyin'! And too soon I'd hear her sighin' 55 Sun and Saddle Leather In her little sorry tone — ''Adios, mi corazon!^' But one time I had to fly For a foolish gamblin' fight, And we said a swift goodbye In that black, unlucky night. When I'd loosed her arms from clingin' With her words the hoofs kep' ringin' As I galloped north alone — ^Adios, mi corazon!'^ ft Never seen her since that night, I kain't cross the Line, you know. She was Mex and I was white; Like as not it's better so. Yet IVe always sort of missed her Since that last wild night I kissed her, Left her heart and lost my own — '^Adios, mi corazon!" S6 Sun and Saddle Leather THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout. For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain, But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. Shinin 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall — (See old Shorty's frivolous toes a-twitchin at the call:) Ifs the best grand high that there is within the law When seven jolly punchers tackle ^^Turkey in the Straw,'' Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail, 57 Sun and Saddle Leather But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were tried By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fire- side. Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop/ (You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup/) Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw, But we drifted on to comfort and to '^Tur- key in the Straw." Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford— Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet! Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots/ (Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?) _ Sun and Saddle Leather Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw, But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' ^^Turkey in the Straw/^ Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now! Lively on the last turn! lope *er to the death! (Reddy's soul is willin^ but he^s gettin' short o' breath.) Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw When we have an hour of firelight set to ^^ Turkey in the Straw J^ 59 Sun and Saddle Leather THE OUTLAW When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, By the foot or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white But ril throw him as sure as you're born. Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain. Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain. For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast, And the man is the boss of the herd, And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least. Must come down when he says the word. When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide. He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride. Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke. But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke. 60 Sun and Saddle Leather For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, And the hawse may be prince of his clan But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot And own that his boss is the man. When the devil at rest underneath my vest Gets up and begins to paw And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw. When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild And my temper is 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. 6i Sun and Saddle Leather THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL At a roundup on the Gily, One sweet mornin' long ago, Ten of us was throwed right freely By a hawse from Idaho. And we thought he'd go a-beggin' For a man to break his pride Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin'. Boastful Bill cut loose and cried — ^^Fm a onry proposition for to hurt; I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt; I kin ride the highest liver 'Tween the Gulf and Powder River, And ril break this thing as easy as Fd flirt." So Bill climbed the Northern Fury And they mangled up the air Till a native of Missouri Would have owned his brag was fair. Though the plunges kep' him reelin' And the wind it flapped his shirt, Loud above the hawse's squealin' We could hear our friend assert ' 62 Sun and Saddle Leather "I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke. Some one hand me up the makings of a smoke! If you think my fame needs brighfnin' Wy ril rope a streak of lightnin' And ril cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke/' Then one caper of repulsion Broke that hawse's back in two. Cinches snapped in the convulsion; Skyward man and saddle flew. Up he mounted, never laggin', While we watched him through our tears, And his last thin bit of braggin' Came a-droppin' to our ears. "If you^d ever watched my habits very close You would know I've broke such rab- bits by the gross, _ Sun and Saddle Leather I have kep^ my talent hiding' rm too good for earthly ridin' And Fm off to bust the lightnings, — Adiosr Years have gone since that ascension. Boastful Bill ain't never lit, So we reckon that he's wrenchin' Some celestial outlaw's bit. When the night rain beats our slickers And the wind is swift and stout And the lightnin' flares and flickers, We kin sometimes hear him shout — ^Tm a bronco'twistin' wonder on the fly; Fm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky. Hi/ you earthlins, shut your win- ders While we're rip pin' clouds to flind- ers. If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!'' Stardust on his chaps and saddle, Scornful still of jar and jolt, 64^ Sun and Saddle Leather He'll come back some day, astraddle Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. And the thin-skinned generation Of that dim and distant day Sure will stare with admiration When they hear old Boastful say — ^^I was first, as old rawhiders all con- fessed. Now Fm last of all rough riders, and the best. Huh, you soft and dainty floaters, With your aroplanes and motors — Huh/ are you the great grandchildren of the Westr 65 Sun and Saddle Leather THE TIED MAVERICK Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast And my wild record closes. This maverick is down at last Just roped and tied with roses. And one small girl's to blame for it, Yet I don't fight with shame for it — Lay on the iron; I'm game for it, Just roped and tied with roses. I loped among the wildest band Of saddle-hatin' winners — Gay colts that never felt a brand And scarred old outlaw sinners. The wind was rein and guide to us; The world was pasture wide to us And our wild name was pride to us — High headed bronco sinners! So, loose and light we raced and fought And every range we tasted, But now, since I'm corralled and caught, I know them days were wasted. 66 Huttman- Stevenson 'There's a time to be sloiv and a time to be quick. See page 43 Sun and Saddle Leather From now, the all-day gait for me, The trail that's hard but straight for me. For down that trail, who'll wait for me! Ay! them old days were wasted! But though I'm broke, Fll never be A saddle-marked old groaner. For never worthless bronc like me Got such a gentle owner. There could be colt days glad as mine Or outlaw runs as mad as mine Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine, But never such an owner. Lay on the iron, and lay it red! I'll take it kind and clever. Who wouldn't hold a prouder head To wear that mark forever? I'll never break and stray from her; I'd starve and die away from her. Lay on the iron — it's play from her — And brand me hers forever! 67 Sun and Saddle Leather A ROUNDUP LULLABY Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, Coyote yappin^ lazy on the hill, Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line, Time for millin' cattle to be still. So — 0, now, the lightnin s far away, The coyote's nothin skeery; He's singin' to his dearie — Hee — ya, tammalalleday! Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin\ Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need, Nothin' we kin see to take your eye. Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stam- pede, Plungin' down some royo bank to die. So — o, now, for still the shadows stay; The moon is slow and steady; The sun comes when he's ready, Hee — ya, tammalalleday! No use runnin out to meet the mornin\ 68 Sun and Saddle Leather Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim, Dreamin' of a land too far to see. There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim And it often seems the same to me. So — 0, now, for dreams they never pay. The dust it keeps us blinking W e*re seven miles from, drinkin', Hee — ya, tammal ailed ay! But we got to stand it till the mornin\ Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through. Kain't see much beyond our saddle horns. Always far away is misty silver-blue; Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns. So — 0, now. It must be this away — The lonesome owl a-callin\ The mournful coyote squallin'. Hee — ya, tammal ailed ay! Mocking-birds dont sing until the mornin\ 69 Sun and Saddle Leather Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue, Always feelin' thorns that stab and sting. Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true, So I ride around myself and sing. So — 0, noWf a man has got to stay, A-likin or a-hatin , But workin on and waitin, Hee — ya, tammalalleday! All of us are waitin for the mornin\ 70 Sun and Saddle Leather THE TRAIL O' LOVE My love was swift and slender As an antelope at play, And her eyes were gray and tender As the east at break o' day, And I sure was shaky hearted And her flower face was pale On that silver night we parted, When I sang along the trail : Forever — forever — Oh, moon above the pine, Like the matin* birds in Springtime, I will twitter while you shine. Rich as ore with gold a-glowin*, Sweet as sparklin springs a-flowin\ Strong as redwoods ever growing So will be this love o' mine. I rode across the river And beyond the far divide, Till the echo of ^'forever" Staggered faint behind and died. 71 Sun and Saddle Leather For the long trail smiled and beckoned And the free wind blowed so sweet. That life's gayest tune, I reckoned, Was my hawse's ringin' feet. Forever — forever — Oh, stars, look down and sigh, For a poison spring will sparkle And the trustin' drinker die. And a rovin bird will twitter And a worthless rock will glitter And a maiden's love is bitter When the man's is proved a lie. Last the rover's circle guidin' Brought me where I used to be, And I met her, gaily ridin' With a smarter man than me. Then I raised my dusty cover But she didn't see nor hear, So I hummed the old tune over, Laughin' in my hawse's ear: Forever — forever — Oh, sun, look down and smile 72 Sun and Saddle Leather If the snowflake specks the desert Or the yucca blooms awhile. Ay! what gloom the mountain covers Where the drift in clouds shade hov- ers/ Ay! the trail o^ parted lovers. Where ^^ forever' lasts a mile! 73 Sun and Saddle Leather BACHIN* Our lives are hid; our trails are strange; We're scattered through the West In canyon cool, on blistered range Or windy mountain crest. Wherever Nature drops her ears And bares her claws to scratch, From Yuma to the north frontiers, You'll likely find the bach', You will, The shy and sober bach'! Our days are sun and storm and mist, The same as any life, Except that in our trouble list We never count a wife. Each has a reason why he's lone, But keeps it 'neath his hat; Or, if he's got to tell some one, Confides it to his cat, He does, Just tells it to his cat. 74 Sun and Saddle Leather We're young or old or slow or fast, But all plumb versatyle. The mighty bach' that fires the blast Kin serve up beans in style. The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows Kin mix the biscuits true — We earn our grub by drippin' brows And cook it by 'em too, We do. We cook it by 'em too. We like to breathe unbranded air, Be free of foot and mind, And go or stay, or sing or swear. Whichever we're inclined. An appetite, a conscience clear, A pipe that's rich and old Are loves that always bless and cheer And never cry nor scold, They don't. They never cry nor scold. Old Adam bached some ages back And smoked his pipe so free, 75 Sun and Saddle Leather A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack Beneath a mango tree. He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways, And scripture proves the same, For Adam's only happy days Was 'fore the woman came, They was, All 'fore the woman came. 76 Sun and Saddle Leather THE GLORY TRAIL {High-Chin Bob) 'Way high up the Mogollons, Among the mountain tops, A lion cleaned a yearlings bones And licked his thankful chops, When on the picture who should ride, A-trippin' down a slope, But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride And mavVick hungry rope. ^^Oh, glory he to me I' says he, ^^ And fame's unjadin' flowers! All meddlin' hands are far away; I ride my good top-hawse today And Fm, top-rope of the Lazy J — Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!'' That lion licked his paw so brown And dreamed soft dreams of veal — And then the circlin' loop sung down And roped him 'round his meal. He yowled quick fury to the world Till all the hills yelled back; 77 Sun and Saddle Leather The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled And Bob caught up the slack. "Oh, glory be to me/* laughs he. ^'W e hit the glory trail. No human man as I have read Darst loop a rag in lions head, Nor ever hawse could drag one dead Until we told the tale/* 'Way high up the Mogollons That top-hawse done his best, Through whippin' brush and rattlin^ stones, From canyon-floor to crest. But ever when Bob turned and hoped A limp remains to find, A red-eyed lion, belly roped But healthy, loped behind. "Oh, glory be to me/' grunts he, "This glory trail is rough, Yet even till the Judgment Morn Til keep this dally * round the horn. For never any hero born Could stoop to holler: ' 'NuffT _ tf Sun and Saddle Leather Three suns had rode their circle home Beyond the desert's rim, And turned their star-herds loose to roam The ranges high and dim; Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross Bob pounded, weak and wan, For pride still glued him to his hawse And glory drove him on. ^^Ohf glory be to me^ sighs he. *^He kaint be drug to death, But now I know beyond a doubt Them heroes I have read about Was only fools that stuck it out To end of mortal breathJ ft 'Way high up the Mogollons A prospect man did swear That moon dreapis melted down his bones And hoisted up his hair: A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, A lion trailed along, A rider, ga'nt but chin on high, Yelled out a crazy song. 79 Sun and Saddle Leather it Oh, glory he to meT cries he, And to my noble noose! Oh, stranger, tell my pards below I took a rampin dream in tow. And if I never lay him low, ril never turn him loose!'* 80 Sun and Saddle Leather BACON You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin But of ail grub we love you the best. You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin And helped us win out in the West, You froze with us up on the Laramie trail; You sweat with us down at Tucson ; When Injun was painted and white man was pale You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail And load up our Colts and hang on. YouVe sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain Over campfires of sagebrush and oak; The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main Have carried your savory smoke. YouVe friendly to miner or puncher or priest; You're as good in December as May; You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased 8^ Sun and Saddle Leather And the rough course of empire to westward was greased By the bacon we fried on the way. WeVe said that you weren't fit for white men to eat And your virtues we often forget. WeVe called you by names that I darsn't repeat, But we love you and swear by you yet. Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin', All the westerners join in the toast. From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine, From Canada down to the Mexican Line, From Omaha out to the coast! 82 Sun and Saddle Leather THE LOST PARDNER I ride alone and hate the boys I meet. Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so. I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite — And yet I liked 'em just a week ago. I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares! The bird songs make me sore. I seem the only thing on earth that cares 'Cause Al ain't here no more! 'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur — And, when I raised him up so limp and weak. One look before his eyes begun to blur And then — the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak! And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, And after year on year When we had always trailed it side by side. He went — and left me here! 8^ Sun and Saddle Leather We loved each other in the way men do And never spoke about it, Al and me, But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true Was more than any woman's kiss could be. We knowed — and if the way was smooth or rough, The weather shine or pour, While I had him the rest seemed good enough — But he ain't here no more! What is there out beyond the last divide? Seems like that country must be cold and dim. He'd miss the sunny range he used to ride, And he'd miss me, the same as I do him. It's no use thinkin' — all I'd think or say Could never make it clear. Out that dim trail that only leads one way He's gone — and left me here! The range is empty and the trails are blind, And I don't seem but half myself today. I wait to hear him ridin' up behind 8^^ Sun and Saddle Leather And feel his knee rub mine the good old way. He's dead — and what that means no man kin tell. Some call it '^gone before." Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well That he ain't here no morel 85 Sun and Saddle Leather GOD'S RESERVES One time, 'way back where the year marks fade, God said : ''I see I must lose my West, The prettiest part of the world I made. The place where I've always come to rest, For the White Man grows till he fights for bread And he begs and prays for a chance to spread. *^Yet I won't give all of my last retreat; I'll help him to fight his long trail through, But I'll keep some land from his field and street The way that it was when the world was new. He'll cry for it all, for that's his way. And yet he may understand some day." And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin, God stripped some places to sand and clay And dried up the beds where the streams had been. 86 Sun and Saddle Leather He marked His reserves with these plain signs And stationed His rangers to guard the lines. Then the White Man came, as the East growed old, And blazed his trail with the wreck of war. He riled the rivers to hunt for gold And found the stufif he was lookin' for; Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts And gnashed through the hills with railroad cuts. He flung out his barb-wire fences wide And plowed up the ground where the grass was high. He stripped off the trees from the mountain side And ground out his ore where the streams run by. Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar. And the White Man was feelin' at home once more. But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things __ Sun and Saddle Leather That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves, Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs And guarded the lines of God's reserves. So the folks all shy from the desert land, 'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand. There the world's the same as the day 'twas new, With the land as clean as the smokeless sky And never a noise as the years have flew, But the sound of the warm w^ind driftin' by; And there, alone, with the man's world far, There's a chance to think who you really are. And over the reach of the desert bare, When the sun drops low and the day wind stills. Sometimes you kin almost see Him there. As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills, A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken And restin' Himself from the noise of men. 88 Sun and Saddle Leather THE MARRIED MAN There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door And watches the evenin' skies. He's sat there a thousand evenin's before And I reckon he will till he dies. El pobre! * I reckon he will till he dies, And hear through the dim, quiet air Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep And the creak of her rockabye chair. Once we made camp where the last light would fail And the east wasn't white till we'd start, But now he is deaf to the call of the trail And the song of the restless heart. El pobre! the song of the restless heart That you hear in the wind from the dawn! He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things, For a slow little song that a tired woman sings And a smoke when his dry day is gone. *"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellonv." Sun and Saddle Leather IVe rode in and told him of lands that were strange, Where I'd drifted from glory to dread. He'd tell me the news of his little old range And the cute things his kid had said! El pobre! the cute things his kid had said! And the way six-year Billy could ride! And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal And thought of him like he had died. He rides in old circles and looks at old sights And his life is as flat as a pond. He loves the old skyline he watches of nights And he don't seem to care for beyond. El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond, Nor the room he could find, there, for joy. "Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day. But he only just smiled in a pityin' way While he braided a quirt for his boy. He preaches that I orter fold up my wings And that even wild geese find a nest. 90 C<3 C5 ^ ^ "^ S ^ Sun and Saddle Leather That "woman" and "wimmen'^ are different things And a saddle nap isn't a rest. El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest And he's less for the wind and the fight, Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shad- ows rise And Fm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes, I wonder, sometimes, if he's right. I've courted the wind and I've followed her free From the snows that the low stars have kissed To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea, Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed. El pobrel Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed. And it mebbe is more than I've won — Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep. And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep When I'm tired from the wind and the sun. 91 Sun and Saddle Leather THE OLD COW MAN I rode across a valley range I hadn't seen for years. The trail was all so spoilt and strange It nearly fetched the tears. I had to let ten fences down (The fussy lanes ran wrong) And each new line would make me frown And hum a mournin' song. Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Hear ^em stretchin of the wire! The nester brand is on the land; I reckon Fll retire, While progress toots her brassy horn And makes her motor buzz, I thank the Lord I wasn't born No later than I was. 'Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss, Belonged in pardnership to God, The Government and us. 92 Sun and Saddle Leather With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come, I loved my fellow man the best When he was scattered some. Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Close and closer cramps the wire. There's hardly play to back away And call a man a liar. Their house has locks on every door; Their land is in a crate. These ain't the plains of God no more, They're only real estate. There's land where yet no ditchers dig Nor cranks experiment; It's only lovely, free and big And isn't worth a cent. I pray that them who come to spoil May wait till I am dead Before they foul that blessed soil With fence and cabbage head. Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Far and farther crawls the wire, 93 Sun and Saddle Leather To crowd and pinch another inch Is all their hearths desire. The world is overstocked with men And some will see the day When each must keep his little pen, But ril be far away. When my old soul hunts range and rest Beyond the last divide, Just plant me in some stretch of West That's sunny, lone and wide. Let cattle rub my tombstone down And coyotes mourn their kin, Let hawses paw and tromp the moun' But don't you fence it in! Oh, ifs squeak! squeak! squeak! And they pen the land with wire. They figure fence and copper cents Where we laughed 'round the fire. Job cussed his birthday, night and morn, In his old land of Uz, But Fm just glad I wasn't born no later than I was! 94 Sun and Saddle Leather THE PLAINSMEN Men of the older, gentler soil, Loving the things that their fathers wrought — Worn old fields of their fathers' toil, Scarred old hills where their fathers fought — Loving their land for each ancient trace, Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face. Such as they never can understand The way we have loved you, young, young land! Born of a free, world-wandering race. Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod. What did we care for the fathers' place. Having ours fresh from the hand of God? Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you When from the unreckoned miles of you. Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, Youth unto youth called, young, young land? 95 Sun and Saddle Leather North, where the hurrying seasons changed Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, Setting our days to a saddle song. Through the icy challenge you flung to us, Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us, Following far as the rainbow spanned, Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land! South, where the sullen black mountains guard Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun. Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard. Laughing or cursing, we rode and won. Drunk with the virgin white fire of you, Hotter than thirst was desire of you ; Straight in our faces you burned your brand. Marking your chosen ones, young, young land. 96 Sun and Saddle Leather When did we long for the sheltered gloom Of the older game with its cautious odds? Gloried we always in sun and room, Spending our strength like the younger gods. By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, By the pain that tested the man in us. By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, You were our true-love, young, young land. When the last free trail is a prime, fenced lane And our graves grow weeds through for- getful Mays, Richer and statelier then you'll reign, Mother of men whom the world will praise. And your sons will love you and sigh for you, Labor and battle and die for you, But never the fondest will understand The way we have loved you, young, young land. 97 Sun and Saddle Leather THE WESTERNER My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, And each one sleeps alone. Their trails may dim to the grass and rains^ For I choose to make my own. I lay proud claim to their blood and name, But I lean on no dead kin; My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. They built high towns on their old log sills, Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, But with new, live rock from the savage hills I'll build as they only dreamed. The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, Till the rails glint down the pass; The desert spryigs into fruit and wheat And I lay the stones of a solid street Over yesterday's untrod grass. 98 Sun and Saddle Leather I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth Or the way he makes his prayer. I grant him a white man's room on earth If his game is only square. While he plays it straight Fll call him mate; If he cheats I drop him flat. Old class and rank are a wornout lie, For all clean men are as good as I, And a king is only that. I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state That will spoon me out my food. A stout heart sings in the fray with fate And the shock and sweat are good. From noon to noon all the earthly boon That I ask my God to spare Is a little daily bread in store, With the room to fight the stroi^g for more. And the weak shall get their share. The sunrise plains are a tender haze And the sunset seas are gray, But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze Over me and the big today. 99 Sun and Saddle Leather What good to me is a vague ^'maybe" Or a mournful "might have been," For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. lOO Sun and Saddle Leather THE WIND IS BLOWIN' My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars; A hoof clicks out a spark. The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars ; The trail twists down the dark. The ridge pines whimper to the pines below. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. The birch has yellowed since I saw you last, The Fall haze blued the creeks, The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past. But still, above the peaks. The same stars twinkle that we used to know. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. The stars up yonder wait the end of time But earth fires soon go black. I trip and wander on the trail I climb — A fool who will look back To glimpse a fire dead a year ago. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. lOI Sun and Saddle Leather Who says the lover kills the man in me? Beneath the day's hot blue This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free To laugh an hour or two. But now it wavers like a wounded doe. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. 1 02 Sun and Saddle Leather ON BOOT HILL Up from the prairie and through the pines, Over your straggling headboard lines Winds of the West go by. You must love them, you booted dead, More than the dreamers who died in bed — You old-timers who took your lead Under the open sky! Leathery knights of the dim old trail, Lawful fighters or scamps from jail. Dimly your virtues shine. Yet who am I that I judge your wars. Deeds that my daintier soul abhors. Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors. Manlier sins than mine. Dear old mavericks, customs mend. I would not glory to make an end Marked like a homemade sieve. But with a touch of your own old pride Grant me to travel the trail I ride. Gamely and gaily, the way you died. Give me the nerve to live. 103 Sun and Saddle Leather Ay, and for you I will dare assume Some Valhalla of sun and room Over the last divide. There, in eternally fenceless West, Rest to your souls, if they care to rest, Or else fresh horses beyond the crest And a star-speckled range to ride. 104 GRASS GROWN TRAILS Grass Grown Trails THE COYOTE Trailing the last gleam after, In the valleys emptied of light, Ripples a whimsical laughter Under the wings of the night. Mocking the faded west airily, Meeting the little bats merrily. Over the mesas it shrills To the red moon on the hills. Mournfully rising and waning, Far through the moon-silvered land Wails a weird voice of complaining Over the thorns and the sand. Out of blue silences eerily. On to the black mountains wearily. Till the dim desert is crossed. Wanders the cry, and is lost. Here by the fire's ruddy streamers, Tired with our hopes and our fears. We inarticulate dreamers Hark to the song of our years. 107 Sun and Saddle Leather Up to the brooding divinity Far in that sparkling infinity Cry our despair and delight, Voice of the Western night! 1 08 Grass Grown Trails THE FREE WIND I went and worked in a drippin' mine 'Mong the rock and the oozin' wood, For the dark seemed lit with a dollar sign And they told me money's good. So I jumped and sweat for a flat-foot boss Till my pocket bulged with pay, But my heart it fought like a led bronc hawse Till I flung my drill away. For the wind, the wind, the good free wind, She sang from the pine divide That the sky was blue and the young years few And the world was big and wide! From the poor, bare hills all gashed with scars I rode till the range was crossed; Then I watched the gold of sunset bars And my camp-sparks glintin^ toward the stars And laughed at the pay I'd lost, I went and walked in the city way Down a glitterin' canyon street, For the thousand lights looked good and gay And they said life there was sweet. 109 Sun and Saddle Leather So the wimmen laughed while night reeled by And the wine ran red and gold, But their laugh was the starved wolf's huntin' cry And their eyes were hard and old. And the wind, the wind, the clean free wind, She laughed through the April rains: '^Come out and live by the wine I give In the smell of the greenin' plains!" And I looked back once to the smoky towers Where my face had bleached so pale. Then loped through the lash of drivin show- ers To the uncut sod and the prairie flowers And the old wide life o' the trail. I went and camped in the valley trees Where the thick leaves whispered rest, For love lived there 'mong the honey bees, And they told me love was best. There the twilight lanes were cool and dim And the orchards pink with May, Yet my eyes they'd lift to the valley's rim Where the desert reached away. no Grass Grown Trails And the wind, the wind, the wild free wind, She called from the web love spun To the unbought sand of the lone trail land And the sweet hot kiss o' the sun! Oh, I looked back twice to the valley lass, Then I set my spurs and sung, For the sun sailed up above the pass And the mornin^ wind was in the grass And my hawse and me was young. III Sun and Saddle Leather THE MEDICINE MAN "The trail is long to the bison herd, The prairie rotten with rain, And look! the wings of the thunder bird Blacken the hills again. A medicine man the gods may balk — Go fight for us with the thunder hawk!" The medicine man flung out his arms. "I am weary of woman talk And cook-fire witching and childish charms! I fight you the thunder hawk!" Then he took his arrows and climbed the butte While the warriors watched him, scared and mute. A wind from the wings began to blow And the arrows of rain to shoot. As the medicine man raised high his bow. Standing alone on the butte, And the day went dark to the cowering band As the arrow leaped from his steady hand. 112 Grass Grown Trails For the thunder hawk swooped down to fight And who in his way could stand? The flash of his eye was blinding bright And his wing-clap stunned the land. The braves yelled terror and loosed the rain And scattered far on the drowning plain. So, after the thunder hawk swept by, They found him, scorched and slain, Yet (fighting with gods, who fears to die?) He smiled with a light disdain. That smile was glory to all his clan But none dared touch the medicine man. 113 Sun and Saddle Leather THE PIANO AT RED'S 'Twas a hole called Red's Saloon In La Vaca town; 'Twas an old piano there, Blistered, marred and brown, And a man more battered still, Takin's drinks for fees. Played all night from memory On the yellow keys. While the glasses clinked and clashed On the sloppy bar, That piano's dreamy voice Took you out and far, Ridin' old, forgotten trails Underneath the moon, Till you heard a drunken yell Back in Red's Saloon. Whirr of wheel and slap of cards, Talk of loss and gain, Mixed with hum of honey bees Down a sunny lane. 114 Grass Grown Trails Glimpses of your mother's face, Touch of girlish lips Often made you lose your count As you stacked your chips. Scufflin' feet and thud of fists, Curses hot as fire — Still the music sang of love, Longin', lost desire, Dreams that never could have been, Joys that couldn't stay — While the man upon the floor Wiped the blood away. Then, some way, it followed you. Slept upon your breast. Trailed you out across the range. Never let you rest; And for days and days you'd hum Just one scrap of tune — Funny place for music, though, Back in Red's Saloon! 115 Sun and Saddle Leather A RANGER 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 circuit-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 kill- er'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, ri6 Co ^ R Grass Grown Trails For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border And 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 play To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake. And the mountains heaved and rippled far away And the desert broiled as on the devil's prong But he didn't mind the devil if his head kep' clear and level And the hoofs beat out their quick and steady song. Came the yellow west, and on far-off rise Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim, 117 Sun and Saddle Leather And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes While 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 tighter As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark. Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher Through the mountains that look into Mexico, And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire And the miles and minutes dragged un- earthly slow. Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire And the canyon walls flung thunder back again. Grass Grown Trails And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten. Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy, Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back That convinced the sinner — just above the eye. So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon, Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay astraddle While 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. 119 Sun and Saddle Leather As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse. But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale; He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pil- grim stranger And he labored with the sinners of the trail. 1 20 Grass Grown Trails ON THE DRIVE Oh, days whoop by with swingin' lope And days slip by a-sleepin', And days must drag, with lazy rope, Along the trail a-creepin\ Heeya-a! you cattle; drift away! Heeyow! the slow hoofs sift away And sunny dust clouds lift away, Along the trail a-creepin'. My pard may sing of sighin' love And I of roarin' battle, But all the time we sweat and shove And follow up the cattle. Heeya-a I the bawlin' crowd of youl Heeyow the draggin^ cloud of you! We're glad and gay and proud of you, We men that follow cattle! But all the world's a movin' herd Where men drift on together, And some may spur and some are spurred, But most are horns and leather! 121 Sun and Saddle Leather Heeya-a! the rider sings along, Heeyow! the reined hawse swings along And drifts and drags and flings along The mob of horns and leather. The outlaws fight to break away; The weak and lame are crawlin', But only dead ones quit the play, The dust-cloud and the bawlin\ Heeya-a! it's grief and strife to us; Heeyow! it's child and wife to us; By leap or limp, it's life to us; The dust-cloud and the bawlin'. Some dream ahead to pastures green, Some stare ahead to slaughter. But, anyway, night drops between And brings us rest and water. Heeya-a! you cattle, drift away! Heeyow! the dust-clouds lift away; The glarin' miles will shift away And leave us rest and water. 122 Grass Grown Trails SATURDAY NIGHT Out from the ranch on a Saturday night, Ridin' a hawse that's a shootin' star, Close on the flanks of the flyin' daylight, Racin' with dark for the J L Bar. Fox-trot and canter will do for the day; It's a gallop, my love, when I'm ridin' your way. Up the arroyo the trippin' hoofs beat, Flingin' the hinderin' gravel wide; Now your light glimmers across the mes- quite, Glimpsed from the top of a rocky divide; Down through a draw where the shadows are gray I'm comin', my darlin', I'm ridin' your way. West, where the sky is a-blushin' afar, Matchin' your cheeks as the daylight dies, West, where the shine of a glitterin' star Hints of the light I will find in your eyes, 123 Sun and Saddle Leather Night-birds are passin' the signal to say: "He's comin', my lady, he's ridin' your way." Hoof-beats are measurin' seconds so fast, Clickin' them off with an easy rhyme; Minutes will grow into months at the last, Mebbe to bring us a marryin' time. Life would be singin' and work would be play If every night I was ridin' your way. 124 Grass Grown Trails SOUTHWESTERN JUNE Lazy little hawse, it's noon And we've wasted saddle leather, But the mornin's slip so soon When we drift around together In this lazy, shinin' weather, Sunny, easy-goin' June. Who kin study shamblin' herds, How they calve or die or wander. When the bridegroom mockin'-birds, Singin' here and there and yonder, Trill that June's too bright to ponder And life's just too fine for words! Down the desert's hazy blue See the tall gray whirlwinds f arin'. Slow, contented sort of crew Trailin' 'cross the sunny barren, Headed nowhere and not carin' Just the same as me and you. From a world of unfenced room Just a breath of breeze is strayin', Triflin' with the yucca bloom 125 Sun and Saddle Leather Till its waxy bells are swayin', On my cheek warm kisses layin' Soft as touch of ostrich plume. When the July lightnin' gleams This brown range will start to working Hills be green and tricklin' streams Down each deep arroyo lurkin'; Now the sleepy land is shirking Drowzin', smilin' in her dreams. Steppin' little hawse, it's noorK Turquoise blue the far hills glimmer; "Sun — sun — sun," the mockers croon Where the yellow range lands shimmer, And our sparklin' spirits simmer For we're young yet, and it's June! 126 Grass Grown Trails THE NIGHT HERDER I laughed when the dawn was a-peepin' And swore in the blaze of the noon, But down from the stars is a-creepin* A softer, oneasier tune. Away, and away, and away. The whisperin' night seems to say Though the trail-weary cattle are sleepin' And the desert dreams under the moon. By day, if the roarin' herd scatters, My heart it is steady and set. But now, when they're quiet, it patters Like the ball in a spinnin' roulette. Away, and away, and away To the rim where the heat lightnin's play — Out there is the one trail that matters To the valley I never forget. There's a pass where the black shadows shiver. Then a desert all silvery blue, A divide, and the breaks by the river, Then a light in the valley — and you I 127 Sun and Saddle Leather Away, and away, and away — 'Tis a month till I see you by day, But under the moon it's forever And the weary trail winds the world through. The coyotes are laughin' out yonder, A happy owl whoops on the hill — Oh, wild, lucky things that kin wander As far and as free as they will! Away, and away, and away. And I that am wilder than they Must loll in my saddle and ponder Or sing for the cows to be still ! I see the dark river waves wrinkle; The valley trees droop in a swoon ; You're dreamin' where valley bells tinkle And half-asleep mockin'-birds croon. Away, and away, and away — Do your dainty dreams ever stray To a camp where the desert stars twinkle And a lone rider sings to the moon? 128 Grass Grown Trails HAWSE WORK Stop! there's the wild bunch to right of the trail, Heads up and ears up and ready to sail, Led by a mare with the green in her eyes, Mean as the devil and nearly as wise. Circle 'em, boys, and the pass is the place; Settle your heels for a rowelin' race. Oh, hawse work! the sweep and the drift of it! Hawse work! the leap and the lift of it! Who wants to fly in the empty blue sky When he kin ride on the hawse work! Hi! and they're off in a whirlwind. So! Straight in the line we don't want 'em to go ; Light-footed, wild-hearted, look at 'em flit! Head 'em, now! rowel, and turn loose the bit! Whee! and the rip and the rush and the beat, Rattlin' rocks and the whippin' mesquite ! Oh, hawse work! the swing and the swell of it! Hawse work! the sing and the yell of it! 129 Sun and Saddle Leather Holler goodbye to the dull and the dry; Leave *em behind on the hawse work. Shorty is down with his hawse in a heap; Might have pulled in for a gully so deep. Reddy he rides like he's tired of his life; Ought to be thinkin' he's got a wife — Shrinkin' and thinkin' of bones that may crunch? No! Yip! weVe headed the mare and her bunch! Oh, hawse work! the rip and the tear of it! Hawse work! the dip and the dare of it! Life flutters high when you're lookin' to die; That is the fun of the hawse work. Hi! and you're foolish for once, old lass, Streakin' it straight for the trap in the pass. Into the canyon the hoof-thunder drums — Where is that holdup? Hump! there he comes, Crow-hoppin' down from the bluff — too late! Damn! and they're gone for a tour of the State! 130 Grass Grown Trails Oh, hawse work, the rant and the fuss of it! Hawse work! the pant and the cuss of it! Yet when I sigh and the world is a lie Give me a day on the hawse work! ii3i Sun and Saddle Leather HALF-BREED Fathers with eyes of ancient ire, Old eagles shorn of flight, Forget the breed of my blue-eyed sire While I sit this hour by the council fire, All red in the fire's red light. Chant me the day of the war-steed's prance And the signal fires on the buttes, Of the Cheyenne scalps on the lifted lance, Of the women raped from the Pawnee dance And the wild death trail of the Utes. Sing me the song of the bufifalo run To the edge of the canyon snare, With the roaring plunge when the meat was won And the flash of knives in the low red sun And the good blood smell in the air. Chant me the might of the Manitou — But the old song drags and dies. Old things have drifted the sunset through Till the very God of the land comes new From the rim where the young stars rise! J32 Grass Grown Trails Fathers, red men, the red flame falls, And over the dim dawn lands My white soul hunts me again and calls To the lanes of law and the shadow of walls And a woman with soft white hands. 133 Sun and Saddle Leather TO HER Cut loose a hundred rivers, Roaring across my trail, Swift as the lightning quivers. Loud as a mountain gale. I build me a boat of slivers; I w^eave me a sail of fur. And ducks may founder and die But I Cross that river to herl Bunch the deserts together. Hang three suns in the vault; Scorch the lizards to leather, Strangle the springs with salt. I fly with a buzzard feather, I dig me wells with a spur. And snakes may famish and fry But I Cross that desert to herl Murder my sleep with revel; Make me ride through the bogs 134 Grass Grown Trails Knee to knee with the devil, Just ahead of the dogs. I harrow the Bad Lands level, I teach the tiger to purr, For saints may wallow and lie But I Go clean-hearted to her! 135 Sun and Saddle Leather THE LOCOED HORSE As I was ridin' all alone And winkin' in the noontime glare, I seen a hawse all hide and bone Walk 'round a willow dead and bare — Walk 'round and 'round, with limp and groan, And hunt the shade that wasn't there. And then says I : "That sorry steed Has been and et the loco weed." Near by a spreadin' live oak laid Its wide, cool shadow on the ground. But then he knowed that willow's shade Was just a little further 'round And reckoned, each slow step he made, That in the next it would be found. There, like a coon, his thoughts were treed Since he had et the loco weed. The water trail went windin' by, The sweet brown grass furred every slope And he was ga'nt and starved and dry, 136 Grass Grown Trails Yet, on his ghostly picket rope Led Vound and 'round, he still must try- That hopeless circle of his hope. He didn't think of drink or feed Since he had et the loco weed. A playful wild bunch topped the hill And stared with eyes all impish bright And whinnered to him sweet and shrill, Then flung their heads and loped from sight, Yet from that everlastin' mill They couldn't make him stray a mite. He never seen their gay stampede For he had et the loco weed. When next that range I had to ride Beneath his willow tree he lay. Just wornout hoofs and faded hide And big black birds that flopped away; But yet I reckon that he died Still hopeful — happy — who kin say? Sometimes I think I mostly need To eat some sort of loco weed. 137 Sun and Saddle Leather THE LONG WAY Two miles of ridin' from the school, without a bit of trouble — The main road hit her father's ranch as straight as you could fall. I led her by a shorter cut that made the dis- tance double And guided her along a trail that wasn't there at all. The long way, the long way, but ridin* it to- gether I never cared a feather for the length and never shall, With happy hoofs that shuffled to the singin saddle leather And laughin wind that ruffled sunny miles of chaparral. The trail of our meanderin' would tire a wolf to follow; The range was hardly wide enough for us to go around. ^38 Grass Grown Trails I dared to hope she liked it, bare hill and thorny hollow, And prayed that all her likin' wasn't wast- ed on the ground. The long way, the long way, and down the wind we drifted, And soon the sand was sifted in our tracks and they were gone, I dreamed of no forgettin* while to me her face was lifted, Nor knowed the sun was setting for her eyes were full of dawn. Perhaps I hoped that we were lost without a trail to guide us. It shocked me like a bullet when the dogs began to bark, And suddenly, from nowhere, the ranch was there beside us, She reined away and left me, and the world was in the dark. 139 Sun and Saddle Leather The long way, the long way, of all my old Septembers, Gone gray like campfire embers when the midnight coyote shrills, One hour stays golden mellow — do you reckon she remembers That sunset fadin yellow through the notches of the hills? 140 Grass Grown Trails FREIGHTIN' Forty miles from Taggart's store, Fifty yet to grind, Heavin' six strung out before, Trailer snubbed behind; Half a world of glarin' sand Prayin' for a tree, Nothin' movin' 'cross the land But the sun and me. Chuck an' luck! luck an' chuck! Grunts the workin' wheels; Lazy gust swirls up the dust From the hawses' heels, I've been young and raced and sung, But I've learnt my load. Slow, slow, on we go Out the stretchin' road. Where the sky-line waves and breaks Shines a misty beach And the blue of ripplin' lakes — Lakes no man kin reach. 141 Sun and Saddle Leather Just beyond my leaders' bits Winds the life I know, Ruts and 'royos, hills and pits In a daylong row. Chuck an* luck! luck an' chuck! Life's more miss than hit. Luck's the thing I dream and sing; Chuck is all I git! 'Neath the sky I crawl and fry Like the horny toad. Slow, slow, on we go Out the stretchin' road. When I reach that sparklin' line Where the ripples run, There'll be just this road of mine And the dust and sun. Mebbe on my last far hill, Where the dream-mist clears, I'll be freightin', freightin' still Down the road of years. Chuck an' luck! luck an chuck! Sky-lines mostly lie, 142 Co Grass Grown Trails Yet they beat the limp mesquite That goes trailin' by. Luck enough to move my stuff — More Fve never knowed. Slow, slow, on we go Out the stretchin^ road. Slim and far our shadow swings; Sun is on his knees. Some one's campin' at the springs — Smell it down the breeze. Chuck time, boys, and sleep besides, When weVe chomped our hay. Durn your dusty, trusty hides! YouVe sho' earned your pay. Chuck an' luck! luck an chuck! Grunts the weary wheels; Dreams untold and sunset gold, Cussin* sweat and meals. If you kin, Lord, let me win, But ril move my load. Slow, slow, on we go Out the stretchin road, 143 Sun and Saddle Leather THE RAINS YouVe watched the ground-hog's shadow and the shiftin' weather signs Till the Northern prairie starred itse'f with flowers ; YouVe seen the snow a-meltin' up among the Northern pines And the mountain creeks a-roarin' with the showers. YouVe blessed the stranger sunlight when the Winter days were done And the Summer creepin' down the budded lanes. Did you ever see a Springtime in the home range of the sun, When the desert land is waitin' for the Rains? The April days are sun and sun; the last thin cloud is fled. It's gold above the eastern mountain crest, Then blaze upon the yellow range all day from overhead And then a stripe of gold across the west. 144 Grass Grown Trails The dry wind mourns among the hills, a-hunt- in' trees and grass, Then down the desert flats it rises higher And sweeps a rollin' dust-storm up and flings it through the pass And fills the evenin^ west with smoulderin' fire. It's sun and sun without a change the lazy length o' May And all the little sun things own the land. The horned toad basks and swells himse'f; the bright swifts dart and play; The rattler hunts or dozes in the sand. The wind comes off the desert like it brushed a bed of coals; The sickly range grass withers down and fails; The bony cattle bawl around the dryin' water holes, Then stagger off along the stony trails. The days crawl on to Summer suns that slower blaze and wheel; The mesas heave and quiver in the noon. 145 Sun and Saddle Leather The mountains they are ashes and the sky is shinin' steel, Though the mockin'-birds are singin' that it's June. And here and there among the hills, a-stand- in' white and tall, The droopin' plumes of yucca flowers gleam, The buzzards circle, circle where the starvin' cattle fall And the whole hot land seems dyin' in a dream. But last across the sky-line comes a thing that's strange and new, A little cloud of saddle blanket size. It blackens 'long the mountains and bulges up the blue And shuts the weary sun-glare from our eyes. Then the lightnin's gash the heavens and the thunder jars the world And the gray of fallin' water wraps the plains, 146 Grass Grown Trails And 'cross the burnin' ranges, down the wind, the word is whirled : "Here's another year of livin', and the Rains!" YouVe seen your fat fields ripplin' with the treasure that they hoard; Have you seen a mountain stretch and rub its eyes? Or bare hills lift their streamin' faces up and thank the Lord, Fairly tremblin' with their gladness and surprise? Have you heard the 'royos singin' and the new breeze hummin' gay, As the greenin' ranges shed their dusty stains — Just a whole dead world sprung back to life and laughin' in a day! Did you ever see the comin' of the Rains? 147 Sun and Saddle Leather THE BORDER When the dreamers of old Coronado, From the hills where the heat ripples run, Made a dust to the far Colorado And wagged their steel caps in the sun, They prayed like the saint and the martyr And swore like the devils below, For a man is both angel and Tartar In the land where the dry rivers flow. Ay, the Border, the sun smitten Border, That fences the Land of the Free, Where the desert glares grim like a warder And the Rio gleams on to the sea; Where ruins, like dreamy old sages. Hint tales of dead empires and ages. Where a young race is rearing the stages Of ambitious empires to be. Came the padres to soften the savage And show him the heavenly goal; Came Spaniards to piously ravage And winnow his flesh from his soul; Grass Grown Trails Then miner and riotous herder, Over-riding white breed of the North, Brought progress, and new sorts of murder, And a kind of perpetual Fourth. Ay, the Border, the whimsical Border, Deep purples and dazzling gold. Soft hearts full of mirthful disorder, Hard faces, sun wrinkled and old, Warm kisses 'neath patio roses. Cold lead as the luck-god disposes. Clean valor fame never discloses. Black trespasses laughingly told! Then out from the peaceful old places Walked the Law, grave, strong and serene. And the harsh elbow-rub of the races Was padded, with writs in between. Then stilled was the strife and the racket That neighborly love might advance — With a knife in the sleeve of its jacket And a gun in the band of its pants. Ay, the Border, the bright, placid Border! It sleeps, like a snake in the sun, 149 Sun and Saddle Leather Like a ^^hole" tamped and primed in due or- der, Like a shining and full throated gun. But the dust-devil dances and staggers And the yucca flower daintily swaggers At her birth from a cluster of daggers, And ever the heat ripples run. Fierce, hot, is the Border's bright daytime. Calm, sweet, the vast night on its plains; White hell on the mesas, its Maytime, A green-and-gold heaven, its Rains. It is grimmer than slumber's dark brother, 'Tis as gay as the mocking-bird likes; It loves like a lioness mother And strikes as the rattlesnake strikes. Ay, the Border, bewildering Border, Our youngest, and oldest, domains. Where the face of the Angel Recorder Knits hard between chuckles and pains, Vast peace, the clear sky's earthly double, Witch cauldron forever a-bubble, Home of mystery, splendor and trouble And a people with sun in their veins. 150 Grass Grown Trails THE BAD LANDS No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide; It is all stark red and gray, And strewn with bones that had lived and died Ere the first man saw the day. When the sharp crests dream in the sunset gleam And the bat through the canyon veers, You will sometimes catch, if you listen long. The tones of the Bad Lands' mystic song, A song of a million years. The place is as dry as a crater cup, Yet you hear, as the stars shine free. From the barren gulches sounding up, The lap of a spawning sea, A breeze that cries where the great ferns rise From the pools on a new-made shore, With the whip and whir of batlike wings And the snarl of slimy, fighting things And the tread of the dinosaur. 151 Sun and Saddle Leather Then the sea voice ebbs through untold morns, And the jungle voices reign — The huntjng howl and the clash of horns And the screech of rage and pain. Harsh and grim is the old earth hymn In that far brute paradise, And as ages drift the rough strains fall To a single note more grim than all. The crack of the glacial ice. So the song runs on, vf\\h shift and change. Through the years that have no name. And the late notes soar to a higher range, But the theme is still the same. Man's battle-cry and the guns' reply Blend in with the old, old rhyme That was traced in the score of the strata marks While millenniums winked like campfire sparks Down the winds of unguessed time. There's a finer fight than of tooth and claw, More clean than of blade and gun, 152 Grass Grown Trails But, fair or foul, by the Great Bard's law 'Twill be fight till the song is done. Not mine to sigh for the song's deep ^ Vhy," Which only the Great Bard hears. My soul steps out to the martial swing Of the brave old song that the Bad Lands sing, The song of a million years. 153 Sun and Saddle Leather THE SPRINGTIME PLAINS Heart of me, are you hearing The drum of hoofs in the rains? Over the Springtime plains I ride Knee to knee with Spring And glad as the summering sun that comes Galloping north through the zodiac! Heart of me, let's forget The plains death white and still, When lonely love through the stillness called Like a smothered stream that sings of Summer Under the snow on a Winter night. Now the frost is blown from the sky And the plains are living again. Lark lovers sing on the sunrise trail, Wild horses call to me out of the noon, Watching me pass with impish eyes. Gray coyotes laugh in the quiet dusk And the plains are glad all day with me. Heart of me, all the way My heart and the hoofs keep time, And the wide, sweet winds from the greening world 154 Grass Grown Trails Shout in my ears a glory song, For nearer, nearer, mile and mile. Over the quivering rim of the plains. Is the valley that Spring and I love best And the waiting eyes of you! 155 Sun and Saddle Leather ON THE OREGON TRAIL We're the prairie pilgrim crew, Sailin' with the sun, Lookin' West to meet a great reward, Trailin' toward a land that's new Like our fathers done, Trustin' in our rifles and the Lord. A-ll set! Go ahead! Out the prairie trail. Leave the woods and settlements behind. Trail and settle, work and fight Till the rollin earth is white, — That's the law and gospel of our kind. Desert suns and throats o' dust, But we never stop; Wimmin-folks are knittin' as they ride. WeVe a breed that, when we must, Fight until we drop, But our work and git-thar is our pride. A-ll set! Go ahead! Up the sandy Platte. Leave the circle smokin' in the dawn, Grass Grown Trails So the comin^ hosts will know, ^Mongst the trails of buffalo Where their darin* brother whites have gone. Night so black 'twould blind a fox, Yells and feathered sleet, Aim the best you kin and trust to luck. Arrows whang the wagon box But all hell kain't beat Rifles from Missoury and Kentuck. A-ll set! Go ahead! Leave the dead to sleep Till the desert sees the Judgment Day, Mourn the good boys laid so low, But we^ll mourn them, on the go — Pawnee! Ogalalla! CTar the way! Far across the glarin' plain See the mountain peaks Glimmer 'long the edge like flecks o' foani. Shove! you oxen, till your chain Stretches out and squeaks; Somewhere out beyond that range is Home! 157 Sun and Saddle Leather A-ll set! Go ahead! Trailin^ toward the West Till the sunset's shinin flag is furled. Ay, our flag's the Western skies, Flag that drew our fathers' eyes. Flag that leads the white man Wound the world. IS8 Grass Grown Trails THE FOREST RANGERS Red is the arch of the nightmare sky, Red are the mountains beneath, Bright where a million red imps leap high, Dancing and snapping their teeth. A keen fight! a clean fight! Shoulder your shovels and follow Up, while they stop in the pines at the top, Shooting their sparks in showers. Up, with your hats ducking under the smoke of it, Next to the scorch of it, into the choke of it! Fight for the ranch in the hollow. Fight! for it is not ours. Why are we fighting from dark to day, From summit to canyon wall? Twice for the Service, and once the pay — Most, the hot fun of it all! A stand fight! a grand fight! Into the smother we wallow, 159 Sun and Saddle Leather Stopping their march where the ridge pines parch Over the shriveling flowers. Stick! with the smoke streaming out of the coats of you, Sweat in the eyes of you, fire in the throats of you! Fight for the ranch in the hollow. Fight! for it is not ours. 1 60 Grass Grown Trails THE YELLOW STUFF By the rim rocks on the hill The canyon side is rifted Where Grasping Gabe, with pick and drill, Once mucked and shot and drifted. His hairy arms were never still; His eyes were never lifted. The yellow stuff/ The yellow stuff/ All day his steel would tinkle And when the blast roared out at last He scanned each rocky wrinkle. That tunneVs face was life to him, And joy and kids and wife to him Its thread of yellow twinkle. By the rim rocks where he wrought A wall that looked eternal Caved in one day and Gabe was caught Snug as a walnut kernel, Shut up with hunger, thirst and thought In dark that was infernal. Sun and Saddle Leather The yellow stuff I The yellow stuff! Then Gabe forgot its uses, And all the gold the hills could hold Looked like a pair of deuces. No joy was dust and ore to him; The gold outside was more to him. That slanted through the spruces. By the rim rocks, far away From helpers or beholders, Gabe worked a lifetime in a day. Then shoved out head and shoulders And cried and kissed the light that lay Upon the sunny boulders. The yellow stuff! The yellow stuff! He blessed the sunset shining. Too high in grade to be assayed And pure beyond refining. What scum his work had doled to him, When God would give such gold to him. Without a lick of mining! 162 Grass Grown Trails THE SHEEP-HERDER All day across the sagebrush flat Beneath the sun of June, My sheep they loaf and feed and blat Their never changin' tune. And then at night time, when they lay As quiet as a stone, I hear the gray wolf far away; ''Alo-one!" he says, "Alo-one!" A-a! m-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! The tune the woollies sing; It's rasped my ears, it seems, for years, Though really just since spring; And nothing far as I kin see Around the circle's sweep, But sky and plains, my dreams and me And them infernal sheep, IVe got one book — it's poetry — A bunch of pretty wrongs An Eastern lunger gave to me; He said 'twas "shepherd songs." 163 Sun and Saddle Leather But though that poet sure is deep And has sweet things to say, He never seen a herd of sheep, Or smelt them, anyway. A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! My woollies greasy gray, An awful change has hit the range Since that old poet's day. For you're just silly, on'ry brutes And I look like distress And my pipe aint the kind that toots And there's no ^^shepherdess." Yet 'way down home in Kansas State, Bliss Township, Section Five, There's one that promised me to wait, The sweetest girl alive. That's why I salt my wages down And mend my clothes with strings. While others blow their pay in town For booze and other things. A-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! My Minnie, don't be sad; 164 Grass Grown Trails Next year we^ll lease that splendid piece That corners on your dad, We^ll drive to '^literary,* dear, The way we used to do And turn my lonesome workin' here To happiness for you. Suppose, down near that rattlers' den, While I sit here and dream, Fd see a bunch of ugly men And hear a woman scream. Suppose I'd let my rifle shout And drop the men in rows, And then the woman should turn out — My Minnie! — just suppose. A-a! ma-a! ba-al eh-eh-ehf The tune would then be gay; There is, I mind, a parson kind Just forty miles away. Why Eden would come back again With sage and sheep corrals, And I could swing a singin' pen To write her '^pastorals/' Sun and Saddle Leather I pack a rifle on my arm And jump at flies that buzz; There's nothin' here to do me harm I sometimes wish there was. If through that brush above the pool A red should creep — and creep — Wah! cut down on 'im! Stop, you fool! That's nothin' but a sheep. A-a! ma-a! ba-a! — Hell! Oh, sky and plain and bluff! Unless my mail comes up the trail Fm locoed, sure enough, Whafs that? — a dust-whiff near the butte Right where my last trail ran, A movin' speak, a — wagon! Hoot! Thank God! here comes a man* 1 66 Grass Grown Trails THE OLD PROSPECTOR There's a song in the canyon below me And a song in the pines overhead, As the sunlight crawls down from the snow- line And rustles the deer from his bed. With mountains of green all around me And mountains of white up above And mountains of blue down the sky-line, I follow the trail that I love. My hands they are hard from the shovel, My leg is rheumatic by streaks And my face it is wrinkled from squintin' At the glint of the sun on the peaks. You pity the prospector sometimes As if he was out of your grade. Why, you are all prospectors, bless you! Fm only a branch of the trade. You prospect for wealth and for wisdom, You prospect for love and for fame; Our work don't just match as to details, But the principle's mostly the same. 167 Sun and Saddle Leather While I swing a pick in the mountains You slave in the dust and the heat And scratch with your pens for a color And assay the float of the street. You wail that your wisdom is salted, That fame never pays for the mill, That wealth hasn't half enough value To pay you for climbin' the hill. You even say love's El Dorado, A pipe dream that never endures — Well, my luck ain't all that I want it, But I never envied you yours. You're welcome to what the town gives you, To prizes of laurel and rose. But leave me the song in the pine tops, The breath of a wind from the snows. With mountains of green all around me And mountains of white up above And mountains of blue down the sky-line, I'll follow the trail that I love. 1 68 ^ Ov <^ ^ «&. (3 ►^ 5 •^ '^ 8 ^ 5^ <3 Vj V3 ^ Q <^ V. -J5J « 55 .'^S^ ^ 5 R 5^ Sn. hi Grass Grown Trails GOD OF THE OPEN God of the open, though I am so simple Out in the wind I can travel with you, Noons when the hot mesas ripple and dimple, Nights when the stars glitter cool in the blue. Too far you stand for the reach of my hand, Yet I can feel your big heart as it beats Friendly and warm in the sun or the storm. Are you the same as the God of the streets? Yours is the sunny blue roof I ride under ; Mountain and plain are the house you have made. Sometimes it roars with the wind and the thunder But in your house I am never afraid. He? Oh, they give him the license to live, Aim, in their ledgers, to pay him his due. Gather by herds to present him with words — Words! What are words when my heart talks with you? 169 Sun and Saddle Leather God of the open, forgive an old ranger Penned among walls where he never sees through. Well do I know, though their God seems a stranger. Earth has no room for another like you. Shut out the roll of the wheels from my soul; Send me a wind that is singing and sweet Into this place where the smoke dims your face. Help me see you in the God of the street. 170 Grass Grown Trails THE PASSING OF THE TRAIL There was a sunny, savage land Beneath the eagle's wings, And there, across the thorns and sand, Wild rovers rode as kings. Is it a yarn from long ago And far across the sea? Could that land be the land we know? Those roving riders we? The traiVs a lane, the trail's a lane. How comes it, pard of mine? Within a day it slipped away And hardly left a sign. Now history a tale has gained To please the younger ears — A race of kings that rose, and reigned, And passed in fifty years! Dream back beyond the cramping lanes To glories that have been — The camp smoke on the sunset plains, The riders loping in: 171 Sun and Saddle Leather Loose rein and rowelled heel to spare, The wind our only guide, For youth was in the saddle there With half a world to ride. The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. Dead is the branding fire. The prairies wild are tame and mild, All close-corralled with wire. The sunburnt demigods who ranged And laughed and lived so free Have topped the last divide, or changed To men like you and me. Where, in the valley fields and fruits, Now hums a lively street, We milled a mob of fighting brutes Among the grim mesquite. It looks a far and fearful way — The trail from Now to Then — But time is telescoped to-day, A hundred years in ten. The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. Our brows are scarcely seamed, 172 Grass Grown Trails But we may scan a mighty span Methuselah ne'er dreamed. Yet, pardner, we are dull and old, With paltry hopes and fears, Beside those rovers gay and bold Far riding down the years! 173 Sun and Saddle Leather LATIGO TOWN You and I settled this section together; Youthful and mettled and wild were we then. You were the gladdest town out in the weather; I was the maddest young scamp among men. Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, Child of the mesa sun-flooded and brown, That hour of gracious romance and good leather. Splendid, audacious, comes never again. Many a rover as brash as a sparrow, Loping in over the amethyst plains, Reined for your spinning roulette and your faro. Light-hearted sinning and fiddled refrains. Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, We made a past you are still living down. Keen for a tussle, with salt in our marrow. Steel in our muscles and sun in our veins! 174 Grass Grown Trails Rowels that jingled and rigs that were tat- tered, Yet how we tingled to dreams that were high! Slim was the treasure we gathered and scat- tered, But can you measure the wind and the sky? Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, Freedom and youth were a robe and a crown. Then we were bosses of riches that mattered, Laughing at losses of things you can buy. Town that was fiery and careless and Spanish, Boy that was wiry and wayward and glad — Over the border to limbo they vanish; Progress and order decreed they were bad. Latigo Town, ay, Latigo Town, Pursy with culture and civic renown. Never censorious progress can banish Dreams of the glorious youth that we had! 175 Sun and Saddle Leather THE BUFFALO TRAIL Deeply the buffalo trod it Beating it barren as brass; Now the soft rain-fingers sod it, Green to the crest of the pass. Backward it slopes into history; Forward it lifts into mystery. Here is but wind in the grass. Backward the millions assemble, Bannered with dust overhead, Setting the prairie a-tremble Under the might of their tread. Forward the sky-line is glistening And to the reach of our listening Drifts not a sound from the dead. Quick, or swift seasons fade it! Look on his works while they show. This is the bison. He made it. Thus say the old ones who know. This is the bison — a-pondering Vague as the prairie wind wandering Over the green or the snow. 176 Grass Grown Trails THE CAMP FIRE'S SONG I reared your fathers long ago — Big, savage children — from the breast, But in the circle of my glow You sit to-night a haughty guest, For far beyond their artless day Your lofty trail has stretched away. So wise! so wise! But still the child is in your eyes. Your fathers feared the club and claw, Their days were full of fight and flight; Behind you stands your mighty law To guard your lonely sleep to-night. Or, if some lawless brute run free, A rifle gleams across your knee. So strong! so wise! But still the fear is in your eyes. They filled their little tents with spoil. Then vaguely longed for greater things; Your shining cities spurn the soil And through your valleys plenty sings; 177 Sun and Saddle Leather You span the seas they endless deemed And rule a world they never dreamed. So great! so wise! But still their longing in your eyes. They made them gods of flood and fire; With simple awe they watched the stars; You bend all powers to your desire; The river gods must draw your cars, The drudging fire gods drive your fleets, The lightning slaves about your streets. So proud! so wise! Yet their old wonder in your eyes! They dreamed a god might in them dwell Who lived beyond the silenced heart; You know your mortal self so well — A wondrous thing in every part, But earthbound as this gaunt mesquite Or firelit dust about your feet. So hard! so wise! But still the god is in your eyes. Poor little primal thing am I, Great stranger, yet I mock your lore; ^8 ~ Grass Grown Trails Your thickest volumes often lie ' And these still stars could tell you more, The wind that sighs across the sand Or I, but could you understand? So wise ! so w^se ! A puzzled child within your eyes. 179 NEW POEMS New Poems PLAINS BORN Westward from the greener places Where the rivers glint and twine Stretch the gold-and-purple spaces Of the country that is mine; And to lilac Rockies lifting Toward the deeper blue above, There is neither flaw nor shifting In the title of my love. My own! my own! Many a silent, sunny zone, With the soft cloud shadows drifting On the desert and the sown! I would have no wall or warder Mar my goodly heritage, From the yuccas of the border To the snowy northern sage — Glad of every wind that passes Down the mesa and the plain, Singing freedom in the grasses And my pony's rippling mane. Sun and Saddle Leather My own! my own! There is freedom here alone, Under midnight's starry masses Or the day king on his throne! Faith must blunder on in blinkers Through a city's swirling rout, For the milling herd of thinkers Blurs the way of wisdom out; But where stainless sky is bending Over never-furrowed sod There's an open trail ascending To the presence of a God! My own! my own! Where the troubled eyes are shown Heaven and earth forever blending Round the blue rim of the known! 184 New Poems THE OLD CAMP COFFEE-POT Written for Eben W, Martin Old camp-mate, black and rough to see, A hard-worked aid and ally you In all my single-handed wars With naked nature's savagery. Your scars are marks of service true, Dear loving-cup of out-o'-doors, And history in every spot Has battered you, old coffee-pot. Oh, black Pandora-box of dreams! Though dry of drink for mortal needs. Out of your spout what fancies flow! The flash of trout in sunny streams. The swoop of ducks among the reeds, The buck that paws the reddened snow — What suns and storms, what dust and mire, What gay, tanned faces round the fire! So, vividly as clouds that blaze Above a sunset's rainy red, Scene after scene, you bring to me The camps and trails of other days. ^8^ Sun and Saddle Leather And as a shell, long dry and dead, Holds echoes of its native sea, So dear old murmurs, half forgot. Rise from your depths, old cofifee-pot. I hear the stir of horses' hoofs, The solemn challenge of the owl, The wind song on the piny height. The lilt of rain on canvas roofs. The far-ofif coyote's hungry howl. And all the camp sounds of the night. They rise — a thousand things like these- From you, old well of memories. Our fires are dead on hill and plain And old camp faces lost and gone, But yet we two are left, old friend. And as the summers bloom and wane May I meet you at dusk and dawn By many fires before the end. And drink to you in nectar hot From your black throat, old cofifee-pot. 1 86 New Poems MY ENEMY All mornin' in the mesa's glare After his crouchin' back I clattered, And quick shots cut the heavy air And on the rocks the hot lead spattered. A dollar crimped, a word too free — My enemy! My enemy! He reined beside a rattlers' den And faced me there to fix the winnin'. And I wished that he would turn again, For it was hard to kill him grinnin'. His hands were empty, I could see. My enemy! My enemy! He pointed up; he pointed back. I looked, and half forgot my hatin'. A coyote sneaked along our track, A buzzard hung above us, waitin'. "Are us four all akin?" says he. My enemy! My enemy! The coyote crossed the desert's rim. The buzzard circled up and faded. ^8^ Sun and Saddle Leather I halved my only smoke with him And when dark found us limp and jaded, He sat and kep' the fire for me, My enemy ! My enemy 1 ! i88 New Poems THE FIGHTING SWING Once again the regiments marching down the street, Shoulders, legs and rifle barrels swinging all in time. Let the slack civilian plod; ours the gayer feet. Dancing to the music of the oldest earthly rhyme. Left! Right! Trim and tight, hear the ca- dence falL (So the legion Caesar loved shook the plains of Gaul.) Fighting bloods of all the earth in our pulses ring. Step, lads, true to the dads! Back to the fighting swing! We have kissed goodbye to care, left the fret and stew. Now the crows may steal the corn; now the milk may spill. Sun and Saddle Leather All the worries in the world simmer down to two — One is how to dodge the shells ; one is how to kill. Left! Right! Glints of light — down the lines they run. (So the Janizary spears caught the desert sun.) Once again the fighting steel has its ancient fling — Flash! sway! battle array. Back to the fighting swing! Every eye is hard and straight; every head is high. Groping, wrangling days are done; let the leaders lead. Regulations how to live, orders when to die — Life and death in primer print any man can read. Left! Right! Eat and fight! Dreams are blown to bits. 190 New Poems (Here's the Old Guard back to life, bound for Austerlitz.) Drop the soft and quit the sweet; loose the arms that cling. Blood, dust, grapple and thrust — back to the fighting swing! 191 Sun and Saddle Leather THE SMOKE-BLUE PLAINS Kissed me from the saddle and I still can feel it burning, But he must have felt it cold, for ice was in my veins. I shall always see him as he waved above the turning. Riding down the canyon to the smoke-blue plains. Oh, the smoke-blue plains! how I used to watch them sleeping, Thinking peace had dimmed them with the shadow of her wings; Now their gentle haze will seem a smoke of death a-creeping. Drifted from the battles in the country of the kings. Joked me to the last, and in a voice without a quaver — Man o* mine! — but underneath the tan his cheek was pale. Never did the nation breed a kinder or a braver Since our fathers landed from the long sea trail. 192 New Poems Oh, the long sea trail he must leave me here and follow — He that never saw a ship — to dare its chances blind, Out the deadly reaches where the sinking steamers wallow. Back to trampled countries that his fathers left behind. Down beyond the plains among the fighting and the dying, God must watch his reckless foot and fol- low where it lights; Guard the places where his blessed tousled head is lying — Head my shoulder pillowed through the warm, safe nights! Oh, the warm, safe nights, and the pines above the shingles! Can I stand their crooning and the patter of the rains? Oh, the sunny quiet, and a bridle bit that jingles, Coming up the canyon from the smoke- blue plains! 193 Sun and Saddle Leather OTHERS The daybreak comes so pure and still. He said that I was pure as dawn, That day we climbed to Signal Hill, Back there before the war came on. God keep me pure as he is brave, And fit to take his name. I let him go and fight to save Some other girl from shame. Across the gulch it glimmers white, The little house we plotted for. We would be sitting there tonight If he had never gone to war — The firelight and the cricket's cheep, My arm around his neck — I let him go and fight to keep Some other home from wreck. And every day I ride to town The wide lands talk to me of him — The slopes with pine trees marching down. The spread-out prairies, blue and dim. 194 © Huffman-Stevenson. "When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane And our graves gro^v iveeds through forgetful Mays, Richer and statelier then you'll reign, Mother of men ivhom the luorld ^uill praise. And your sons ivill love you and sigh for you, Labor and battle and die for you. But never the fondest ivill understand The voay ive have loved you, young, young land." See page q7 New Poems He loved it for the freedom's sake Almost as he loved me. I let him go and fight to make Some other country free. 195 Sun and Saddle Leather JEFF HART Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch to war When the low sun yellowed the pines. He waved to his folks in the cabin door And yelled to the men at the mines. The gulch kept watch till he dropped from sight — Neighbors and girl and kin. Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch one night; Next morning the world came in. His dad went back to the clinking drills And his mother cooked for the men; The pines branched black on the eastern hills, Then black to the west again. But never again, by dusk or dawn. Were the days in the gulch the same. For back up the trail Jeff Hart had gone The trample of millions came. Then never a clatter of dynamite But echoed the guns of the Aisne, And the coyote's wail in the woods at night Was bitter with Belgium's pain. 196 New Poems We heard the snarl of a savage sea In the pines when the wind went through, And the strangers Jeff Hart fought to free Grew folks to the folks he knew. Jeff Hart has drifted for good and all, To the ghostly bugles blown, But the far French valley that saw him fall Blood kin to the gulch is grown; And his foreign folks are ours by right — The friends that he died to win. Jeff Hart rode out of the gulch one night; Next morning the world came in. 197 Sun and Saddle Leather BATTLE Do you mind that old fight in The Rattles, Whether sheep or cattle men should rule? Was it that, or was it like most battles — Just a drink too many, or a fool? Anyhow, we all were feelin' funny, Strong with lopin' weeks of wind and sun, Gay, for every hand was full of money, Safe, for every sinner packed a gun. Hi! My! We know it, you and I — 'Twas safer in the days we packed a gun. Seems to me that Hell bulged up from under Through the floor, volcano-like, and broke — Spits of leaded lightnin' with its thunder, Swearin' imps a-whirlin' through the smoke — Dodging shootin^ fast as they were able, Glass and flyin' splinters in a spray — I was jammed behind a poker table, So I had to pull and blaze away. Hi! My! Who of us thought to die? All we knowed was pull and blaze away. 198 New Poems So we had a rippin' roarin' revel With the red firewater of the kill, Dancin^ to the pipin' of the devil — Then the time arrived to pay the bill. Bud and Pecos, one across the other. Dead below the bluish powder swirls. Bud, that sent his money to his mother I Pecos, with the pigtailed little girls 1 Hi! My! I always wonder why The bill must go to mother and the girls! 199 Sun and Saddle Leather IN THE HILLS The shadow crawls up canyon walls; the rim rocks flush to pink A sleepy night hawk lurches up among the pines to soar, And we can hear a thirsty deer tiptoeing down to drink Among the glimmering birches on the hazy canyon floor. Sister, sister, it seems a staring pity — Somewhere there is a city, and one time there was a war. Around the bend the thickets end in field and garden spot, And little ranches lifting smokes that make the twilight sweet. Beneath the smokes the women folks are watching pan and pot, While joking men are drifting in to smell the sizzling meat. Sister, sister, and is it truth or lying That somewhere folks are dying for the want of things to eat? 200 New Poems Along the hill the winds are still, and still, blue shadows rise, And quiet bats are winging out, but down the canyon floor The swift creek purls in dusky swirls that mind me of your eyes And keeps the stillness singing here for ever, evermore. Sister, sister, and is it true, I wonder — Somewhere the loud streets thunder, and one time there was a war. 20 1