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TRAIL DUST 
 of a MAVERICK 
 
 VERSES of COWBOY LIFE, the 
 CATTLE RANGE and DESERT 
 
 By E. A. BRININSTOOL 
 
 Reprinted Introduction to First Edition by 
 
 ROBERT J. BURDETTE, D. D. 
 
 The Burlington H a w k e y e Man 
 Introduction to Second Edition by 
 
 Prof, GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 
 
 Author 
 
 Lecturer 
 
 Explorer 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 Published by E.A. BRININSTOOL 
 
 1428 Norton Avenue, Los Angeles, California 
 
 1921 
 
Copyright 1914 
 
 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 Published March, 1914 
 
 Copyright 1921 
 
 BY E. A. BRININSTOOL 
 
 Published July, 1921 
 
 Cover Designs by H. G. Villa 
 
r? 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 To Capt. James H. Cook, one of the 
 last of the old-time Texas trail cowboys; 
 a hunter of renown; a staunch friend of 
 the American Indian; an army scout of 
 distinction and my warm personal friend, 
 this little volume of cowboy and other 
 Western poems is most affectionately 
 dedicated. 
 
 v 
 
 447912 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FRONTISPIECE: 
 
 DEDICATION iii 
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE xiii 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO FIRST EDITION xv 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO SECOND EDITION xix 
 
 A BAR-4 BLUFFER 75 
 
 A BUNKHOUSE REVERY 217 
 
 A COWPUNCH COURTSHIP 231 
 
 A CHANGE OF OUTFITS 184 
 
 A CORRAL SOLILOQUY 140 
 
 A COWBOY S VERSION 130 
 
 A CATTLE RANGE AT NIGHT 49 
 
 A LOCOED OUTFIT 209 
 
 A PRAIRIE MOTHER S LULLABY 35 
 
 A REBELLIOUS Cow CAMP 71 
 
 A RANGE RIDER S APPEAL 118 
 
 A ROAR FROM THE BUNKHOUSE 237 
 
 A SPOILED OUTFIT 142 
 
 A SHATTERED IDOL 160 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE OPEN 42 
 
 AN OLD-TIMER S LAMENT 239 
 
 AUTUMN ON THE RANGE 152 
 
 BACK TO ARIZONA 37 
 
 "BAD MAN" JONES 182 
 
 BACK TO THE RANGE 205 
 
 "CACTUS CHARLEY S" REGRETS 33 
 
 CATTLE LAND S FAREWELL 144 
 
 "Cupio" ON A Cow RANCH 148 
 
 CHRISTMAS WEEK IN SAGEBRUSH 168 
 
 vii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FREDERIC REMINGTON 114 
 
 FOREST CONSERVATION IN CRIMSON GULCH . . . 186 
 
 His COWGIRL SWEETHEART 18C 
 
 His TRADEMARKS 225 
 
 JUANITA 48 
 
 MY OLD SOMBRERO 90 
 
 MY DESERT FASTNESS 158 
 
 MY BUNKIE 201 
 
 "OLD SIX-GUN" 46 
 
 OH, DESERT WINDS 96 
 
 ONLY A BRONCO 128 
 
 OUR FADING CHARACTERS 138 
 
 ON NIGHT HERD 170 
 
 OUT OF His ELEMENT 193 
 
 PONY BOB S RANGE SERMON 81 
 
 RAINY DAY IN A Cow CAMP 66 
 
 REMARKS BY "BRONCO BOB" 199 
 
 SILENT TRAILS 23 
 
 "SHEEPED OUT" 60 
 
 SENCE SLIM GOT "PILED" 68 
 
 SUNSET ON THE DESERT 107 
 
 SPRING IN SAGEBRUSH 146 
 
 STANDING ON His MERITS 166 
 
 To His PAL 154 
 
 To A BACON RIND 132 
 
 To AN OLD BRANDING IRON 102 
 
 To His Cow HORSE 150 
 
 To A TRIANGLE CALF 124 
 
 TROUBLE FOR THE RANGE COOK 204 
 
 THE BRAGGART 62 
 
 THE BLIZZARD-BOUND HERD 31 
 
 THE BUNKHOUSE BOYS 233 
 
 viii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE: COWGIRL 122 
 
 THE: CALL FROM THE: WEST 136 
 
 THE Cow MAN JUBILATES 235 
 
 THE COMING OF THE RAIN 188 
 
 THE CALL OF THE RANGE 223 
 
 THE Cow MAN S SADDLE 215 
 
 THE Cow MAN S Loss 51 
 
 THE CHISHOLM TRAIL 64 
 
 THE DYING COWBOY 94 
 
 THE DESERT 53 
 
 THE DESERT SERENADER 73 
 
 THE DEAD PARDNER 70 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT 56 
 
 THE DESERT PROSPECTOR 229 
 
 THE DESERT S LURE 120 
 
 THE FINALE OF THE PUNCHER 156 
 
 THE FADING FRONTIER 162 
 
 THE FRONTIER MARSHAL 100 
 
 THE "GRUB-PILE" CALL 195 
 
 THE HOMESICK COWBOY 172 
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 203 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 221 
 
 THE LURE OF THE DESERT 164 
 
 THE LAND OF THE SAGE 190 
 
 THE LAST DRIVE 27 
 
 THE LURE OF THE WEST 116 
 
 THE MAN FROM CHERRYCOW 174 
 
 THE MOVING PICTURE COWBOY 227 
 
 THE MIRAGE 134 
 
 THE NEW WEST 213 
 
 THE NESTER TO THE Cow MAN 29 
 
 THE OLD Cow MAN S CHOICE 241 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE OLD Cow MAN 207 
 
 THE OLD LINE SHACK 197 
 
 THE OLD TRAIL SONGS 39 
 
 THE OLD Cow HAWSS 44 
 
 THE OLD LOG CABIN 79 
 
 THE OLD BUNKHOUSE 110 
 
 THE OLD TRAPPER SPEAKS 86 
 
 THE OLD YELLOW SLICKER 105 
 
 THE PROSPECTOR 98 
 
 THE RETURN OF "Buo" 58 
 
 THE RANGE IN SPRING . . 211 
 
 THE RANGE COOK S "HOLLER" 178 
 
 THE RANGE RIDER S SOLILOQUY 54 
 
 THE STAMPEDE 25 
 
 THE SHORT GRASS COUNTRY 92 
 
 Tin: TRAIL HERD 77 
 
 THE WEST 219 
 
 THE WEST FOR ME . 84 
 
 THE WANDERER 176 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 243 
 
 UNREST ON THE RANGE 126 
 
 WYOMING . 88 
 
 WHERE THE SAGEBRUSH BILLOWS ROLL .... 112 
 
 WHY ZACK FEELS "CHESTY" .... 191 
 
Trail Dust of a Maverick 
 
AUTHOR S PREFACE 
 
 The first edition of "TRAIL DUST OF A MAV 
 ERICK" was placed on sale in the spring of 1914, and 
 met with ready and instant favor. The edition was but 
 a moderately-sized one, and was completely sold out in 
 a short time. 
 
 Since then, the book has been in continual demand; 
 but the plates had been destroyed (unknown to the 
 author) and it was necessary to make other arrangements 
 for a new edition. 
 
 This second edition of "TRAIL DUST OF A MAV 
 ERICK" appears in a new dress, both as to cover and 
 type. Some changes have been made, and new and more 
 recent material added. 
 
 The author thanks his many friends for their kindly 
 expressions of appreciation of the initial volume, and 
 trusts the new edition will be as favorably received. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 (To the First Edition) 
 
 Not poems in slang, but in dialect. For slang is not at 
 all recognized as belonging to the standard vocabulary of 
 the language into which it may be introduced. Its origin 
 is low. It springs from the gutter. Its grandfather was 
 a thief, an outlaw, a beggar and a criminal, and its home 
 was a den of vileness. In the 18th century its name was 
 "cant" and "patter," and it was the speech of the slums. 
 
 But "dialect" is as respectable as a poor relation. It 
 may not shine with the refinement of its more cultured 
 relatives, but it proves its claim to the family pedigree; 
 it is frequently older in its descent than many of its more 
 aristocratic cousins. Slang must be read by the coaching 
 of a glossary. Dialect interprets itself. It is rugged as 
 an oak tree ; symmetrical as a pine. It is strong as granite, 
 and tender as the cyclamen clustering around the foot of 
 the gray boulder. 
 
 Robert Burns ennobled Scottish dialect. He revealed it to 
 the world as the language for lovers ; with new pet names 
 for children and babies that rippled like music on the 
 lips of mothers. He girded it with an armor of patriotism 
 and high courage. He set a thousand pens in motion 
 vainly trying to imitate it. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley did the same thing for the uncouth 
 dialect of Indiana. He made it, on the lips of farmers 
 
 XV 
 
Introduction 
 
 and farmers wives, the vehicle for love songs, sweet in 
 their homeliness. He touched its syllables with pathos, 
 until crystal tears quivered on its lashes. The joys of the 
 fireside, the sorrows of the hearth-stone, the songs and 
 laughter of the nursery, the experiences of old men and 
 the games of little children only Riley could best inter 
 pret these life-throbs, and dialect was the only speech that 
 could interpret Riley. 
 
 And E. A. Brininstool has done the same thing for the 
 abundant, exuberant, natural dialect of the range and the 
 rodeo ; the long winding trail, the sweep of the prairies, 
 boundless as an ocean of verdure. He makes it glorify 
 the desert; his verse lends splendor to the sunrise and 
 beauty to the sunset the matchless sunsets of the arid 
 skies and the wilderness. Sagebrush and cactus and 
 yucca ; canyon and arroyo and the corral bars ; the seas of 
 chaparral ; the shouting of the storm and its torrents, 
 and all their own speech of desert-born eloquence. And 
 he can do this because he is of their blood, and knows 
 their "master words." 
 
 His songs have their deathless quality they chant the 
 glories and the beauties, the joys, the dangers, the dances 
 and the conflicts of a vanishing life. And that has 
 a charm for the human heart that will last forever. The 
 range has given place to the ranch. The long trail is a 
 wagon road. The limitless landscape is measured by 
 metes and bounds; boundaries are lined by fences, and 
 locked gates stay the hoofbeats of the "Old Cow Hawss" 
 with peremptory "Thus far and no farther." Thrice wel- 
 
 XVI 
 
Introduction 
 
 come, then, the memories and dreams of the poet, catch 
 ing the vanishing colors and melodies, and fastening them 
 on the canvas of singing history. This, Mr. Brininstool 
 has done for his generation, and he has done his task 
 faithfully and lovingly, loyally and accurately. 
 
 ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 
 "Sunnycrest," Pasadena, October 25, 1913. 
 
 XVll 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 (To the Second Edition) 
 
 Because violets, roses, carnations and poppies grow in 
 profusion, shall we deny their exquisite grace, charm and 
 beauty? Each one is proof sufficient to the seeing and 
 wise eye of Omnipotence. No one but God could make 
 a single rose aye, even a blade of grass, that commonest 
 of all the things that grow. 
 
 This thought comes to my mind as I think of my 
 friend Brininstool. He would be the last man in the 
 world to expect recognition as a great poet, because he 
 so easily fits rhymes together. Indeed, he never calls 
 his rhymes anything but "verses," yet, just as we cannot 
 afford to lose one violet, one rose, one blade of grass in 
 the universe, and each has a message, so we cannot afford 
 to lose any of the mental fabrics of our simpler versifiers, 
 especially if they show themselves to be sincere, honest, 
 natural and truthful in their work. 
 
 Now I would not have the reader imagine that I have 
 any thought of "damning with faint praise" the work of 
 my friend. I simply wish it to be understood that I am 
 not claiming for Brininstool more than his work justly 
 entitles him to. There is a quaint philosophy in much 
 that he writes that is wholesome and sane in spite of its 
 homeliness or perhaps because of its homeliness. 
 
 XIX 
 
Introduction 
 
 Brininstool has known the cowboys through and through. 
 He has mixed with them on the drive and at the rodeo, 
 and has learned to know them in their varied moods 
 and changes, and has studied their speech and acquired 
 their terms of expression, and being a keen observer of 
 human nature, he has learned the language of the range, 
 and gives it to us just as it is talked and used in the 
 every-day life of the cowboy. Hence, he is eminently 
 qualified to tell in rhyme and dialect both of which come 
 so easy to him the story of this picturesque and rugged 
 character. 
 
 I am glad that he has preserved the peculiar and dis 
 tinguishing speech of the cowboy. It is a dialect with its 
 own rich vocabulary. The poems deal with the cowboy, 
 the herd, the cowponies, the actual riding, the deserts and 
 mountains, ravines and foothills where the cattle used 
 to range, the sheep that the cowboys hate so, the cowboy s 
 pranks and general "cussedness," the effect of the city 
 on him, the "passing" of the cowboy, the cattle range 
 at night, the old bunkhouse, the range cook, the cowgirl, 
 the love-making of the cowboy, his soliloquy and wonder- 
 ings about the hereafter, and his "last ride." 
 
 The book is really a remarkable series of pictures of 
 the passing cowboy, written with knowledge and sym 
 pathy. It is a valuable contribution to the literature of 
 the Great Southwest. 
 
 Yes, the day of the cowboy has gone! He was a 
 striking and individualistic feature in the early-day devel 
 opment of the great West but his day is done! With 
 all his rudeness and roughness and toughness, there was 
 
 XX 
 
Introduction 
 
 much good in him, and our hearts go out to him in deep 
 sympathy and with every good wish. And somehow 
 we feel that there will be full understanding and sympathy 
 given to him in the Great Beyond, to which, once in 
 awhile, his mind turned with questioning : 
 
 "And sometimes I wonder and wonder, if over that lone Great 
 
 Divide, 
 I ll meet with the boys who have journeyed across to that dim 
 
 Farther Side? 
 If out on them great starry ranges, some day in the future, 
 
 I, too, 
 Shall ride on a heavenly bronco when earth s final round-up is 
 
 through?" 
 
 We are indebted to Mr. Brininstool ! He has done his 
 work well and faithfully, and it is safe to say that these 
 verses he has written on the cowboy will live, as they 
 preserve for an age and people yet to come, a very re 
 markable phase in the early development of our national 
 life. 
 
 GEORGE WHARTON JAMES. 
 Pasadena, Cal., May 30, 1921. 
 
 xxi 
 
SILENT TRAILS 
 
 THE trails are silent since you went away, 
 It s lonely here, and everything looks strange; 
 The once-blue skies have turned to ashen-gray, 
 And seem to blot the sunshine from the range. 
 I miss the silvery jingle of your spur 
 
 I heard when you was ridin at my side; 
 And when I think of you, a sudden blur 
 Gits in my eyes and blinds me as I ride. 
 
 The manzanita berries ain t more red 
 
 Than was the roses bloomin in your cheek ; 
 And when I d watch you lopin off ahead, 
 
 The thoughts I d think but didn t dare to speak ! 
 And when I stop to cinch my saddle tight, 
 
 I listen for your voice to call to me ; 
 And when I m joggin round the herd at night, 
 
 Your sweet face in the jeweled skies I see. 
 
 It wa n t like this before you crossed my trail 
 
 I rode the lonely range, and didn t mind 
 The solitude of canyon, knoll or swale, 
 
 Or deep arroyo that I left behind. 
 I didn t see the glory of the hills 
 
 You pointed out to me when first you came; 
 But now my lonely heart pulsates and thrills 
 
 When mountain breezes whisper low your name ! 
 
 23 
 
SILENT TRAILS 
 
 The naggin of the boys is harsh ; it jars 
 
 And grates upon me when I m in their sight; 
 I look to see you at the corral bars, 
 
 But no one s there when I ride up at night. 
 I cross the mesa, where the sweet perfume 
 
 Of wild flowers that you loved so, fills the air; 
 But all their brightness can t drive off the gloom 
 
 And it is just because You are not there ! 
 
 The night-bird s call comes to me through the dark ; 
 
 The flickerin camp fire throws a fitful glare ; 
 And off across the range the coyote s bark 
 
 Goes echoin on the silent midnight air. 
 I hear the bedded cattle by the stream 
 
 Stir, when the grim night-riders pass their view, 
 And then I drowse, and doze away, and dream, 
 
 And dreamin , ride the trails again with You! 
 
 24 
 
THE STAMPEDE 
 
 A LOWERING night, with muggy, sultry air, 
 A thirsting, restless, sullen, bawling herd; 
 Low, distant rumbling sound of thunder there, 
 
 A sky with vivid lightning-flashes blurred. 
 The flickering campfire s dull and feeble glow, 
 The ribald songs the grim night-herders sing; 
 The murmur of the river, faint and low, 
 The night-bird overhead, on tireless wing. 
 
 From rugged buttes, in snarling monotone, 
 
 The muttering thunder speaks a warning grim; 
 The breeze which o er the rolling height is blown, 
 
 Sighs fitfully across the mesa s rim. 
 Now vagrant rain-drops kiss the dusty ground, 
 
 As louder growls the thunder-notes on high ; 
 The cattle low in terror at the sound, 
 
 While anxious riders watch the threatening sky. 
 
 And now the storm bursts forth in fury wild, 
 
 As jagged lightning-flashes leap and flare 
 Across the heavens, where inky clouds are piled, 
 
 While crash on crash re-echoes through the air ! 
 In mad affright the herd is under way! 
 
 No hand their headlong rushes can restrain ! 
 And blinding, glaring shafts of light display 
 
 A sea of clashing horns across the plain ! 
 
 25 
 
THE STAMPEDE 
 
 Into the pitchy darkness of the night, 
 
 With spur and quirt and shout and wild hello, 
 Lithe figures speed to check their frenzied flight, 
 
 As on the panic-stricken thousands go! 
 
 ********* 
 
 And now the Storm God s wrath is spent and gone; 
 
 Hushed is his voice upon the mesa s crest ; 
 The stars peep forth through scudding clouds, and dawn 
 
 Finds wearied riders safe, the herd at rest. 
 
 26 
 
THE LAST DRIVE 
 
 BESIDE his sagging door he sits and smokes, 
 And dreams again of old trail days, long gone. 
 His eyes are dim, his form is bent and old, 
 And silvered are the locks about his brow. 
 He hears again the thud of pony-hoofs, 
 The clash of horns, the bellowing of herds, 
 The shout of riders and the pant of steeds, 
 And creak of saddle-leather as they ride ! 
 He sees the dust-clouds hover o er the trail, 
 Where, snaky-like, the herd winds on and on. 
 He sees broad-hatted men, bronzed, fearless, bold, 
 And as he listens, faintly to his ears 
 Is borne the echoes of an old trail song ; 
 While to his nostrils floats the scent of sage 
 And greasewood, cactus and mesquite, that seems 
 To lure him back among his ranges wide. 
 
 Tis night! And now he sees the bedded herd 
 Beneath the open canopy of heaven, 
 While hardy night-guards keep their vigil drear. 
 The stars gleam out, and yonder rugged buttes 
 Loom strange and weird and dim and spectral-like. 
 The wagon-top shines brightly by the stream, 
 And in the flickering campfire s feeble glow 
 He sees the silent forms of old range pals 
 
 27 
 
THE LAST DRIVE 
 
 In dreamless slumber in their blanket beds. 
 The coyote s melancholy wail floats in 
 Upon the silent, pulseless summer air, 
 \Yhile overhead, on steady, tireless wing, 
 The night-hawk whirls and circles in its flight ; 
 And down below, the babble of the stream 
 Makes low-crooned, soothing music, rippling by. 
 
 Morn comes, with crimson bars of light that leap 
 To gild the buttes and tint the east with fire! 
 The lark s song echoes clear and sweet and strong 
 Upon the morning air. The range-grass gleams 
 And glitters with its diamond-tinted dew, 
 And all the great wide prairie springs to life ! 
 
 Again he sees the straggling herd move on 
 In broken line, and in his dreams he seems 
 To feel the bronco s steady, tireless pace, 
 That carries him upon his last long drive, 
 Which ends in sleep along the Sunset Trail ! 
 
 28 
 
THE NESTER TO THE COWMAN 
 
 I HAVE watched your great herds trailing toward the 
 far-off setting sun, 
 
 As my plowshare turned a furrow in your wake ; 
 I have seen your cattle vanish from the lands which I 
 
 have won, 
 
 And the open range new life and vigor take. 
 I have watched wild customs fading, as the foot of 
 
 Progress pressed, 
 
 And I stretched my squeaking wires here and there ; 
 And my fields of grain are waving on the bosom of the 
 
 West, 
 While the reaper s song is ringing on the air ! 
 
 Where the cowman watched his thousands, and the 
 
 puncher rode the range, 
 
 While the wary red man fought their stern advance, 
 I have lived to see your stretches undergo a wonder- 
 change, 
 And have waked the slumbering prairies from their 
 
 trance. 
 Where your herds of cattle wandered, I have planted and 
 
 have sown, 
 
 I have builded schools and churches in the land ; 
 You are but a dim remembrance of a life forever gone, 
 You have bowed submission to the nester s hand! 
 
 29 
 
THE NESTER TO THE COWMAN 
 
 And the trails your thousands deepened I have wiped 
 
 from off the hills ! 
 
 Where your branding-fires gleamed are seas of grain! 
 On the bed-grounds of your cattle are my factories and 
 
 mills; 
 
 You have gone but they, forever, shall remain ! 
 Where your campfires glistened brightly, and the night- 
 wind crooned and stirred, 
 
 And the dog- wolf howled his mournful serenade, 
 And the cowboy chanted gaily as he circled round the 
 
 herd, 
 Progress entered and its conquest has been made! 
 
 I have seen your barren mesas blossom underneath my 
 
 touch, 
 
 And your desert lands responding to my will; 
 I have made your arid stretches yield me harvests over 
 much, 
 
 And your rocky slopes their golden treasures spill. 
 Off across the dim horizon are your trail-herds, drifting 
 
 slow, 
 
 While behind their dust the reaper whirrs and hums! 
 You are swept resistless, onward Fate decrees that you 
 
 must go, 
 For the dawning of a newer era comes! 
 
 30 
 
THE BLIZZARD-BOUND HERD 
 
 DOWN from the winding hills, mid whirling snow, 
 And whistling, wintry gales, they feebly stray! 
 Now dumbly halt, despairingly and slow, 
 
 Then stagger on, in aimless, blinded way! 
 The biting winds whip madly, front and rear, 
 And sting alike the helpless and the strong. 
 The shivering, shrinking beasts, impelled by fear, 
 Bawl pitifully as they are swept along! 
 
 Again they halt, as shrieks the chilling gale, 
 
 As if in keen derision at their plight! 
 The pelting Arctic blasts again assail 
 
 And mantle them afresh in robes of white! 
 In mute despondency they huddle there! 
 
 Weak creatures sink, to rise again no more, 
 As death, in icy form, sweeps through the air, 
 
 And marks its trail across the sagebrush floor! 
 
 They drift ahead ! Their eyes in mute appeal 
 
 For aid which cannot come in that harsh blast ! 
 Like hordes of drunken images they reel, 
 
 Then pause, in helpless fear and terror massed ! 
 The blinding, drifting snows swirl fast and free, 
 
 And scream in wild defiance at their prey, 
 As though, in mad, demoniacal glee, 
 
 They knew Death could not long his work delay! 
 
 31 
 
THE BLIZZARD-BOUND HERD 
 
 Morn breaks upon the whitened, rolling range, 
 
 With sullen, murky, threatening, leaden skies! 
 The grim gray buttes look down upon a strange 
 
 And saddened scene, which in the valley lies. 
 Across the landscape, bleak and wintry-blurred, 
 
 The Storm King flung his icy, stinging breath ; 
 And there, in silence desolate, the herd 
 
 Now sleeps, where it was bedded down by Death ! 
 
 32 
 
 i 
 
CACTUS CHARLEY S REGRETS 
 
 (With apologies to the author of "No More West") 
 
 THE West ain t what it wuz, Bill, the good ol days 
 is done ! 
 
 It makes me weep it does, Bill, cuz no one packs a gun ! 
 The ranches all are fenced, Bill, as you look up and down, 
 The punchers hev commenced, Bill, to want to live in 
 
 town! 
 They dress like doods ! My stars, Bill, the boys you run 
 
 across, 
 All ride in motor cars, Bill, and never fork a hawss ! 
 
 The West is awful tame, Bill; the poker joints hev quit! 
 You cain t set in a game, Bill, ner booze a single bit ! 
 Thar ain t no marshal now, Bill, to fill you full o lead ! 
 Sich things they don t allow, Bill the good ol times is 
 
 dead! 
 They ve got a graveyard, too, Bill but shucks! it takes 
 
 my breath 
 To 1 arn thar s mighty few, Bill, but died a nat ral 
 
 death! 
 
 The West is mighty slow, Bill, compared to days o old. 
 Cuz lynch-law doesn t go, Bill at least, so I ve been told ! 
 A rustler stands a chance, Bill it s diff runt now, I 
 swear ! 
 
 33 
 
CACTUS CHARLEY S REGRETS 
 
 They uster hev to dance, Bill, on nothin much but air! 
 The wimmen here that ride, Bill, use saddles that are 
 
 flat, 
 And allers go astride, Bill I blush to think o that ! 
 
 You wouldn t know the West, Bill ! Thar s been an awful 
 change ! 
 
 The people don t go dressed, Bill, like we did gosh, it s 
 strange ! 
 
 The ol slouch hats we wore, Bill, hev disappeared sum- 
 how; 
 
 They re never seen no more, Bill the men wear derbies 
 now! 
 
 You never see no quirts, Bill, no lariats ner boots ! 
 
 The doods all wear silk shirts, Bill, and smoke store 
 cigaroots ! 
 
 The West is awful mild, Bill; the Injuns all are tame! 
 The ones that was so wild, Bill, are in the movie game! 
 The bad men that we knew, Bill, who shot out bar-room 
 
 lights, 
 
 Are sleepin neath the dew, Bill, insted o startin fights ! 
 But wuss than all the rest, Bill it makes your ol pal 
 
 sigh 
 It don t seem like the \Vest, Bill, cuz it s so tarnal dry ! 
 
 34 
 
A PRAIRIE MOTHER S LULLABY 
 
 THE sunset deepens in the west, 
 Faint shadows drift across the sky, 
 So sleep, dear heart, on mother s breast, 
 And rock away to dreamy rest, 
 To her low, soothing lullaby! 
 The night wind breathes across the plain ; 
 
 The moonbeams shed a luster bright ; 
 The cattle low a weird refrain 
 Upon the star-lit summer night. 
 
 By-low, babe, oh, rockaby! 
 
 By-low, babe, oh, hushaby! 
 
 Dozvn the winding mountain trail thy daddy rides where 
 shadows creep! 
 
 So-ho, baby, close thine eyes! 
 
 By-lozv, babe, the sunset dies! 
 Sleep, my little prairie wild flower, lullaby, oh, sleep! 
 
 Upon the mesa bare, and brown, 
 
 The slinking, gaunt coyotes prowl, 
 And hark! upon the silent air, 
 In ghostly cadence echoing there, 
 
 Floats forth the gray wolf s mournful howl! 
 
 35 
 
A PRAIRIE MOTHER S LULLABY 
 
 The cowboy s song rings loud and clear 
 
 As round the bedded herd he rides, 
 And from the stunted sagebrush near, 
 
 The sluggish rattler smoothly glides! 
 
 By-low, babe, oh, rockaby! 
 
 By-low, babe, oh, hushaby! 
 
 O er the rugged buttes and foothills golden moonbeams 
 shyly peep! 
 
 So-ho, baby, close thine eyes! 
 
 Dream, to mother s lullabies! 
 Sleep, my little prairie wild flower, lullaby, oh, sleep! 
 
 36 
 
BACK TO ARIZONA 
 
 TAKE me back to Arizona as it was in early days, 
 Ere the cowboy on the ranges had the moving- 
 picture craze. 
 Let me see the festive puncher, with his bronco on the 
 
 run, 
 Coming into town and shooting up the landscape with his 
 
 gun. 
 
 Let me see the chuckawalla and the Gila monster, too, 
 Of the murderous Apache let me get a fleeting view; 
 Let me see a frontier squabble as it was in days of yore, 
 When the "bad man" of the border waded in a sea of 
 gore. 
 
 Take me back to Arizona and the plains of alkali, 
 On the cactus-covered mesa in the desert let me lie. 
 Let me hear the rattler rattling as he crawls about the 
 
 sand, 
 And the restive cattle bawling as they feel the red-hot 
 
 brand. 
 
 Let me see the city marshal make a gun-play in the street, 
 And a victim later buried with his boots upon his feet! 
 Take me back to Arizona let me see a poker game 
 As in days when it was prudent not to ask a stranger s 
 
 name. 
 
 37 
 
BACK TO ARIZONA 
 
 Take me back to Arizona, where they "sized" a fellow, 
 
 not 
 By the boodle which he carried, but the skill with which 
 
 he shot ! 
 \Yhere the towns were short on water, but all-fired long 
 
 on gin, 
 And there never was much mourning when a fellow-man 
 
 "cashed in." 
 Take me back among the ki-yotes and the centipedes and 
 
 such, 
 Where a brand-iron was respected and a "rustler" hated 
 
 much! 
 
 Take me back to Arizona when it lived a wild career, 
 And they had a man for breakfast every morning in the 
 
 year! 
 
 Take me back to Arizona Arizona rough and wild, 
 \Yhere the days were dry and dusty and the whisky 
 
 wasn t mild! 
 Let me live again those stirring frontier days when all 
 
 was new, 
 When the faro banks were frequent but the churches 
 
 mighty few ! 
 Let me join a sheriff s posse and get on a horse-thief s 
 
 track, 
 Where a hanging-bee was likely if they brought the fellow 
 
 back! 
 
 Take me back to Arizona in the palmy days I saw, 
 When high boot-heels were in fashion, and a six-gun was 
 
 the law ! 
 
 38 
 
THE OLD TRAIL SONGS 
 
 WE used to have a heap o fun down on the ol Bar-4, 
 When we would set a-smokin down around the 
 
 bunkhouse door. 
 I mind them ol time cattle songs, and how the air would 
 
 ring 
 
 When Shorty tuned his banjo up and Greaser Mex would 
 sing: 
 
 "Oh, bury me not on the lone prai-ree! 
 Where the wild ki-yotees are howling free! 
 In a narrow grave jest six by three, 
 Oh, bury me not on the lone prai-ree!" 
 
 There wa n t no style about em ; they was crude and 
 
 mebby rough, 
 But to us cowpunch fellers they sure sounded good 
 
 enough. 
 
 And ev ry man would tap his heel in music to the swing 
 Of that ol homely cattle song that Greaser Mex would 
 
 sing : 
 
 <f Whoop-ee! ti-yi! git along, little dogies! 
 
 It s your misfortune and none of my own! 
 Whoop-eel ti-yi, git along, little dogies! 
 
 For you know Wyoming will be your new home!" 
 
 39 
 
THE OLD TRAIL SONGS 
 
 If we drove a herd to Yds Kansas and had throwed em 
 
 on the trail 
 About the breakin of the day, when stars were turnin 
 
 pale, 
 The point men and the swing men would while away the 
 
 time 
 A-shoutin out the music of that famous ol trail-rhyme: 
 
 "All day on the prair-ee in the saddle I ride! 
 Not even a dog, boys, to trot by my side! 
 My fire I must kindle with chips gathered round, 
 And boil my own coffee without bein ground. 
 I wash in a pool and I wipe on a sack, 
 I carry my wardrobe all on my own back! 
 My books is the brooks and my sermons the stones, 
 My parson s a wolf on a pulpit of bones!" 
 
 And out on night-herd, when twas black and threat nin 
 all around, 
 
 And longhorns kept a-rovin in and out of their bed- 
 ground, 
 
 It used to calm em down a heap, when we would start 
 to roar 
 
 One of them ol -time trail songs that we d sung to em 
 before: 
 
 "When threatenin clouds do gather, 
 And herded lightnins flash, 
 
 40 
 
THE OLD TRAIL SONGS 
 
 And heavy raindrops spatter, 
 
 And rollin thunders crash! 
 
 W hat keeps the herd from runnin ; 
 
 Stampedin far and wide, 
 
 The cowboy s long, low whistle, 
 
 And singin by their side! 
 
 Ho! I m a jolly cowboy! From Texas I do hail! 
 Give me a quirt and pony and I m ready for the trail! 
 I love the rollin prairies; they re free from care and 
 
 strife, 
 Behind a herd of longhorns I ll journey all my life!" 
 
 41 
 
A VOICE FROM THE OPEN 
 
 THE light shines soft through yon tinted panes, 
 And you you tell me that God is there ! 
 That your shack of marble and brick contains 
 
 The One you worship in song and prayer ! 
 But I I see Him where soft winds blow, 
 
 In the open places I love so dear; 
 Where the pine trees murmur His praises low, 
 And His guiding presence seems always near. 
 
 The shadows gleam on your gilded walls, 
 
 And the swelling notes of the organ rise; 
 But God, to me, from The Open calls, 
 
 And I read his sermon against the skies. 
 Your choir music is fine and sweet, 
 
 But sweeter far is the song to me 
 From the mountain torrent, that leaps to meet 
 
 The open arms of the throbbing sea! 
 
 Your silken curtains and velvet seats, 
 
 With tony people, so stiff and grand, 
 Who sing of a city with golden streets, 
 
 And a mansion fine in the Heaven Land 
 It may appeal to the likes of you, 
 
 But God ain t near when I step inside ! 
 He speaks to me with a message true, 
 
 Where the prairie stretches are deep and wide. 
 
 42 
 
A VOICE FROM THE OPEN 
 
 And when I lie by my campfire bright, 
 
 And the long, low shadows look strangely grim, 
 And the stars peep forth through the silent night, 
 
 How close I seem to the side of Him ! 
 It seems to me I can look afar, 
 
 Where, soft and fleecy, the cloud-hills show, 
 And read His word in each gleaming star 
 
 That shines for me in the after-glow. 
 
 Your spire-crowned churches are works of art, 
 
 Where the mighty notes of the organ roll, 
 And the preacher s message may reach your heart, 
 
 And the choir music may cheer your soul. 
 But when I want to get near the throne, 
 
 Oh, lead me out where The Open lies! 
 And let me talk with Him there alone, 
 
 As He smiles on me from His sun-kissed skies ! 
 
 43 
 
THE OL COW HAWSS 
 
 WHEN it comes to saddle hawsses, there s a differ 
 ence in steeds, 
 There is fancy-gaited critters that ll suit some fellers 
 
 needs. 
 There is nags high-bred and tony with a smooth and 
 
 shiny skin, 
 
 That ll capture all the races that you want to run em in. 
 But for one that never tires; one that s faithful, tried 
 
 and true, 
 One that allus is a "stayer" when you hafto slam him 
 
 through, 
 
 There is but one breed of critters that I ever came across 
 That will allus stand the racket tis the 
 
 or 
 
 Cow 
 
 Hawss ! 
 
 No, he ain t so much for beauty, for he s scrubby and 
 
 he s tough, 
 And his temper s sort o sassy but you bet he s good 
 
 enough ! 
 Cuz he ll take the trail o mawnin s be it up or be it 
 
 down, 
 On the range a-huntin cattle or a-lopin into town. 
 
 44 
 
THE OL COW HAWSS 
 
 And he ll leave the miles behind him, and he ll never 
 
 sweat a hair, 
 
 Cuz he is a willin critter when he s goin anywhere. 
 Oh, yer thoroughbred at runnin in a race may be the 
 
 boss, 
 But fer all-day ridin lemme have the 
 
 or 
 
 Cow 
 
 Hawss ! 
 
 When my soul seeks peace and quiet on the Home Ranch 
 
 of the Blest, 
 Whar no storms or stampedes bother, and the trails are 
 
 trails o rest; 
 When my brand has been inspected and they tell me it s 
 
 "O. K." 
 And the Boss has looked me over and has signed me up 
 
 to stay. 
 Oh, I m hopin , when I m lopin off across that blessed 
 
 range, 
 
 That I won t be in a saddle on a critter new and strange, 
 But I m prayin ev ry minnit that Up Thar I ll ride across 
 That big Heaven Range o Glory on an 
 
 01 
 Cow 
 
 Hawss ! 
 
 45 
 
"OLD SIX-GUN" 
 
 YOU VE been a good old pal to me 
 In all the years gone by; 
 You ve saved my skin in many a spree 
 
 When Death was lurkin nigh. 
 You re rusted some and battered, too, 
 
 But I ain t knockin none, 
 Cuz there s a heap I owe to you, 
 You handy ol six-gun ! 
 
 I packed you on the cattle trail 
 
 Way back in 86, 
 And never knowed you yet to fail 
 
 When I got in a fix ! 
 You ve shot the lights out more n once 
 
 When \ve struck town fer fun, 
 An clone a heap of other stunts, 
 
 You handy ol six-gun! 
 
 When my ol paws close on yer grip, 
 
 I seem to see once more 
 Them prairie stretches in The Strip, 
 
 And the ol bunkhouse door, 
 Where night-times we would set and gaze 
 
 Off to rds the settin sun 
 Oh, wasn t them the happy days, 
 
 You handy ol six-gun! 
 
 46 
 
"OLD SIX-GUN" 
 
 I mind them nights we stood on guard 
 
 When we was trailin steers, 
 When growlin thunder ripped and jarred 
 
 And grumbled in our ears ! 
 And how that stampede made us sweat! 
 
 Twas sure a lively run ! 
 Thar was excitement then, you bet, 
 
 You handy ol six-gun ! 
 
 And now you re hangin on the wall 
 
 Where firelight shadows play. 
 I reckon, takin all in all, 
 
 That you have had your day. 
 But when I think what you ve been through, 
 
 And what you ve seen and done, 
 A million bucks would not buy you, 
 
 You handy ol six-gun ! 
 
 47 
 
JUANITA 
 
 DREAR are the prairies, the ranges are silent, 
 Mournfully whispers each soft, passing breeze. 
 Down in the canyon an eddying murmur 
 
 Echoes the sigh through the swaying pine trees. 
 Lone are the trails on the brown, dusty mesa, 
 
 Up where the gems of the star- world peep through ; 
 Sadly the night-bird is plaintively calling 
 Nita, Juanita, I m longing for you! 
 
 Out where the herds dot the range in the Springtime, 
 
 Out where the flowers you loved nod and sway, 
 Memory brings me a vision of sadness, 
 
 Brings me a dream of a once-happy day. 
 Over the trails you are riding beside me, 
 
 Under the canopied heavens of blue; 
 Smiling the love that your lips have repeated 
 
 Nita, Juanita, I m longing for you! 
 
 When steals the night with its grim, dusky shadows, 
 
 As round the herd I am jogging along, 
 Your gentle face seems to lighten the darkness, 
 
 Each vagrant breeze seems to whisper a song. 
 Whispers a melody sweetly entrancing, 
 
 Telling me, dear, of your love ever true ; 
 Whispers an echo that sets my heart dancing 
 
 Nita, Juanita, I m longing for you! 
 
 48 
 
A CATTLE RANGE AT NIGHT 
 
 THE prairie zephyrs have dropped to rest, 
 And the dust-clouds settle down; 
 The sun dips low in the golden west 
 
 O er the rolling hills of brown. 
 The wearied riders come loping in, 
 
 As the trails grow dim and strange, 
 And the songs of the insect world begin 
 Tis night on a cattle range! 
 
 The stars gleam out in the calm, clear sky 
 
 Like twinkling orbs of light, 
 And over the range drifts the coyote s cry 
 
 Through the star-lit summer night. 
 The night-hawk whirls in its ceaseless rush, 
 
 As the evening breeze is stirred, 
 And the cowboy s song breaks the lonely hush, 
 
 As he circles the bedded herd. 
 
 The campfire throws but a fitful glare, 
 
 And the buttes, like specters, rise 
 Far over the deep arroyo there, 
 
 Like sentinels of the skies. 
 While the silent forms, in their blanket-beds, 
 
 Dream on, to the night wind s sigh, 
 As gently above their sleeping heads, 
 
 The breeze drifts idly by. 
 
 49 
 
A CATTLE RANGE AT NIGHT 
 
 The moon steals up o er the dark butte s crest 
 
 In silvery shafts, which gleam 
 And sparkle there on the brown earth s breast 
 
 Like gems in a fairy dream. 
 The night creeps on with its mystic charms, 
 
 To the song of the whip-poor-will, 
 And drifts to Dreamland in Nature s arms, 
 
 And the range grows hushed and still. 
 
 50 
 
THE COWMAN S LOSS 
 
 IT S lonely on the ol ranch now; 
 The Little Feller s gone away! 
 Seems like the sunshine s gone, somehow, 
 
 Without him taggin round at play. 
 There ain t a cowboy on the place 
 
 But thought the world o him, and more, 
 When he would come, with smilin face, 
 A-toddlin in the bunkhouse door. 
 
 The boys ain t joshin as they ride- * 
 
 Why, they ain t been so still fer years ! 
 It broke em up when baby died, 
 
 And more n one I ve seen in tears. 
 And there is somethin in their grip 
 
 And handclasp that stampedes my heart, 
 And sends me out with quiverin lip, 
 
 And eyes that jest fill up and smart! 
 
 We used to see him ev ry night 
 
 When we d ride up to the corral. 
 Blamed if he wa n t a purty sight 
 
 With them long curls we loved so well ! 
 I reckon kids like him is rare 
 
 Among the sunshine and the flowers 
 On that big Heaven Range up there, 
 
 So God He jest sent down fer ours. 
 
 51 
 
THE COWMAN S LOSS 
 
 The dogs they miss that kid o mine, 
 
 Cuz where he went they d trot along; 
 They hang around the house and whine, 
 
 Jest like they sensed they s somethin wrong. 
 The poor dumb critters seem to know 
 
 The little pard they loved ain t near 
 I don t see why he had to go 
 
 And leave us all alone down here! 
 
 Seems like we cain t git used to it! 
 
 The hull big world is dark and lone! 
 It ain t the same ol ranch a bit, 
 
 Now that the Little Feller s gone! 
 But heaven is sure a sunny place, 
 
 And some day, on that golden shore, 
 We re goin to feel his rosy face 
 
 A-snugglin down to ours once more ! 
 
 52 
 
THE DESERT 
 
 SUN, silence, sand and dreary solitude! 
 Vast stretches, white, beneath a glaring sky ! 
 Where only those stout-hearted may intrude, 
 With Death to harrass them and terrify ! 
 
 A vast expanse of endless, treeless plain, 
 
 Where sluggish rattlers crawl, and brown swifts run; 
 Where all the parched earth gasps and pants for rain, 
 
 And overhead a maddening, molten sun ! 
 
 Dry, powdery sagebrush seas, and cactus beds, 
 And yuccas snow-white sentinels which gleam; 
 
 While here and there the ocatilla spreads, 
 
 And waters glimmer from a phantom stream. 
 
 Like withering blasts from furnaces white-hot, 
 The noon-day sun glares pitilessly down 
 
 Upon a land the hand of God forgot 
 
 Scorched, lifeless, shriveled, aird, bare and brown ! 
 
 Only the awful stillness day by day 
 
 O er wastes swept by the hot sun s burning breath ! 
 A treacherous, deceptive Great White Way, 
 
 A land of desolation and of death ! 
 
 53 
 
THE RANGE RIDER S SOLILOQUY 
 
 QOMETIMES when on night-herd I m ridin , and the 
 
 1^ stars are a-gleam in the sky, 
 
 Like millions of wee, little candles that glimmer and 
 
 sparkle on high, 
 I wonder if, up there among em, are streets that are 
 
 shinin with gold, 
 And if it s as purty a country as all the sky-pilots have 
 
 told? 
 
 I wonder if there are wide ranges, and rivers and streams 
 
 that s as clear, 
 And plains that s as blossomed with beauty as them that 
 
 I ride over here? 
 I wonder if summer-time breezes Up There are like 
 
 zephyrs that blow 
 And croon in a cadence of sweetness and harmony down 
 
 here below? 
 
 I wonder if there, Over Yonder, it s true that they s never 
 
 no night, 
 But all of the hours are sunny and balmy and pleasant 
 
 and bright? 
 I wonder if birds are a-singin as sweetly through all the 
 
 long day 
 As them that I hear on the mesa as I go a-lopin away ? 
 
 54 
 
THE RANGE RIDER S SOLILOQUY 
 
 And sometimes I wonder and wonder if, over that lone 
 Great Divide, 
 
 I ll meet with the boys who have journeyed across to the 
 dim Farther Side? 
 
 If, out on them great starry ranges, some day in the 
 future, I, too, 
 
 Shall ride on a heavenly bronco when earth s final round 
 up is through? 
 
 They tell us no storms nor no blizzards blow over that 
 
 bloom-spangled range, 
 That always and ever it s summer a land where there s 
 
 never a change. 
 And nights, when I lie in my blankets, and the star-world 
 
 casts o er me its spell, 
 I seem to look through on the glories that lie in that 
 
 great Home Corral! 
 
 55 
 
THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT 
 
 HE reached the West in a Pullman car, where the 
 writers tell us the cowboys are, 
 
 With the redskin bold and the centipede, the rattlesnake 
 and the loco weed. 
 
 He looked around for the Buckskin Joes, and the things 
 he d seen in the W r ild West shows 
 
 The cowgirls gay and the broncos wild, and the painted 
 face of the Injun child. 
 
 He listened close for the fierce warwhoop, and his pent- 
 up spirits began to droop, 
 
 And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of 
 the sights of the story books. 
 
 He d hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold, bad 
 
 man with a pistol-shot, 
 And he entered a tough saloon, by chance, where the 
 
 tenderfoot is supposed to dance 
 While the cowboy shoots at his boot-heels there, and the 
 
 smoke of powder begrims the air. 
 But all was quiet as if he d strayed to that silent spot 
 
 where the dead are laid. 
 Not even a faro game was seen, and no one flouted the 
 
 long, long green ; 
 Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch 
 
 of the real wild, woolly West. 
 
 56 
 
THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT 
 
 He vainly sought for a bad cayuse, and the swirl and 
 swish of a flying noose, 
 
 And the cowboy s yell, as he roped a steer, but nothing 
 of this fell on his ear. 
 
 Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flour 
 ished on every side! 
 
 And the spurs and chaps and the flannel shirts, the high- 
 heeled boots and the guns and quirts, 
 
 The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and 
 swell outfits 
 
 He d read about in the novels grim, were not on hand 
 for the likes of him! 
 
 He peered about for a stage coach old, and a miner man 
 
 with a "poke" of gold, 
 And a burro-train with its pack-loads which he d read 
 
 they tied with the diamond hitch. 
 The rattler s whirr and the coyote s wail ne er sounded 
 
 out as he hit the trail, 
 And no one knew of a branding-bee or a steer round-up 
 
 that he longed to see. 
 But the oldest settler, named Six-Gun Sim, rolled a 
 
 cigarette and remarked to him : 
 "Th West hez gone to th East, my son, an it s only in 
 
 tents sich things is done!" 
 
 57 
 
THE RETURN OF "BUD" 
 
 BUD Sands he s with the boys once more ! 
 You bet we re glad to see him back! 
 On all the East he is plumb sore; 
 
 "Gimme," says Bud, "this ol line shack! 
 Them city noises in my ears 
 
 They got my locoed senses r iled; 
 I d ruther hear a herd o steers 
 
 That had stampeded an gone wild!" 
 
 Bud says them man-made canyons there 
 
 Back in Noo Yawk, is mighty high. 
 "I couldn t ketch a breath o air, 
 
 Ner see a thing," sed Bud, "but sky ! 
 An you kin walk from end to end 
 
 Of that dern town the hull day through, 
 An never meet a single friend, 
 
 Ner hear folks shoutin Howdy-do! " 
 
 Bud says he won t go back agin ! 
 
 "Right hyar," says Bud, "I end my days, 
 An with the bunkhouse bunch cash in ! 
 
 No more fer me them city ways! 
 The ol Bar-4 is good enuff, 
 
 So I m a-goin to stick around, 
 Cuz forty-per ain t half so tough 
 
 As rangin on a strange bed-ground." 
 
 58 
 
THE RETURN OF "BUD" 
 
 Bud says when he d go down the street 
 
 In his ol Stetson, folks ud stare, 
 An size him up from head to feet, 
 
 Jest like he had no bizness there. 
 "I sure made up my mind," Bud sed, 
 
 "It wa n t no place fer sich as I, 
 With street cyars rumblin overhead, 
 
 An benzine broncos scootin by !" 
 
 So Bud he is a happy lad, 
 
 With six cow ponies to his string. 
 He says that he ll be mighty glad 
 
 When we start roundin up this spring. 
 He s some cow-hand, you bet Bud is ! 
 
 He s down there now in the corral 
 A-gentlin them there broncs o his, 
 
 An holy mack rel! hear him yell! 
 
 59 
 
"SHEEPED OUT" 
 
 IT wasn t very long ago we bossed the ranges wide ; 
 Our cattle wandered to and fro across the great 
 divide. 
 We roamed its broad and beaten track with all our kith 
 
 and kin, 
 
 But now we re bein crowded back the woolly-backs are 
 in! 
 
 For it s bleat, bleat, bleat! 
 
 Can t you hear em up the trail f 
 They re crop pin all the browsiri off 
 
 From every hill and swale! 
 The sullen herder follows on, 
 
 And though he travels slow, 
 It looks as if the fates decreed 
 
 The cattlc-nuin must go! 
 
 We won the West from savage bands, through many a 
 
 bloody deed, 
 And blazed our trails across its lands, and tamed em for 
 
 our need. 
 We was the pioneers of all, and though our style was 
 
 rough, 
 While we could hear our cattle call, the West was good 
 
 enough. 
 
 60 
 
"SHEEPED OUT" 
 
 But it s bleat, bleat, bleat! 
 
 Now the woolly-backs are here! 
 They re crowdin in upon the range 
 
 We ve held from year to year. 
 We fought to git the lands we love, 
 
 But now we stand no show; 
 Our herds are gittin pushed aside 
 
 The cattle-man must go! 
 
 Already we ve been forced along the range from state to 
 
 state 
 
 By that blamed idiotic song the cattle-men all hate ! 
 The bobbin lines of woolly-backs are stretchin far away, 
 And we must quit our lands and shacks and seek new 
 
 range today. 
 
 For it s bleat, bleat, bleat! 
 
 And a trail o dust belozv! 
 The woolly-backs are crowdin in, 
 
 And we have got to go! 
 We love the land we fought to win, 
 
 It s our n alone by right, 
 But we are fadin with our herds, 
 
 And driftin out o sight! 
 
 61 
 
THE BRAGGART 
 
 I VE fit the Injuns often, pard, 
 An* I hev killed a few. 
 I ve had the cusses chase me hard, 
 
 Been captured by em, too! 
 They ve give me many a pain an* ache, 
 
 An stripped me of my clo es, 
 An tried to burn me at the stake 
 In movin pitcher shows ! 
 
 I was a bad un in my prime! 
 
 Played outlaw? Yes-sir-ree! 
 I ve done bank robbin many a time, 
 
 An held up trains, by gee ! 
 An I ve been stabbed an cut an shot 
 
 A dozen times, I s pose, 
 An helped in many a murder plot 
 
 In movin pitcher shows! 
 
 I ve been a cowboy, you kin bet! 
 
 An played the game all through ! 
 Chased hawss-thieves till it made me sweat, 
 
 An helped lynch rustlers, too! 
 I ve played the hero more n once f 
 
 Yep, that s my fav rit pose! 
 Whar did I pull off all these stunts? 
 
 In movin pitcher shows! 
 
 62 
 
THE BRAGGART 
 
 I ve druv a stagecoach in the West 
 
 Plumb full o human souls! 
 Had robbers loot the treasure chest, 
 
 An shoot me full o holes! 
 An held up passengers, by smoke! 
 
 An took their cash an clo es, 
 I shorely hev this ain t no joke 
 
 In movin pitcher shows! 
 
 I ve killed nigh onto twenty men! 
 An I ve been dragged to jail, 
 
 An jest escaped a lynchin when 
 A posse struck my trail! 
 
 I m THE bad man of Bitter Creek ! 
 When I m around, gore flows, 
 
 Y-e-o-u-w-w-w! Jest watch me do the trick- 
 In movin pitcher shows! 
 
 63 
 
THE CHISHOLM TRAIL 
 
 WHERE prairie breezes softly croon 
 Across the ranges there, 
 I seem to hear a low, sweet tune 
 
 Upon the balmy air. 
 It echoes softly as it strays 
 
 Across each hill and swale, 
 And sings to me of frontier days 
 Upon the Chisholm Trail ! 
 
 I look beyond, as in a dream, 
 
 And seem to see again 
 The trail-herd by a sluggish stream, 
 
 Held by broad-hatted men. 
 I see the drifting dust clouds rise, 
 
 And hear the cowman s hail, 
 As morning sunbeams tint the skies 
 
 Upon the Chisholm Trail. 
 
 The old chuckwagon-top gleams white! 
 
 The campfire smoke I see, 
 As in the early morning light 
 
 The "grub-pile" call rings free! 
 And from their tarps the punchers creep, 
 
 As morning stars grow pale, 
 And toss aside their dreams and sleep, 
 
 Upon the Chisholm Trail ! 
 
 64 
 
THE CHISHOLM TRAIL 
 
 Grass-grown are now those trails we rode ! 
 
 The herds have all passed on! 
 Where once the teeming thousands flowed, 
 
 The last longhorns have gone! 
 But round the campfire s cheery blaze, 
 
 Full many a thrilling tale 
 Brings back to mind those frontier days 
 
 Upon the Chisholm Trail ! 
 
RAINY DAY IN A COW CAMP 
 
 GUSTY sheets o rain a-fallin , 
 Yellow slickers our attire; 
 Wet, bedraggled longhorns bawlin , 
 
 Cook a-cussin at the fire! 
 Grub all water-soaked and soggy! 
 
 Foreman s temper all a-flare! 
 Ev ry puncher feelin groggy ; 
 Doby stickin ev rywhere! 
 
 Broncs a-standin , heads a-droopin , 
 
 All their ginger plumb soaked out! 
 Dumb to all the wrangler s whoopin 
 
 An to ev ry puncher s shout. 
 Saddles sloppy an a-slippin ! 
 
 Cinches plastered full o mud! 
 Ev ry ol sombrero drippin ! 
 
 Royos roarin with the flood! 
 
 Ol cow hawss a-slippin , slidin , 
 
 Up an down the slushy hills! 
 Punchers all humped up a-ridin , 
 
 Ev ry minute has its thrills! 
 Wind a-whistlin ; skies a-weepin , 
 
 Slickers flappin when we lope! 
 Rain inside our chaps a-creepin , 
 
 Kinks an knots in ev ry rope! 
 
 66 
 
RAINY DAY IN A COW CAMP 
 
 Ev rybody blue an sour! 
 
 Not a sign o sun in sight! 
 Jest a steady, soakin shower 
 
 When we ride to camp at night ! 
 Blankets sozzled, wet an mussy! 
 
 Tarps all damp an feelin strange! 
 Ev ry puncher mad an cussy ! 
 
 Hopin mornin brings a change! 
 
 67 
 
SENCE SLIM GOT PILED 
 
 SLIM Bates ain t braggin any more 
 About how he kin ride! 
 An gosh ! but he gits mighty sore 
 
 Whenever he is guyed. 
 He uster be so full o vim, 
 
 So reckless an so wild, 
 But there s a change come over Slim 
 Sence he got piled! 
 
 He uster tell of outlaw nags 
 
 He d gentled like a cow ; 
 But Slim ain t makin any brags 
 
 Of tamin outlaws now ! 
 He s jest the humblest cuss, I swear ! 
 
 An meek as any child! 
 Slim dassn t even take a dare 
 
 Sence he got piled! 
 
 Accordin to Slim s flossy talk 
 
 He was some cowpunch once. 
 The worst cayuse could pitch an balk, 
 
 An try his wildest stunts! 
 But now Slim hangs his head in shame! 
 
 Fer six weeks he ain t smiled! 
 He knows that he ain t in the game 
 
 Sence he got piled ! 
 
 68 
 
SENCE SLIM GOT PILED 
 
 Of course when he come driftin in, 
 
 We thought he knowed his biz; 
 We swallered all them yarns he d spin 
 
 Bout ridin stunts o his ! 
 But now we pass him up with scorn, 
 
 He s all but plumb exiled! 
 Slim ain t a-tootin of his horn 
 
 Sence he got piled! 
 
 He s bogged hisself down good n deep ! 
 
 He d better drift along 
 An git a job at herdin sheep! 
 
 Cuz here he s in plumb wrong! 
 Nobody herds with him a bit, 
 
 He s got this outfit r iled ! 
 Slim never ll hear the last of it 
 
 Sence he got piled! 
 
 69 
 
THE DEAD PARDNER 
 
 HE S left us for that sunny range so fair 
 Which lies afar across the Great Divide; 
 And gentle are the breezes blowing there, 
 
 All low and sweet upon the Other Side. 
 With storms his trail will never be beset ; 
 
 No wild winds howl where he is safe at rest ; 
 No dangers on those peaceful plains are met ; 
 No perils there strike terror to his breast. 
 
 He rides a range where blossoms sweetly bend 
 
 And nod and smile as he goes loping by ; 
 Where Nature s colors, in a wondrous blend, 
 
 Are flung afar on coulee, hill and sky. 
 Soft are the summer winds which kiss his cheek! 
 
 Smooth are the trails, and fair, in which he rides! 
 And there, through shaded glen and mount and peak, 
 
 The Round-up Boss his way forever guides. 
 
 Sleep well, departed friend! Sweet be the dreams 
 
 Which come to you in that great Home Corral ! 
 And as you ride the line past singing streams, 
 
 May your report each night be, "All is well !" 
 May every trail you ride be decked with flowers, 
 
 And may the Foreman lead you by His love, 
 And guard you, in your rest and waking hours, 
 
 On his Home Ranch of rest and peace Above! 
 
 70 
 
A REBELLIOUS COW CAMP 
 
 OL JIM, our cook, has got in wrong, 
 An we re plumb sore at him ! 
 Up to today we got along 
 Without a kick at Jim. 
 We reckon that he got too gay ; 
 
 We don t know what it means, 
 But dinner wa n t no good today 
 Jim sp iled the beans! 
 
 Tain t often ol Jim gits in bad, 
 
 Cuz he s some cook, you bet! 
 But now us punchers shore are mad, 
 
 An cussin of him yet! 
 His sour-dough bread was out o sight, 
 
 So was his spuds an greens ; 
 Yet dinner didn t taste jest right 
 
 Jim sp iled the beans! 
 
 We never made no yelps afore 
 
 At what ol Jim dished up. 
 Today each puncher made a roar, 
 
 An growled jest like a pup! 
 We gener lly pitch in at noon, 
 
 An ev ry dish we cleans, 
 But things today was out o tune 
 
 Jim sp iled the beans! 
 
 71 
 
A REBELLIOUS COW CAMP 
 
 It wa n t becuz his tin-can truck 
 
 Wa n t cooked to suit our style, 
 Cuz ol Jim allus has good luck, 
 
 An when he yells "Grub-pile!" 
 We know they s somethin good on deck, 
 
 An jest what that call means ; 
 But things went wrong today, by heck ! 
 
 Jim sp iled the beans! 
 
 He never offered no excuse, 
 
 An that is what gits us! 
 But we all knowed it wa n t no use 
 
 To start to pick a fuss. 
 But this here cow camp s sure plumb sore, 
 
 An* t ord a strike we leans! 
 Our appetities ain t good no more 
 
 Jim sp iled the beans! 
 
 72 
 
THE DESERT SERENADER 
 
 QCAVENGER of Sagebrush Land! 
 O Slinking desert nomad gray, 
 On the mesa-top you stand 
 
 As the darkness dims the day. 
 Mournfully o er draw and hill, 
 
 Where in early morn you prowl, 
 In staccato sharp and shrill, 
 
 Floats your quavering, lonely howl. 
 
 Bow-wow-wow! ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
 Bow-wow! ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
 Yee-ee-ee-yeow-wow-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-ow-ow!" 
 
 With the sunset s glories flung 
 
 O er the buttes-in shadows grim, 
 Then you tune your yelping tongue 
 
 For your dreary evening hymn. 
 And in ghostly cadence there, 
 
 Rising, falling, faint and blurred, 
 Drifting on the desert air, 
 
 Your weird serenade is heard: 
 
 Bow-wow-wow ! ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow ! 
 Bow-wow! ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
 Yee-ec-ee-yeow-wow-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 
 
 73 
 
THE DESERT SERENADER 
 
 Specter of the sand dunes drear, 
 
 Sneaking, prowling, eagle-eyed 
 Your grim music strikes my ear 
 
 O er arroyos deep and wide. 
 Like a funeral dirge it floats, 
 
 In a cheerless, somber wail, 
 And its melancholy notes 
 
 Quaver down the dust-strewn trail : 
 
 "Bow-wow-wow I ki-yi-yee-ee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
 Bow-wow! ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eoiv-ow-ow! 
 Yee-ee-ee-yeow-woiv-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 
 Oft I waken from my sleep, 
 In the campfire s flickering light, 
 
 As your mournful echoes creep 
 Off across the pulseless air, 
 
 Drifting o er the seas of sand, 
 And I curse your presence there, 
 
 Scavenger of Sagebrush Land! 
 
 "Boiv-wow-ivow ! ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
 Bow-wow! ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
 Yee-ee-ee-yeow-woiv-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 
 
 74 
 
A BAR-4 BLUFFER 
 
 SENCE Andy Brown of the Bar-4 
 Got piled down at the Cheyenne fair, 
 He jest ain t wuth a cuss no more 
 At ridin broncs that pitch an ra r. 
 
 He used to brag he was the boss 
 Bronc -peeler at this ridin game, 
 
 An sed thar wa n t no outlaw hawss 
 On all the range HE couldn t tame ! 
 
 Us punchers took him at his word, 
 We swallered all his blow an brag 
 
 When he jest swore he was a bird 
 At ridin any outlaw nag. 
 
 He got us locoed darn his hide ! 
 
 But after all, it wuzn t strange; 
 The smooth an easy way he lied 
 
 Got us stampeded off our range. 
 
 Our outfit gambled ev ry cent 
 
 That Andy Brown would not git throwed, 
 An when our cash was in, we went 
 
 An bet the outfits that we rode. 
 
 75 
 
A BAR-4 BLUFFER 
 
 Our saddles, six-guns an our chaps, 
 Our ropes, our bridles, an , to boot, 
 
 Our spurs an bits an other traps 
 We bet em all on that galoot. 
 
 He drawed a little pinto mare, 
 
 An when he d cinched, they turned her loose ! 
 Two jumps an he went in the air 
 
 A-clawin leather like the deuce! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Our faith in Andy Brown has sagged! 
 
 Our outfit s wiser, to a man ; 
 He may ride broncos like he s bragged, 
 
 But darned if WE believe he can ! 
 
 76 
 
THE TRAIL HERD 
 
 LOUDED sun an coolin morn, 
 
 Squeakin taps an spurs a-rattle ; 
 Loungin crost my saddle-horn, 
 
 Trailin dull-eyed, bawlin cattle. 
 Chokin dust-clouds in the air, 
 
 Off acrost the range a-driftin ; 
 Punchers cussin stragglers there, 
 As the mornin mist is liftin . 
 
 Wild-eyed mavericks on the prod; 
 
 Plungin ponies, buckin , snortin , 
 Or across the sun-baked sod, 
 
 Full o ginger a-cavortin . 
 Ol chuck-wagon on ahead, 
 
 For to git the grub-pile ready ; 
 Sun a-blazin fiery red, 
 
 Weak calves wobblin long unsteady. 
 
 Summer day a-growin old, 
 
 As the crimson sun is sinkin ; 
 River sparklin jest like gold, 
 
 Where the thirsty herd is drinkm . 
 Cook a-yellin "Grub-pile, boys!" 
 
 Cups an old tin plates a-rattle; 
 Punchers makin lots o noise 
 
 On the bed-ground with the cattle. 
 
 77 
 
THE TRAIL HERD 
 
 Silence on the midnight air! 
 
 Me on night-herd slowly moggin 
 Round the bedded cattle there, 
 
 Singin to em as I m joggin . 
 Campfire twinklin down below, 
 
 River sort o lullabyin 
 To the sleepers, soft an* low, 
 
 In their blanket-beds a-lyin . 
 
 Second watch a-rollin out 
 
 Sleepy-eyed, with grimy faces, 
 
 At the foreman s lusty shout, 
 Saddlin up to take our places. 
 
 Me a-drowsin off to rest 
 
 With the starry sky above me- 
 
 Thoughts of You within my breast, 
 Dreamin, dreamin that You love me! 
 
 78 
 
THE OLD LOG CABIN 
 
 (On a trip into the Montana cattle country, the writer came 
 across an old log cabin, abandoned and desolate, which 
 prompted the following:) 
 
 IT stands alone on a treeless plain 
 An old log cabin, with sagging door. 
 Its roof, all crumbling, allows the rain 
 
 To trickle in on the rough slab floor. 
 Where warmth and comfort were one time known, 
 
 And faces smiled in the backlog s blaze, 
 Deep silence broods, for good cheer has flown, 
 And left but an echo of former days. 
 
 Who knows the story of faith and hope, 
 
 Of days of labor and weary toil, 
 Of those, mayhap, from an eastern slope, 
 
 Who came to nurture the virgin soil? 
 Who knows the struggle for life and bread, 
 
 Of years of waiting for wealth to come, 
 Of those who labored till courage fled, 
 
 On the boundless prairie to make a home? 
 
 The voices of children were doubtless heard 
 
 In merry laughter and happy song. 
 Perchance hearts ached for a cheery word, 
 
 And a friendly face, as they toiled along. 
 
 79 
 
THE OLD LOG CABIN 
 
 But none can tell of the hopes and fears, 
 
 Of the dreams they dreamed as the days sped by, 
 
 Of their simple joys through the lonely years, 
 Till wealth each want should at last supply. 
 
 But the fire is cold on the hearthstone drear, 
 
 And the door swings idly, by breezes stirred ; 
 Where once was the presence of warmth and cheer, 
 
 Now desolate echoes alone are heard. 
 But none may fathom the luckless tale, 
 
 And none the secrets may ever gain, 
 Of that old log cabin beside the trail 
 
 In the lonely heart of a treeless plain. 
 
 80 
 
"PONY BOB S" RANGE SERMON 
 
 THE prod got sick of the old home ranch, 
 Where life was dull and slow, 
 And he longed to hike for the city streets, 
 
 And paint things a crimson glow. 
 So he axed his dad for a bunch of coin 
 
 Cuz his cowboy days was done, 
 Said he, "I m sick of the sagebrush flats, 
 And hankerin fer some fun!" 
 
 So the old gent give him what was due, 
 
 And the prod he hit the trail, 
 And made Rome howl fer a month or two, 
 
 Till his wad begun to fail. 
 He boozed around with the painted dames, 
 
 And blew in every cent, 
 And they kicked him out of the Yeller Dog 
 
 When his last red bean was spent. 
 
 The prod he woke to the truth at last, 
 And bawled, "What shall I do?" 
 
 His kale was gone and his friends had left, 
 And the prod was homesick, too. 
 
 81 
 
TONY BOB S" RANGE SERMON 
 
 His stomach cried for a little chuck, 
 And he wailed, "A job fer mine!" 
 
 And he struck a place on a Jonah ranch, 
 A-herdin a bunch o swine ! 
 
 It was dern hard luck, but the prod must live, 
 
 And the busted profligate 
 Was glad to chaw on the husks o corn 
 
 That the hungry porkers ate. 
 But soon he moaned, "I ll cut this out, 
 
 And trot back home to dad, 
 Cuz he has plenty o chuck, I know, 
 
 And some to spare, by gad !" 
 
 The old gent sat in the ranch house door 
 
 As the sun sank low one night, 
 And while he mourned for his absent boy, 
 
 The prod he hove in sight. 
 The old man yelled, "My son s come back! 
 
 My joy I cain t conceal ! 
 It s time for a feast ; round up that herd, 
 
 And cut out a fat young veal !" 
 
 So they ate and drank to the prod s return, 
 And dressed him in fine, swell clo es, 
 
 And the prod was glad he had jumped his job 
 With all its sorrowful woes. 
 
"PONY BOB S" RANGE SERMON 
 
 For there ain t no doubt, when a cuss is broke, 
 
 And he s shy of duds and chuck, 
 That the old home ranch is the best place yet 
 
 That a busted prod has struck! 
 
 83 
 
THE WEST FOR ME 
 
 I LOVE the peaks with their snow-bound caps; the 
 stately mountains grand ; 
 The pungent smell of the bending pines that tower on 
 
 every hand ! 
 The streams that leap through the canyons deep, and the 
 
 wind s low melody 
 
 I heed their call, for I love them all tis the West, the 
 West for me! 
 
 I love the stretches of desert gray ; the brown buttes grim 
 
 and high; 
 I love the scent of the sagebrush flats ; the blue of the 
 
 vaulted sky ; 
 The charm and spell of each draw and swell, and the 
 
 shifting sand-dunes free 
 They grip and hold, as their charms unfold aye, the 
 
 West, the West for me! 
 
 I love the trail through the lonely hills, to the door of 
 
 the old log shack, 
 And an insist strong is luring on, as it calls and beckons 
 
 back! 
 I love the croon of the low, sweet tune that sighs through 
 
 the cedar tree, 
 And the throbbing note from the wild bird s throat ah, 
 
 the West, the West for me ! 
 
 84 
 
THE WEST FOR ME 
 
 I love the herds on the open range ; the riders who guard 
 
 them well; 
 Who ride like fiends in the night stampede through the 
 
 ocean of chaparral! 
 I love to dream in the campfire s gleam, of the days as 
 
 they used to be, 
 And the stalwart men who were heroes then so the 
 
 West, the West for me ! 
 
 Oh, the boundless West, and the wild, free life that is 
 
 spent in the open air, 
 With the handiwork of the God of All in the plains and 
 
 the mountains there! 
 I love the sweep of the streams that creep from the hills 
 
 to the throbbing sea, 
 And I hear their call as the shadows fall oh, the West, 
 
 the West for me ! 
 
 85 
 
THE OLD TRAPPER SPEAKS 
 
 I VE taken toll from ev ry stream that held a furry 
 prize, 
 
 But now my traps are rustin in the sun; 
 Whar once the broad, free ranges, wild, unbroken, met 
 
 my eyes, 
 
 Their acres have been civilized and won. 
 The deer have left the bottom-lands; the antelope the 
 
 plain, 
 
 And the howlin of the wolf no more I hear; 
 But the busy sounds of commerce warn me of an alien 
 
 reign, 
 As the saw and hammer echo in my ear. 
 
 I ve lived to see the prairie soil a-sproutin schools and 
 
 stores, 
 
 And wire fences stretch on ev ry hand; 
 I ve seen the nesters crowdin in from distant foreign 
 
 shores, 
 
 And the hated railroads creep across the land ! 
 My heart has burned within me, and my eyes have misty 
 
 grown, 
 
 As Progress came unbidden to my shack ; 
 My streams have all been harnessed and my conquest 
 
 overthrown, 
 And I ve been pushed aside and crowded back! 
 
THE OLD TRAPPER SPEAKS 
 
 I ve seen men come with customs and with manners new 
 and strange, 
 
 To take the lands which I have fought to hold; 
 I ve watched the white-topped wagons joltin off across 
 the range, 
 
 With those who sought to lure the hidden gold. 
 I ve seen the red man vanquished, and the buffalo depart, 
 
 And cow-men take the land which they possessed ; 
 And now there s somethin tuggin an a-pullin at my heart, 
 
 And biddin me "move onward" to rds the west ! 
 
 Thar ain t no elbow-room no more to circulate around, 
 
 Sence Civ lization stopped beside my door ; 
 I ll pack my kit and rifle and I ll seek new stompin - 
 ground 
 
 Whar things is like they was in days o yore. 
 I ve heerd the mountains whisper, and the old, free, wild 
 life calls 
 
 Whar men and Progress never yet have trod, 
 And I ll go back to worship in my rugged canyon-walls, 
 
 Whar the pine trees croon and Nature is my God! 
 
 87 
 
WYOMING 
 
 I LL give to you the whole round earth, 
 And all there is within it 
 Just take it all for what it s worth, 
 
 This very blessed minute, 
 If you ll leave me one little spot 
 
 Out there beyond the gloaming 
 The only Homeland that I ve got 
 My glorious old Wyoming! 
 
 Way up beyond the smoke that palls, 
 
 Your peaks rise, white and hoary, 
 And on the crooning breeze there falls 
 
 The music of your glory. 
 Tis there my feet would fondly turn, 
 
 Tis there my thoughts go roaming, 
 And for your peaks and plains I yearn, 
 
 My glorious old Wyoming! 
 
 Your wide, free ranges stretch away, 
 
 And call and beckon to me ; 
 In all my visions through the day, 
 
 Your azure skies pursue me. 
 I long for your wild canyon deeps, 
 
 Where mountain streams go foaming, 
 Out where the sunset glory creeps, 
 
 My glorious old Wyoming! 
 
 88 
 
WYOMING 
 
 For me no spot can quite compare 
 
 With your cloud-capped expanses; 
 I love your rocky ranges there, 
 
 Where soft the sunlight glances. 
 I love your sagebrush-covered plains, 
 
 Where mighty herds are roaming, 
 And every spot where beauty reigns, 
 
 My glorious old Wyoming! 
 
 Your stalwart sons have turned the sod, 
 
 And lo ! fat fields are gleaming ! 
 Where once fierce tribes of red men trod, 
 
 With progress all is teeming. 
 I love your skies so fair and blue, 
 
 As softly falls the gloaming, 
 And my heart fondly turns to you, 
 
 My glorious old Wyoming! 
 
 89 
 
MY OLD SOMBRERO 
 
 /COMRADE of frontier glories, 
 V^/ Relic of old trail days, 
 Battered and weather-beaten 
 
 Over the rough-hewn ways; 
 Bringing the breath of prairies 
 
 Silvered with morning dew 
 Here s to you, old sombrero, 
 
 Here is a toast to you ! 
 
 Ah, but sweet memories linger 
 
 Over your well-worn crown, 
 Fragrant with sage and greasewood 
 
 Out on the hillsides brown! 
 Hark to the trail-songs yonder, 
 
 Sung by a round-up crew ! 
 Here s to you, old sombrero, 
 
 Visions so dear of you ! 
 
 Out of the dust-clouds rising, 
 
 Straggles a trail-herd slow, 
 Winding in snaky column 
 
 Out to the plains below. 
 There is a glimpse of coulees 
 
 Blossomed with flowers new 
 Memories, old sombrero, 
 
 Memories sweet of you ! 
 
 90 
 
MY OLD SOMBRERO 
 
 There in your dingy likeness, 
 
 Bringing a dream of home, 
 Thinking of bunkhouse pardners, 
 
 Out where the longhorns roam ! 
 Here where the firelight glistens, 
 
 Memories we ll renew, 
 Graven, my old sombrero, 
 
 Deep in the heart of you! 
 
 Musty and gray and drooping, 
 
 You hang on your rusty nail; 
 Only an old-time relic, 
 
 A dream of the cattle trail. 
 But oh, how the heart-beat quickens, 
 
 And golden memories flow, 
 When I look at you, old sombrero, 
 
 And dream of the Long Ago. 
 
 91 
 
THE SHORT-GRASS COUNTRY 
 
 OUT in the short-grass country, 
 Out where the greasewood grows, 
 Out where the coyote hollers, 
 
 Out where the blizzard blows. 
 That is the place I m seekin , 
 That is the land for me, 
 Ridin a-straddle 
 A cowpunch saddle, 
 Over the sagebrush sea ! 
 
 Out in the short-grass country, 
 
 Out on the mesas brown, 
 Far from the rush and worry, 
 
 Far from the haunts of town. 
 Out where it s peace and quiet, 
 Restful and calm and free, 
 Ridin a-straddle 
 A cowpunch saddle, 
 Over the sagebrush sea ! 
 
 Out in the short-grass country, 
 Out where your pals are true; 
 
 Drinkin the glorious sunshine 
 Under the skies of blue. 
 
 92 
 
THE SHORT-GRASS COUNTRY 
 
 Out of your tarp at daylight, 
 Frisky as you kin be, 
 
 Ridin a-straddle 
 
 A cowpunch saddle, 
 Over the sagebrush sea ! 
 
 Out in the short-grass country, 
 
 Out where there s room to spare ; 
 Out where no smoke s pollutin 
 
 The fresh-blown prairie air. 
 Out where no street-cyars bother, 
 Out where yer safe, by gee ! 
 Ridin a-straddle 
 A cowpunch saddle, 
 Over the sagebrush sea! 
 
 Out in the short-grass country! 
 
 Pardner, say, ain t it fine? 
 Livin in perfect freedom, 
 
 Out where the air s like wine ! 
 Nothin , you bet, kin beat it ! 
 Life is a jubilee! 
 Ridin a-straddle 
 A cowpunch saddle, 
 Over the sagebrush sea ! 
 
 93 
 
THE DYING COWBOY 
 
 OL pal, I m goin away off Yonder, 
 To the country that borders the Great Divide, 
 An I ve been dreamin an tried to ponder 
 
 What s lyin there on the other side. 
 Do the hardy fellows who ride its ranges 
 
 Strike trails o peace in its valleys fair, 
 Without no blizzards or weather changes, 
 Or wild stampedes on its mesas there? 
 
 I wonder, too, if the skies are bluer 
 
 Than those that shelter us here below? 
 An* the Round-up Boss is he any truer 
 
 Than Jim an Billy, I d like to know ? 
 Is there any chance of a gun perceedin ? 
 
 Or don t six-shooters come into play? 
 I reckon, perhaps, we re ruther needin 
 
 To know the Bible an how to pray. 
 
 Shall I pack my chaps an my spurs an saddle, 
 
 My ol sombrero an blue wool shirt? 
 Or don t the bronks that we ll hafto straddle 
 
 On heaven s ranges, know bit or quirt ? 
 I s pose there never no quicksands lyin 
 
 Around the streams of that golden land, 
 An never a howlin gale defyin 
 
 The heart an nerve of its angel band. 
 
 94 
 
THE DYING COWBOY 
 
 They say there s nothin but peace an gladness 
 
 A-waitin there for the boys who go ; 
 Cuz the gospel sharps say there ain t no badness 
 
 Like that on this earthly range below. 
 It looks to me like a sure- nuff winner, 
 
 They s no night-ridin to be gone through, 
 An though you re branded a low-down sinner, 
 
 The Foreman s waitin to welcome you. 
 
 Bend low, ol pal, for a misty shimmer 
 
 Is dimmin my eyes, an I seem to see 
 That heaven range through the dusky glimmer, 
 
 An hark! tis the Foreman a-callin me! 
 The songs of the angel-band so tender, 
 
 Drift softly down through the chaparral 
 Goodby, ol pal, we will meet Up Yender, 
 
 At the bars of the heavenly Home Corral ! 
 
 95 
 
OH, DESERT WINDS! 
 
 OH, desert winds, you sing to me in accents mild 
 and low, 
 Of stretches green, where breezes soft go wandering to 
 
 and fro! 
 
 You sing of Springtime s balmy hours, of mesas bloom 
 ing fair, 
 Until I feel the desert lure that turns my footsteps there ! 
 
 Oh, desert winds so cool and sweet, with Springtime s 
 
 freshest kiss, 
 You seem to sing, "No spot on earth is half so fair as 
 
 this!" 
 
 There is a cadence in your song that lulls and satisfies, 
 A soothing rhythm to your croon which nothing else 
 
 supplies ! 
 
 Oh, desert winds, I seem to hear you singing as you go! 
 While perfumes from the Southland fair in vagrant 
 
 breezes blow. 
 I catch the scent of greasewood on the cooling evening 
 
 air, 
 And I can tell the song you sing which bids me come 
 
 Back There 
 
OH, DESERT WINDS! 
 
 Oh, desert winds, which blow and blow, you seem to 
 call "Come home ! 
 
 Come where the blossomed range-grass rolls away like 
 billowed foam! 
 
 Come back unto your own once more! I m calling, 
 calling free ! 
 
 I m singing of the land you love! Come rise and fol 
 low me!" 
 
 Oh, desert winds, my heart goes out to your enticing 
 
 plea! 
 I hear your murmured accents drift across the sagebrush 
 
 sea! 
 
 Your beauties rise before me far across the drifting sand, 
 And bind the ties which draw me back to my own Desert 
 
 Land! 
 
 97 
 
THE PROSPECTOR 
 
 MY cabin walls are rough and rude, 
 My bed is hard ; my fare is coarse ; 
 And yet, I love this solitude, 
 
 And every stream, from mouth to source! 
 
 All day I delve for hidden gold 
 The object of my heart s desire, 
 
 And when the day is growing old, 
 I smoke beside my pinon fire ! 
 
 And, basking in its cheery blaze, 
 
 I watch the leaping flames, and dream 
 
 Of old-time friends and other days, 
 When eyes of love in mine did gleam ! 
 
 Within the firelight s ruddy cheer, 
 The voices of the night are all 
 
 The sounds which greet my tired ear, 
 Or penetrate my cabin wall. 
 
 And when I seek my humble bed, 
 And, wrapped in gentle slumber lie, 
 
 The night winds sing about my head 
 A low-crooned, soothing lullaby! 
 
THE PROSPECTOR 
 
 I m monarch of this lonely wild! 
 
 I bow the knee to God alone ! 
 To these vast deeps I m reconciled; 
 
 The mountains are my kingly throne! 
 
 99 
 
 
THE FRONTIER MARSHAL 
 
 THE frontier marshal wa n t no saint, 
 Nor weak-kneed, cringin cuss 
 Who d knuckle down an mebby faint 
 
 When in a shootin muss! 
 The thing he allus learned well first, 
 
 Was how to turn the trick, 
 An if the worst should come to worst, 
 To just be trigger-quick ! 
 
 He was a man who knew the art 
 
 Of handlin a six-gun! 
 An when he had to play his part, 
 
 He saw that twas well done! 
 He allus aimed to git his man, 
 
 An he shot quick an straight, 
 Becuz twas apt to spoil his plan 
 
 To be a second late! 
 
 He wasn t much on dress er looks, 
 
 Out in that frontier land. 
 He wasn t posted much on books, 
 
 But he had nerve an sand! 
 An many a "bad" man of the Plains 
 
 Who crossed him in disputes, 
 Was quickly planted, for his pains, 
 
 Still wearin of his boots! 
 
 100 
 
THE FRONTIER MARSHAL 
 
 He was the majesty of law 
 
 In them wild border days! 
 As quick as lightnin on the draw, 
 
 When mixed in shootin frays. 
 He was the bravest of his clan, 
 
 Our homage he has won! 
 The coolest, keenest Western man 
 
 That ever packed a gun ! 
 
 101 
 
TO AN OLD BRANDING IRON 
 
 YOU RE a warped and rusty relic of the days of 
 Long Ago, 
 Ere the foot of Progress entered where you ruled with 
 
 iron hand ; 
 You are of an age departed ; of an epoch none may 
 
 know 
 Who have never watched the conquest that you made 
 
 throughout the land. 
 You have blazed the way for nesters who have turned 
 
 their furrows deep 
 Where the great herds roamed the prairies, when you 
 
 held unchallenged sway; 
 You have seen advancing thousands, with their goods and 
 
 chattels creep 
 
 Out across the dusty ranges where the cattle used to 
 stray. 
 
 You were pioneer and master in a region wild and rough ; 
 You were monarch in a section where a six-gun was 
 
 the law ; 
 You were backed by men of action who were made of 
 
 sterner stuff 
 
 Than the country to the eastward of their ranges ever 
 saw. 
 
 102 
 
TO AN OLD BRANDING IRON 
 
 You have seen the cattle-barons waxing rich in cows and 
 
 steers 
 From the brand you burned upon them in the dusty 
 
 old corral, 
 For you were the leading faction in the West for thirty 
 
 years 
 
 Ere the nesters claimed the country you had ruled so 
 long and well. 
 
 On a thousand hills were cattle that had felt your smok 
 ing brand, 
 And the draws and coulees echoed to the bellowing of 
 
 herds ; 
 And they plowed a trail behind them as they straggled 
 
 through the land, 
 Urged by sinewy cowpunchers who were careless with 
 
 their words. 
 By the onward march of Progress were your conquests 
 
 held for naught, 
 And you saw the herds forced slowly from the lands 
 
 which you had won ; 
 You have bowed to plow and reaper, which intruded 
 
 where you fought, 
 
 And have watched your thousands scatter toward the 
 far-off setting sun. 
 
 103 
 
TO AN OLD BRANDING IRON 
 
 But the cattle-trails are grassy, and the herds no longer 
 
 roam 
 
 Through the lands you fought to conquer from a sub 
 tle, cunning foe. 
 For the nesters came and fenced it, and the spot you 
 
 knew as "home" 
 Had no ties to hold you longer, and you gladly chose 
 
 to go. 
 Rippling seas of grain now ripen where the puncher rode 
 
 the range, 
 
 And the hills no longer echo to his lusty shout, long- 
 drawn ; 
 You were forced to yield to Progress, with her customs 
 
 new and strange, 
 You re a warped and rusty relic of a life forever gone! 
 
 104 
 
THE OLD YELLOW SLICKER 
 
 HOW dear to my heart was that old yellow slicker 
 I carried way back in my cowpunchin days! 
 Twas stiff as a board, but I wasn t a kicker 
 
 When it was a-rainin and me huntin "strays. " 
 I carried it tied at the back of my saddle, 
 
 All ready for blizzard or windstorm or rain, 
 And twas my salvation when I had to straddle 
 
 My bronc and lope out on the mud-spattered plain. 
 That old yellow slicker! 
 That spacious old slicker 
 I carried on many a round-up campaign ! 
 
 That old yellow slicker! Twas big and twas roomy; 
 
 It sure kept me dry when the rain trickled down. 
 I wore it on night-herd with skies black and gloomy, 
 . It covered me well from my feet to my crown. 
 No matter how blusterin , gusty or showery, 
 
 No matter how cold or unpleasant the storm, 
 No matter how sloppy or muddy or lowery, 
 
 That old yellow slicker I wore kept me warm ! 
 That ill-fittin slicker ! 
 That fish-oil-soaked slicker, 
 
 Its mission it never yet failed to perform ! 
 
 105 
 
THE OLD YELLOW SLICKER 
 
 That old yellow slicker which I have defended 
 
 Hangs there in the bunkhouse agin the log wall. 
 Its mission s fulfilled, and its range life is ended 
 
 No more do the herds on the cattle-trails call. 
 But sometimes I dream, in the dim summer gloamin , 
 
 And there in the embers which flicker and change, 
 I catch a faint glimpse of the herds that were roamin , 
 
 And think of that slicker I wore on the range. 
 That battered old slicker! 
 That old yellow slicker, 
 
 A cattle-day relic I ll never exchange! 
 
 106 
 
SUNSET ON THE DESERT 
 
 THERE ain t no artist paints it with his pallet and 
 his brush 
 
 Like the Master Artist does it, at the sunset glory s hush, 
 
 When the reds and pinks and crimsons are a-floodin all 
 the skies 
 
 With a hint of heaven s beauties through the gates of 
 Paradise. 
 
 Oh, there ain t no daub on canvas that was ever yet dis 
 played 
 
 That can paint a desert sunset like the hand of God has 
 made! 
 
 How the colors blend and soften underneath His master 
 hand, 
 
 Till they flood the buttes and mesas and creep off across 
 the sand! 
 
 How the draws and coulees glinlmer with the gold He 
 spills afar, 
 
 Flingin back the sunset s blushes where the stately yuccas 
 are! 
 
 And the clouds grow sort o filmy, in a gorgeous, crim 
 son sheen, 
 
 Like they tried to keep the angels from a-peekin on the 
 scene. 
 
 107 
 
SUNSET ON THE DESERT 
 
 Then a gorgeous glare of color seems to tip the peaks 
 and hills, 
 
 With a gleamin , golden splendor, which the Master Ar 
 tist spills. 
 
 And the mountains, white and hoary, seem to bend and 
 smile at me, 
 
 And the sand-dunes are a-sparkle like a dazzlin sum 
 mer sea ; 
 
 While the dreary wastes seem likened to some stretch of 
 fairy-land, 
 
 As He deftly shows their luster by the magic of His hand. 
 
 Then He draws the curtain closer by His varied lights 
 and shades, 
 
 And paints in a touch of purple as the picture slowly 
 fades. 
 
 And the brown, bare, arid stretches that at noon-time 
 were a-glare, 
 
 Take on tints of wondrous beauty and grow roseate and 
 fair. 
 
 And I stand in awe and wonder, as the colors flash and 
 glow, 
 
 Tingin all the somber desert till they blend and over 
 flow. 
 
 108 
 
SUNSET ON THE DESERT 
 
 Then the hush of even gently, softly, slowly filters down 
 On the lonely, dreary mesas and the hills so dry and 
 
 brown ; 
 Till the star-world sheds its luster, and the moonlight 
 
 floods the range, 
 And the dark buttes loom up yonder, grim and spectral- 
 
 like and strange. 
 And I drowse, and doze, and wonder at the picture I 
 
 have seen, 
 Which the hand of God has painted on old Mother 
 
 Nature s screen. 
 
 109 
 
THE OLD BUNKHOUSE 
 
 TT1IS empty and silent, all sagging and creaking, 
 
 A With windows a-gape to the breezes that blow. 
 The rafters are cobwebbed, the hinges are squeaking, 
 
 As idly the wind swings the door to and fro. 
 The dust and the mold have left visible traces, 
 
 The hearthstone is cold and tis cheerless and strange, 
 And vainly I search for the bronzed, fearless faces 
 
 Of riders I bunked with while riding the range. 
 
 I listen for voices of old pals to greet me, 
 
 But out of the shadows no echoes I hear. 
 No rough, hearty hand-clasp of punchers to meet me, 
 
 No laugher or singing falls sweet on my ear. 
 The pack-rats go scampering boldly around there, 
 
 And squeak their defiance about the dim room ; 
 And nothing but grim desolation is found there 
 
 The place is abandoned to silence and gloom ! 
 
 The empty corrals have no dust-clouds arising, 
 
 Where restless cow ponies are milling inside; 
 No loud-swearing puncher in vainly devising 
 
 Some means of subduing a range outlaw s pride. 
 The long, straggling columns of cattle have vanished, 
 
 The draws and the coulees are empty and lone ; 
 The plow and the reaper, the brand-iron have banished, 
 
 No more is the saddle the Westerner s throne ! 
 
 110 
 
THE OLD BUNKHOUSE 
 
 Tis only a relic of song and of story 
 
 The bunkhouse that stands in the shine and the rain, 
 A silent reminder of cattle-day glory, 
 
 That leaves one a feeling of sadness and pain. 
 But often I think, in my fireside dreaming, 
 
 Of days when the cowman was monarch and king, 
 And picture, in fancy, the bunkhouse lights gleaming, 
 
 Where echoed the trail songs the cowboys would sing ! 
 
 Ill 
 
WHERE THE SAGEBRUSH BILLOWS ROLL 
 
 MY mind turns back on the beaten track to the days 
 of the Long Ago 
 Back to a land where the mountains stand with their 
 
 glistening caps of snow. 
 Though far away from that land today, I m there in my 
 
 heart and soul, 
 
 In the grand old West that I love the best, where the 
 sagebrush billows roll. 
 
 Again I seem, in a misty dream, to be where the morning 
 
 sun 
 Shines bright and fair on the gray buttes there, as the 
 
 shadows leap and run 
 O er the mesas wide to the farther side, like a racer to 
 
 his goal, 
 In the grand old West that I love the best, where the 
 
 sagebrush billows roll. 
 
 And the blossoms nod from the prairie sod, and the note 
 of the lark rings clear, 
 
 And I catch a gleam of a winding stream that ripples 
 upon the ear. 
 
 And it sings a song as it speeds along o er riffle and rock 
 and shoal 
 
 A song of the West that I love the best, where the sage 
 brush billows roll. 
 
 112 
 
WHERE THE SAGEBRUSH BILLOWS ROLL 
 
 I lift my eyes where the sand-dunes rise, and the desert 
 lizard crawls, 
 
 And I gaze afar where the canyons are with their rough- 
 hewn granite walls. 
 
 Where the skies are blue and the clouds drift through in 
 a hazy and filmy scroll, 
 
 In the Golden West that I love the best where the sage 
 brush billows roll. 
 
 And the lure is strong as the siren song that rings in my 
 ears today, 
 
 And it beckons me where the winds blow free o er the 
 sagebrush seas of gray; 
 
 And I ll go back to the rough log shack where I ve lived 
 in my heart and soul 
 
 Back to the West that I love the best, where the sage 
 brush billows roll! 
 
 113 
 
FREDERIC REMINGTON 
 
 HE knew the West as only few have known, 
 He knew the men he knew the horses, too; 
 The swarthy, silent trapper all alone, 
 
 The cowman and he knew what they could do. 
 The range to him was as an open book, 
 
 The peaks and crags and hills he knew them well. 
 He knew the secrets in each canyon brook, 
 And what the great Plains whispered he could tell. 
 
 At his deft touch the canvas sprang to life! 
 
 It glowed with all the colors of the West; 
 His paint-tubes told the horrors of the strife 
 
 The charge, the savage war-whoop and the rest. 
 He showed the white-topped wagons jolting on, 
 
 The grim and hardy plainsmen as they rode; 
 The campfire in the gray of early dawn, 
 
 The pack-train with its lashed and swaying load. 
 
 He knew the cattle and the brands they bore. 
 
 He drew them with a keen and master hand; 
 He saw and saved to us the West before 
 
 There passed the remnants of that valiant band. 
 He gave to us the cowboy carefree, brave, 
 
 The riders of the range he pictured true ; 
 Twas left for him their herds and them to save, 
 
 Ere they had passed forever from our view. 
 
 114 
 
FREDERIC REMINGTON 
 
 A monument to him who knew the West! 
 
 Whose brush so deftly told its every tale ! 
 The horses and the men he loved the best, 
 
 When he, too, rode the dusty cattle trail. 
 A shaft to him whose canvas gleams and glows 
 
 With colors of the life he loved so well ; 
 And from whose painted pictures ever flows 
 
 A charm which weaves o er us a magic spell! 
 
 115 
 
THE LURE OF THE WEST 
 
 I WANT to go back where the greasewood grows, 
 And the sagebrush smell is rank and sweet ! 
 Where the spring-time desert in beauty glows, 
 
 And the shifting sandhills my vision greet. 
 I want to forget the sight and sound 
 
 Of city traffic and city roar, 
 And hurry away to my stamping-ground 
 
 In God s great open the West once more! 
 
 Again I list to the pine tree s croon, 
 
 And the mystic murmur of mountain streams, 
 Which sing to me in the old, sweet tune 
 
 I knew when dreaming my boyhood dreams. 
 I see the cabin, with sagging sill, 
 
 The wide fireplace, and the puncheon floor 
 The vision gives me a homesick thrill, 
 
 For Mother stands at the open door ! 
 
 The lure of the West! There s a charm and spell 
 That weaves a web with each passing hour, 
 
 With a subtle cunning that none can tell 
 Who never have felt its magic power. 
 
 116 
 
THE LURE OF THE WEST 
 
 And I ll go back to my crags and peaks, 
 
 To my wide, free plains and the brown earth s breast, 
 
 For the voice of Nature God s creature speaks, 
 And wins me back to my love the West ! 
 
 117 
 
A RANGE RIDER S APPEAL 
 
 GUARD me, Lord, when I m a-ridin 
 Crost the dusty range out there, 
 From the dangers that are hidin 
 On the trails so bleak and bare. 
 Keep my stumblin feet from walkin 
 
 In the quicksands of distress, 
 And my outlaw tongue from talkin 
 Locoed words of foolishness. 
 
 When around the herd I m moggin 
 
 In the darkness of the night, 
 Or crost lonely mesas joggin 
 
 With no one but You in sight 
 Won t You ride, Lord, there beside me, 
 
 When I see the danger sign, 
 And through storm and stampede guide me, 
 
 With Your hand a-holdin mine? 
 
 May the rope of sin ne er trip me 
 
 When fer fun to town I go ; 
 Let the devil s herders skip me 
 
 On their round-ups here below. 
 May my trails be decked in beauty, 
 
 With the blossoms of Your love; 
 May I see, and do, my duty 
 
 Ere I ride the range above. 
 
 118 
 
A RANGE RIDER S APPEAL 
 
 Let me treat my foes with kindness, 
 
 May my hands from blood be free ; 
 May I never, through sheer blindness, 
 
 Git the brand of Cain on me. 
 On the range of glory feed me, 
 
 Guide me over draw and swell, 
 And at last to heaven lead me, 
 
 Up into that Home Corral ! 
 
 119 
 
THE DESERT S LURE 
 
 YOU think the desert s lonely, pard, 
 But tain t, a single bit! 
 Becuz you miss it mighty hard 
 
 When you re away from it. 
 Its very vastness seems to cheer 
 
 And lure you on and on, 
 Where rosy streaks of light appear 
 To tinge the east at dawn. 
 
 Its wide wastes thrill you through and through, 
 
 And o er its sand dunes deep 
 The sagebrush billows call to you 
 
 Off where the dim trails creep. 
 Its cactus-covered mesas seem 
 
 Like some fair paradise, 
 And every day is just a dream 
 
 Beneath fair, smilin skies. 
 
 And down along its parched expanse, 
 
 W r here sluggish rattlers crawl, 
 And phantom waters gleam and dance, 
 
 And gaunt coyotes call, 
 There s somethin sayin to you "Come!" 
 
 And somethin bids you go, 
 Becuz those arid lands are Home 
 
 The only Home you know. 
 
 120 
 
THE DESERT S LURE 
 
 Its mesas stretch for endless miles, 
 
 Far, far where brown buttes stand, 
 And out across its grim defiles 
 
 Gleam ocean-waves of sand. 
 The yucca-blossoms nod snow-white, 
 
 Amid the desert bloom, 
 And on the star-lit summer night 
 
 Drifts rich and rare perfume. 
 
 And so, I say the desert wild. 
 
 Just weaves a charm and spell ; 
 You feel that you are Nature s child 
 
 When once you know it well. 
 It beckons, beckons every day, 
 
 Beneath blue skies above, 
 And in its own enticin way 
 
 It wooes and wins your love! 
 
 121 
 
THE COWGIRL 
 
 SHE ain t inclined to rds lots o things 
 That Eastern gals kin do up brown ! 
 She don t wear jewelry an rings, 
 
 Like them swell gals that lives in town. 
 Her cheeks are tanned an olive tint 
 That shows the roses hidin there; 
 Her eyes are brown, and there s a hint 
 Of midnight in her wavin hair. 
 
 She don t go in for fancy hats, 
 
 A wide-brimmed Stetson is her pet. 
 She has no use for puffs and rats, 
 
 And harem skirts would make her fret. 
 She wears a kerchief round her neck, 
 
 At breakin broncs she shows her sand ; 
 And at a round-up she s on deck, 
 
 And twirls a rope with practiced hand ! 
 
 She doesn t know a thing about 
 
 Them motor cyars that buzz and whirr ; 
 But when she goes a-ridin out, 
 
 A tough cow-pony pleases her. 
 Her hands are tanned to match her cheeks, 
 
 Her smile will start your heart a-whirl, 
 And when she looks at you and speaks, 
 
 You love this rosy, wild cowgirl ! 
 
 122 
 
THE COWGIRL 
 
 She never saw a tennis court, 
 
 She don t belong to any club ! 
 But she is keen to all range sport, 
 
 And she s a peach at cookin grub! 
 She couldn t win at playin whist, 
 
 She wouldn t think that bridge was fun, 
 But say the hombre don t exist 
 
 That beats her handlin a six-gun! 
 
 I don t believe she d make a hit 
 
 At them swell afternoon affairs ; 
 She wouldn t feel at home a bit, 
 
 Them ain t the things for which she cares. 
 She ain t so keen as some gals is 
 
 At tryin stunts that s new and strange, 
 But you kin bet she knows her biz 
 
 When she s out on the cattle range! 
 
 123 
 
TO A "TRIANGLE" CALF 
 
 I VE chased you through the chaparral, 
 An yelled until I m hoarse! 
 I herded you to the corral, 
 
 An you dodged back, o course ! 
 I pitched my rope straight fer your feet, 
 
 An then you took a fall! 
 The butcher says you re fit fer meat, 
 So bawl, consarn you, bawl ! 
 
 You ve roamed the range from sun to sun, 
 
 An had the best o feed ; 
 You ve frisked about an had your fun 
 
 With others of your breed. 
 But now you re fat enough fer veal, 
 
 An wait the butcher s call ; 
 You git the rough end of the deal, 
 
 But bawl, consarn you, bawl! 
 
 My bronc is jest a shadder now 
 
 From chasin you around! 
 You had the darndest way, somehow, 
 
 Of gittin over ground! 
 You re wearin the "triangle" brand, 
 
 You re fat an sleek an all ! 
 Veal calves like you is in demand, 
 
 So bawl, consarn you, bawl! 
 
 124 
 
TO A TRIANGLE CALF 
 
 I ve cussed you high an cussed you low, 
 
 Conhang your snow-white face ! 
 I d cut you out an back you d go, 
 
 To give me one more race ! 
 I roped you then, an had to laff 
 
 To see you flop an sprawl! 
 You re full o ginger fer a calf, 
 
 Now bawl, consarn you, bawl ! 
 
 It won t be long afore your skin 
 
 Is hangin up to dry ! 
 I reckon that you d best begin 
 
 Your prayers afore you die! 
 You ve been cut out as fit to kill, 
 
 You ain t a bit too small, 
 So if you simply won t keep still, 
 
 Why, bawl, consarn you, BAWL ! 
 
 125 
 
UNREST ON THE RANGE 
 
 THIS movin pitcher bizness it has got to quit, by gum ! 
 Cuz it s puttin our cowpunchers and the cowgame 
 on the bum! 
 The boys are allers kickin when we start to run our 
 
 brands, 
 
 Cuz they say that rastlin dogies sort o dirties up their 
 hands ! 
 
 But the cowboys like the movies, cuz it s diff runt, fer 
 
 a change, 
 
 And it s gittin so no puncher will go out to ride the range. 
 Cuz he gits ten bucks fer goin through a lot o wild 
 
 West whirls, 
 And the privilege of huggin all the pretty actor-girls! 
 
 We re findin that good ropers are all-fired hard to git, 
 
 And the high-class bronco-twisters all have saddled up 
 and quit! 
 
 Cuz the movie-man corraled em, and they draw a pun 
 cher s pay 
 
 Ten times over jest fer posin in a pitcher ev ry day ! 
 
 How us ol -time cowmen hate it hate this movin pitcher 
 
 fame! 
 It s a-sp ilin all the punchers that was in the cattle game ! 
 
 126 
 
UNREST ON THE RANGE 
 
 We are weary of sich doin s, where they flash upon the 
 
 screen 
 Lots o monkey shines no cow ranch in the country ever 
 
 seen ! 
 
 So we re prayin that our punchers will get sick of faked- 
 up strife 
 
 And be yearnin fer the dangers of the or-time cowboy 
 life. 
 
 These here movin pitcher fellers make us tired durn 
 their souls ! 
 
 And we d like to jerk a six-gun and jest pump em full 
 o holes ! 
 
 127 
 
ONLY A BRONCO 
 
 I M only a bronco, an unruly bronco, 
 A range-ridden bronco, wild, scrubby and tough! 
 I m bridled and saddled at daylight and straddled, 
 
 I m larruped and quirted and used mighty rough ! 
 They slam and abuse me, they daily misuse me, 
 
 And when on the roundup I get little care ! 
 I m jest a cow-pony, a pinto, and bony, 
 But out on the ranges I do my full share! 
 
 I ain t no prize beauty, but I know my duty ! 
 
 I m wise to the rope and the tricks of the trade ! 
 You bet I m no quitter! I ll hold any critter 
 
 That you flip a rope on, for I ain t afraid! 
 No stall ever held me ; they ve always corraled me, 
 
 I stand in the sun and the mud and the rain, 
 No roof to protect me, and though they neglect me, 
 
 I m only a bronco, and never complain! 
 
 Although you may doubt me, they can t do without me, 
 
 In spite of the fact that my temper ain t mild. 
 I m lively at pitchin , and always am itchin 
 
 To see the wild rider upon me get piled ! 
 They never half- feed me, for they re sure to need me 
 
 Before I have browsed on the grass to my fill. 
 And though they deny me good care, they swear by me, 
 
 And brag of my toughness and usefulness still. 
 
 128 
 
ONLY A BRONCO 
 
 I m only a bronco, an ornery bronco, 
 
 A range-ridden bronco with no pedigree! 
 I m jest a cow-pony, a pinto, and bony ! 
 
 But no hawss is wiser to range-tricks than me ! 
 No stall ever held me, they ve always corraled me ; 
 
 I m not of the breed of which hawss-raisers sing; 
 I m long-haired and shaggy, tough-looking and scraggy! 
 
 I m only a bronco jest one of the string! 
 
 129 
 
A COWBOY S VERSION 
 
 WHEN I m ridin alone in the night-time way out 
 on the desolate range, 
 With the moon shinin down through the cloud-hills and 
 
 the canyons and draws lookin strange, 
 And the shadowy buttes loomin dimly, way out where 
 
 the coyotes call, 
 
 I know that the hand of no human conceived it and fash 
 ioned it all. 
 
 When I m lopin across the wide mesa, where blossoms 
 
 send forth sweet perfume, 
 I know that an All-Wise Creator had somethin to do 
 
 with each bloom. 
 Cuz no mortal hand on this planet could paint us them 
 
 colors, I know, 
 Nor spangle the coulees and foothills with all the gay 
 
 posies that grow. 
 
 I know that the green of the ranges don t come at the 
 
 biddin of man. 
 The landscape makes all of them changes jest through 
 
 the great Creator s plan. 
 I know that the beauties about me the sunshine, the 
 
 blooms and the rest, 
 Wa n t put there by man and his helpers, but just at the 
 
 good Lord s behest. 
 
 130 
 
A COWBOY S VERSION 
 
 And nights when I lie by the campfire and look at the 
 
 stars in the sky, 
 I m ready to own that no human made all of them planets 
 
 on high ! 
 But only the Boss of the heavens reached down from 
 
 His Home Ranch above, 
 And moulded and builded and fashioned the blossoms 
 
 and ranges I love ! 
 
 131 
 
TO A BACON RIND 
 
 WE packed you along when we tamed the wild West, 
 You helped grease the way for the brave pioneer ; 
 Of all the grub carried, you sure was the best, 
 
 We stuck to an swore by you, year after year. 
 The cowman came in, an your smoky ol hide 
 An savory smell was the buckaroo s friend; 
 On fires of sagebrush your slices we fried, 
 An out on the roundup you stuck to the end ! 
 
 We carted you over the Santy Fee trail 
 
 In blizzards o winter an summery heat, 
 An not fer a minnit, by jinks, did you fail 
 
 When men was a-growlin fer somethin to eat. 
 We packed you along when we delved fer the gold 
 
 Deep hidden in canyon an rocky defile; 
 The half of your worth hasn t ever been told, 
 
 Fer you are the grub that was allus in style. 
 
 We swallered your crispy an delicate self 
 
 From little Saint Joe to the Golden Gate through; 
 We allus could rummage around on the shelf 
 
 An be mighty sure of a section of you ! 
 You tickled our palate in cabin an tent, 
 
 You furnished us joy in a desolate land ; 
 As long as we had you, the world was content, 
 
 But Lord ! how we kicked if you wasn t on hand ! 
 
 132 
 
TO A BACON RIND 
 
 Tis well, in a way, to give praise to the men 
 
 Who trailed it through desert an mountain an plain ; 
 To sing of their glories again an again, 
 
 Accomplished in many a thrillin campaign. 
 An yet, in these stories of Western conquest, 
 
 Let s put in some credit a little, at least, 
 To that which kept hope in the pioneer s breast 
 
 The hope which Ol Bacon so fearlessly greased. 
 
 133 
 
THE MIRAGE 
 
 OVER the sun-scorched, glaring sand, 
 Under a pitiless molten sky, 
 Luring on with a mocking hand, 
 
 Over the stretches white-hot and dry. 
 Painting a picture of rippling streams, 
 Grassy valleys and cooling shade 
 There in the desert it glows and gleams, 
 In magic beauty, but false, arrayed. 
 
 Out in the withering, vast expanse, 
 
 Parched and shriveled and dead and bare, 
 Out where the shimmering heat-waves dance, 
 
 The wraith of the desert gleams on the air. 
 It lures and calls in enticing strains, 
 
 As its waters lave on a shining shore ; 
 It whispers of billowy, fertile plains, 
 
 And bloom-decked hills I would fain explore. 
 
 Over the stunted sagebrush sea, 
 
 Under a glimmering, sweltering sun, 
 It beckons, beckons and smiles at me, 
 
 As its cruel, deceiving waters run. 
 Only the ghost of a green-clad vale, 
 
 A desert spectre that lures and snares; 
 It calls me over a death-marked trail, 
 
 Into a furnace that seethes and glares! 
 
 134 
 
THE MIRAGE 
 
 It fades and dies as I reel ahead 
 
 Over the arid and burning waste 
 A picture of beauty an instant spread, 
 
 And then forever from sight effaced. 
 But over its bosom, hell-hot and white, 
 
 The bones of many are bleaching bare, 
 Who turned aside at the luring sight 
 
 In the painted depths of the desert s glare. 
 
 135 
 
THE CALL FROM THE WEST 
 
 WHERE the grass-lands roll in stretches like an 
 endless, tossing sea, 
 To the mountains white and hoary, over ranges wide and 
 
 free, 
 Where the country lies unbroken, and soft prairie breezes 
 
 blow, 
 It is there my heart turns fondly and the siren bids me 
 
 go- 
 It is far from cares and worries and the sordid haunts 
 
 of man, 
 And the ceaseless rush and turmoil of the money-making 
 
 clan. 
 
 Only peace and gladness linger round its quiet solitudes, 
 For the grasping hand of Progress on its border ne er 
 
 intrudes. 
 
 My country, fair and shining, lies where sunset s glory 
 gleams, 
 
 Over mountain-tops and mesas and along smooth, wind 
 ing streams ; 
 
 Where the sagebrush and the greasewood fling their sweet 
 perfume afar, 
 
 And the cow-men watch their trail-herds by the blazing 
 evening star. 
 
 136 
 
THE CALL FROM THE WEST 
 
 I see it every evening in the dreams which come to me 
 My glorious Western homeland across the sagebrush sea ! 
 It lures my thoughts off yonder, where soft the twilights 
 
 fall, 
 Where hearts are true and tender, and prairie breezes 
 
 call. 
 
 And I must rise and answer, for the lure is ever strong ! 
 It calls and beckons to me, and breathes the West s own 
 
 song. 
 
 It sings of wide horizons and sunny skies and fair, 
 Which seem to smile upon me and turn my footsteps 
 
 there. 
 
 137 
 
OUR FADING CHARACTERS 
 
 THE West is no longer the wild, woolly place 
 That it was in the rough days of yore; 
 Time was when the bullets were flying through space, 
 
 But you don t see it now any more. 
 The cowboy has vanished, as everyone knows, 
 
 And roundups and brandings have ceased; 
 You see him now only in fifty-cent shows 
 Neath circus tents, back in the East. 
 
 The whoop of the savage no longer is heard, 
 
 As he lifted some emigrant s hair; 
 Our blood, by his slaughter, no longer is stirred, 
 
 As it was in the palmy days there. 
 Today, in the East, Lo is now at his best, 
 
 Where with squaw and pappoose he is seen 
 Posing daily in dramas depicting the West, 
 
 In front of a picture machine! 
 
 Time was when the buckskin-fringed hero stalked by 
 
 With a couple of guns, on parade ; 
 And nobody stopped him, or questioned him why 
 
 With such arsenal he was arrayed. 
 But the time soon arrived when the scout had to go, 
 
 And his whereabouts were not discussed. 
 For we know he signed up with a blood-curdling show, 
 
 And draws pay from the theatre trust! 
 
 138 
 
OUR FADING CHARACTERS 
 
 Oh, yes, there s a change in the West of today, 
 
 And the heroes of old are no more. 
 Six-shooters and spurs both have left us to stay, 
 
 Or to hang in some curio store. 
 And the man from the East, as a matter of fact, 
 
 Is corraled by some seller of soil, 
 Who would load him with lots in a suburban tract, 
 
 Or "bust" him through dealings in oil ! 
 
 139 
 
A CORRAL SOLILOQUY 
 
 YOU VE been roped an saddled an bridled an 
 straddled, 
 
 I ve spurred you an quirted you, too; 
 You squealed an cavorted, you sunfished an snorted, 
 
 As round the corral we both flew. 
 Your temper is sassy, your actions is classy, 
 
 For buckin you ve sure got an itch ; 
 I ve swore I will bust you so that I kin trust you, 
 So pitch, you ol pie-biter, pitch ! 
 
 Your eye is a-fire with one bad desire 
 
 To git me down there in the dirt ! 
 Go to it, ol feller, there s no streak o yeller 
 
 Down under my blue flannel shirt ! 
 
 I ve met you an matched you, I ve larruped an scratched 
 you, 
 
 You cain t pile me there in the ditch! 
 You won t be the winner, you buck-jumpin sinner ! 
 
 So pitch, you ol pie-biter, pitch! 
 
 You re gruntin an lungin an squealin an plungin , 
 
 An corkscrewin round like a top! 
 You d sure like to eat me, but you cain t unseat me ! 
 
 I ll ride you, ol hawss, till you drop! 
 You are a jim-dandy, you re tough an you re sandy, 
 
 The way you go to it is rich! 
 So keep on a-humpin yer back up an jumpin , 
 
 An pitch, you ol pie-biter pitch ! 
 
 140 
 
A CORRAL SOLILOQUY 
 
 You re gittin some wheezy ! You don t find it easy 
 
 To rattle this whoopin cowpunch ! 
 In spite of your kickin , you see I m still stickin , 
 
 So lemme jest hand you a hunch : 
 You ain t the fust disgusted cayuse I ve busted, 
 
 An rid to a frazzle an sich, 
 If you only knew it, you gotta come to it, 
 
 So pitch, you ol pie-biter, pitch! 
 
 141 
 
A SPOILED OUTFIT 
 
 WE RE takin city boarders 
 Down on the ol ranch now, 
 And charge em fancy prices 
 To watch us brand a cow ! 
 We feed em bunkhouse fodder, 
 They bed down on the floor; 
 This ol ranch ain t a-runnin 
 The way it was no more ! 
 
 We uster rise at daylight 
 
 And be off on the range. 
 We don t do that no longer, 
 
 And gosh ! but it seems strange. 
 We uster eat by lamplight, 
 
 But now we eat at eight, 
 Becuz our city boarders 
 
 Are used to sleepin late. 
 
 We ain t alone no longer 
 
 Where we can joke and chin ; 
 And when we start off ridin , 
 
 Them boarders all butt in! 
 They ask the durndest questions, 
 
 And borry all our traps, 
 To make believe they re cowboys 
 
 In high-heeled boots and chaps! 
 
 142 
 
A SPOILED OUTFIT 
 
 We have to chaperone em, 
 
 And let the ranch work slide ! 
 Them tenderfeet are spoilin 
 
 Us boys who uster ride! 
 They re usin our best broncos, 
 
 And pretty soon, by jing, 
 A hawss won t know his bizness 
 
 In any puncher s string! 
 
 But then, the boss he pays us 
 
 Our money jest the same 
 As if we was a-workin 
 
 Right at the cowpunch game ! 
 Of course it ain t our bizness 
 
 How things is run, by gum ! 
 But darned if this ere cow ranch 
 
 Ain t goin on the bum! 
 
 143 
 
CATTLE LAND S FAREWELL 
 
 THERE ain t no Cattle Land no more ! 
 The country s wire-fenced! 
 Things ain t the way they was before 
 
 The western rush commenced. 
 The open range that once we had, 
 
 No more is grazin grounds; 
 The cow game s goin to the bad 
 Since we are kept in bounds. 
 
 Our herds was free, in early days, 
 
 To wander where they would; 
 No lines was set for them to graze, 
 
 They got it where they could. 
 But now the onward march of Time 
 
 Has brought about a change, 
 And Cattle Land brands it a crime 
 
 To grab another s range! 
 
 We wasn t warned by bands of wire 
 
 Which stretched their lengths ahead, 
 That we must bring our stock no nigher, 
 
 But turn em back instead. 
 We didn t grab the water-holes, 
 
 And hold em fer our own ; 
 The old-time cattle men had souls 
 
 There wa n t no grazin zone ! 
 
 144 
 
CATTLE LAND S FAREWELL 
 
 We neighbored in a friendly way, 
 
 Though we was far apart. 
 Nobody told us go or stay, 
 
 And we was big of heart. 
 We loved the lands that held our herds 
 
 As long as we was free, 
 And didn t have no warring words 
 
 Bout what our rights should be ! 
 
 But now across our hard-won lands 
 
 They ve stretched the wire through, 
 And put on us restrainin hands, 
 
 And told us what to do. 
 We re marchin down the Western slope, 
 
 Tis Progress bids us go, 
 But in our breasts the fires of Hope 
 
 Are burnin dim and low! 
 
 145 
 
i 
 
 SPRING IN SAGEBRUSH 
 
 N Sagebrush Land it s springtime, and the desert is 
 
 a-bloom 
 With a weave of wondrous colors from old Mother 
 
 Nature s loom ! 
 
 Ev ry bronco s feelin lazy an inclined to want to shirk, 
 An us punchers have a feelin we would ruther loaf 
 than work! 
 
 We re a-lookin fer the roundup to be startin pretty quick, 
 But you say a thing about it an the boys commence to 
 
 kick! 
 Cuz these balmy springtime mornin s, ev rybody wants 
 
 to doze, 
 An when we will start to gather up the cattle, goodness 
 
 knows ! 
 
 On the bunkhouse steps we gather when the mornin sun 
 
 is seen 
 Shinin on the distant hilltops, where the grass is turnin 
 
 green. 
 
 An we sit an roll the makin s,idly talkin ,as we drowse, 
 On all subjects under heaven but the one of steers an 
 
 cows ! 
 
 146 
 
SPRING IN SAGEBRUSH 
 
 We had ought to be a-ridin on the range a-huntin strays, 
 But we feel like we was locoed these sunshiny spring 
 time days ! 
 
 The foreman sure is cussin at the lazy way we do, 
 But the range is shy of punchers an we guess he knows 
 it, too! 
 
 Our saddles are a-hangin in the bunkhouse on the wall, 
 
 But we only grunt o mornin s when we hear the "grub- 
 pile" call ! 
 
 Cuz in Sagebrush Land it s springtime, and us punchers, 
 in our hearts, 
 
 Feel that we don t care, by thunder, if the roundup never 
 starts ! 
 
 147 
 
"CUPID" ON A COW RANCH 
 
 A BOSTON gal, the foreman s niece, 
 Is here to spend a month er two, 
 An sence she come, there ain t no peace 
 
 The boys is locoed clean plumb through ! 
 They buy b iled shirts an fancy socks, 
 
 An try to sling on loads o style, 
 An go to town an blow their rocks 
 Fer presents every little while! 
 
 I never seen sich monkey biz 
 
 On this here cattle ranch afore! 
 The foreman says that niece o his 
 
 Has set the bunkhouse in a roar! 
 The boys they try to comb their hair, 
 
 An slick it up with ile an dope! 
 An jest fer plain cow hands, I swear 
 
 They re usin up a raft o soap! 
 
 Pink Bates is shavin ev ry night ! 
 
 An Shorty goes down to the crick 
 An scrubs hisself till he s as white 
 
 As any dood! It makes me sick! 
 An gosh ! the dog they re slingin on 
 
 When they strut out to the corral ! 
 An all becuz they re jest dead-gone 
 
 On that swell-lookin Boston gal! 
 
 148 
 
"CUPID" ON A COW RANCH 
 
 I don t know how it s comin out! 
 
 She ain t give anyone a hunch ! 
 But you would think, to hear em spout, 
 
 That she s dead-stuck on all the bunch! 
 I don t know how she ll end the race, 
 
 But here is what I hope, by jing: 
 That she won t hang around this place 
 
 Until the roundup starts next Spring! 
 
 149 
 
TO HIS COW HORSE 
 
 YOU are homelier than sin! 
 Wouldn t take no beauty prize ! 
 You are scrubby and you re thin, 
 
 And the devil s in yore eyes! 
 But, ol pal, I d bank on you 
 
 Over any thoroughbred, 
 Cuz I know what you kin do 
 When you take it in yore head. 
 
 When I tackled you at first, 
 
 You was somethin on the pitch! 
 Per awhile I got the worst, 
 
 And I landed in the ditch! 
 How you blatted and you bawled 
 
 Buckin round the ol corral, 
 W r hen astride your frame I crawled 
 
 And let out a cowboy yell! 
 
 There is ginger in you yet, 
 
 Though you stand with droopin ears! 
 Oh, you ain t no slouch, you bet, 
 
 When it comes to partin steers! 
 Course you ain t- so rrtuch on style, 
 
 Cuz yore rode and larruped hard, 
 But I d hunt a derned long while 
 
 Fore I found a better pard ! 
 
 150 
 
TO HIS COW HORSE 
 
 Though yore ugly as the deuce 
 
 When a mean streak strikes yore skin, 
 And you sometimes jar me loose 
 
 When that pitchin you begin ; 
 Though yore looks don t cut much ice, 
 
 You kin put this in yore pipe : 
 Ain t nobody got yore price, 
 
 Cuz you ain t fer sale, by cripe ! 
 
 151 
 
AUTUMN ON THE RANGE 
 
 OFF across the wide arroyo sweeps the breezes of 
 the fall, 
 
 Where the haze of Injun summer sort o lingers over all. 
 Ev ry bronco is cavortin in the chilly autumn air, 
 And the yippin of their riders is resoundin ev rywhere. 
 
 The campfire smoke is risin sort o lazy-like and slow, 
 Where the cook is busy mixin up a batch of sour-bread 
 
 dough. 
 The boys who rode on night-herd are a yawnin in their 
 
 beds, 
 While the foreman showers cuss-words down upon their 
 
 sleepy heads. 
 
 There s a smell of fryin bacon as it sizzles in the pan, 
 And the boys ll soon be lined up at the mess-box to a 
 
 man. 
 
 And the cups ll be a-clatter, for the coffee s b ilin hot, 
 While the slapjacks that are bakin are a-goin to hit the 
 
 spot. 
 
 Soon the dustclouds will be risin where the herd is strag- 
 
 glin through, 
 And there ll be some lively doin s by the hull blamed 
 
 round-up crew. 
 There ll be runnin , there ll be dodgin , when they start to 
 
 cuttin out, 
 And the sagebrush flats will echo with the cowman s 
 
 lusty shout. 
 
 152 
 
AUTUMN ON THE RANGE 
 
 So you d better cord yer beddin and then climb into yer 
 
 chaps, 
 And when you have gulped yer coffee, cinch yer latigoes 
 
 and straps; 
 For they re drivin in the hawss-herd, and the puncher s 
 
 day s begun, 
 And there s goin to be some sweatin fore the brandin 
 
 all is done! 
 
 153 
 
TO HIS PAL 
 
 WE VE bunked fer years together, pal, 
 An worked with many a round-up crew, 
 In sagebrush an in chaparral, 
 
 An where the dusty greasewood grew. 
 We ve served our time a-trailin steers, 
 
 We ve swallowed many a cow camp s feed, 
 An felt the thunder jar our ears 
 On many a howlin night stampede. 
 
 We ve stuck together you an me 
 
 In rain an sun, in storm an shine! 
 On many a wild-eyed jamboree 
 
 I ve saved your skin as you hev mine! 
 We ve rode the trails through Lonesome Land, 
 
 With good ol pardners of our rank, 
 An many a steer has felt the brand 
 
 We seared upon his quiverin flank ! 
 
 When sun-scorched weather burnt us brown, 
 
 We rode the range jest me an you ; 
 We ve shot the lights all out in town, 
 
 An painted things a crimson hue! 
 We ve faced death scores o times, ol pard, 
 
 An never flinched in any fight! 
 Sometimes we played a losin card, 
 
 But stayed there with the game all right! 
 
 154 
 
TO HIS PAL 
 
 Across the sagebrush flats we ve jogged, 
 
 Out where the desert stretches roll ; 
 We ve hauled out many a steer twas bogged 
 
 While drinkin at some water-hole. 
 We ve busted many a bronco s pride, 
 
 That pitched an bawled an humped his back, 
 An many a bacon rind we ve fried 
 
 Out in some lonely ol line shack! 
 
 We ve seen the Western country change, 
 
 An watched our wilder customs fade. 
 We ve seen the sheep-men grab the range 
 
 Where once our herds of longhorns strayed. 
 An now, with hair that s streaked with gray, 
 
 We re joggin on to rds Time s corral, 
 Knee rubbin knee the good ol way 
 
 Jest you an me together, pal ! 
 
 155 
 
THE FINALE OF THE PUNCHER 
 
 WHEN the last great herd has vanished, 
 And the open range is gone, 
 When the cattle all are banished, 
 
 And their numbers are withdrawn. 
 When the brandin days are over, 
 
 And the ropin all is through, 
 Then it is we ll sit and wonder 
 What s the cowpunch goin to do? 
 
 When the cowman comes to sever 
 
 What connections he had left ; 
 When the trail-herds pass forever, 
 
 And there ain t a cayuse left. 
 When the ol chuckwagon rumbles 
 
 O er the ridges out o view, 
 And the cook quits yellin "Grub-pile !" 
 
 What s the puncher goin to do? 
 
 When the squealin , buckin bronco 
 
 Has become an ol plow nag, 
 When the saddle and the poncho 
 
 Hang up in an ol grain bag ; 
 When his spurs and bits are rustin 
 
 And his gun is useless, too, 
 And there s no more round-ups startin , 
 
 What s the cowpunch goin to do? 
 
 156 
 
THE FINALE OF THE PUNCHER 
 
 When the last night-herdin s finished, 
 
 And he s seen his last stampede, 
 When the bunkhouse gang s diminished, 
 
 And of brand-irons there s no need; 
 When the ol worn yellow slicker 
 
 Is put by for store-duds new, 
 And his chaps have been discarded, 
 
 What s the puncher goin to do? 
 
 When there ain t no wild West longer, 
 
 When the plains are seas of grain; 
 And the nesters crowd in stronger, 
 
 Till the cowman can t remain. 
 When the ol life s but a vision 
 
 To which he must bid adieu, 
 Tell me, oh, my ol range pardners, 
 
 What s the puncher goin to do? 
 
 157 
 
MY DESERT FASTNESS 
 
 I M in my desert fastness 
 The silent, painted land, 
 Where sunrise glories thrill me, 
 
 And where, across the sand, 
 Gleam splendors which no painter 
 
 But God Himself can show, 
 
 In changing lights and shadows, 
 
 Spilled by the sunset s glow. 
 
 Across the wide arroyos 
 
 The broken buttes rise high, 
 And far beyond, the mountains, 
 
 Whose white crests pierce the sky. 
 The wine-like air brings to me 
 
 The desert smells I love 
 The scent of sage and grease wood 
 
 From mesa lands above. 
 
 I m in my desert fastness 
 
 A barren solitude 
 No city noises clanging 
 
 Outside my cabin rude. 
 Only the gentle breezes 
 
 Across the sagebrush floor, 
 In low-crooned, soothing whispers, 
 
 Drift idly past my door. 
 
 158 
 
MY DESERT FASTNESS 
 
 Oh, glorious desert country 
 
 Your magic spell I know ! 
 Your lure is strong, resistless, 
 
 When from your depths I go! 
 Your wild wastes call and beckon, 
 
 In accents glad and true, 
 And your calm stretches soothe me 
 
 When I return to you! 
 
 159 
 
A SHATTERED IDOL 
 
 WHEN first he struck the old Bar-Z, 
 I ll own he looked blamed good to me. 
 He threw a line of flossy dope 
 About how he could pitch a rope, 
 And handed out some foxy talk 
 How he could make bad broncos walk ; 
 He sed he d rode the range for years, 
 And was a peach at handlin steers. 
 
 He did so much, by smile and word, 
 My tender cowgirl heart was stirred, 
 And twasn t very long till he 
 Was all the time close-herdin me, 
 And tryin hard, by voice and hand, 
 To rope and slap on me his brand, 
 While I give him a sort o hunch 
 He was the boss steer in the bunch. 
 
 He sed his aunt in Buffalo 
 Had got dead oodles of the dough, 
 And he was heir to all her cash, 
 And sometime he would cut a dash. 
 It was to me a mild surprise, 
 When he gazed down into my eyes, 
 And asked me if I d be his wife, 
 But I jist sed, "You betcherlife!" 
 
 160 
 
A SHATTERED IDOL 
 
 That was a week or two ago. 
 Today he ain t a ghost o show ! 
 I took him as the real range stuff, 
 But he was springin jist a bluff. 
 I wouldn t marry him, by jing, 
 For all his cash and ev rything! 
 He ain t no good ! Our ol mule, Jack, 
 Bucked him ker-flop upon his back ! 
 
 161 
 
THE FADING FRONTIER 
 
 THE old frontier is fadin , and the real West is no 
 more; 
 Bucks and squaws don t hang out longer down at the 
 
 post trader s store. 
 
 Beaded buckskin s been supplanted by the cheaper calico, 
 And you ve got to go to Boston for a real wild Western 
 show. 
 
 There is no more bronco bustin , to the clank of heavy 
 
 spurs, 
 And a round-up comes so seldom we don t know when 
 
 it occurs. 
 When a tenderfoot s among us, he ain t made to dance 
 
 away 
 To the music of a six-gun, like the story-writers say. 
 
 Nowadays there ain t no ponies lazin at the hitchin rack, 
 While the cowboy in the booze-joint dallies with a greasy 
 
 pack. 
 And the bad men of the border they are all killed off or 
 
 gone, 
 And the marshal s job is easy, cuz there s no more 
 
 shootin done. 
 
 162 
 
THE FADING FRONTIER 
 
 Wide sombreros are discarded ; high-heeled boots are out 
 
 o date, 
 And the man who packed a six-gun cain t keep up his 
 
 old death rate. 
 While that fairy tale you ve heered of, where the boys 
 
 shoot out the lights, 
 Is no longer on the program as one of the drawin sights. 
 
 Yes, the old frontier is fadin , and the West has had its 
 
 day; 
 
 For the risin generation don t do things the old-time way. 
 There s no graveyard on the hillside filled with blunderin 
 
 recruits 
 Who ve been planted neath the daisies still a-wearin of 
 
 their boots. 
 
 163 
 
THE LURE OF THE DESERT 
 
 HAVE you gazed on the desert when Springtime s 
 blush was spreading across the land, 
 \Yhen a painted ocean of riotous bloom the sagebrush 
 
 stretches spanned? 
 Have you felt the breath of the warm south wind as it 
 
 crooned to the mesas fair, 
 
 \Vhen the sunrise gilded the broken buttes in a shimmer 
 of glory there? 
 
 Have you traversed the desert when molten skies were 
 
 quivering overhead? 
 When the yuccas drooped in the glaring hills, and the 
 
 mesas were bare and dead? 
 When the fevered earth, in the stifling air, fair gasped 
 
 as it wilted down, 
 And the rolling range was a withered waste and the 
 
 Yoyos were dry and brown? 
 
 Have you seen the heavens with dust-clouds dimmed, and 
 
 the sun like a yellow ball, 
 \Vhile mad winds bellowed across the sand where the 
 
 creaking freighters crawl? 
 Have you felt the sting of the fearsome gusts and reeled 
 
 in the choking blast, 
 As the shrieking tempest caught and flung the blinding 
 
 sand-clouds past? 
 
 164 
 
THE LURE OF THE DESERT 
 
 Have you delved for gold in the treacherous hills, led on 
 by an eager hope? 
 
 Have you felt the thrill of the "desert rat" in the "color" 
 along the slope? 
 
 Have you staggered over the arid sands to the desert- 
 phantom s gleam, 
 
 With a dry canteen and a swollen tongue, toward a 
 mocking, fading stream? 
 
 Have you camped at night when the full moon rose and 
 silvered the buttes hard by? 
 
 Have you felt that desolate, lonely hush at the coyote s 
 quavering cry? 
 
 If you have, you know of the desert s lure, and the spell 
 of the blistering range, 
 
 That grips and holds with a magic hand, where the sand- 
 dunes shift and change. 
 
 165 
 
STANDING ON HIS MERITS 
 
 IT S many a time I ve plugged the lights, 
 An shot holes through the bar 
 When I ve rid in to see the sights 
 
 From off the range afar. 
 I ve nicked the tenderfoot s bootheels 
 
 With bullets from my gun, 
 But I ain t been mixed up in deals 
 Where killin s must be done. 
 
 I know I ve painted some things red 
 
 When I ve come off the range, 
 An sometimes I have lost my head, 
 
 An acted wild an strange. 
 I ve rid my hawss in through the door 
 
 To git somebody s goat, 
 But one thing I ain t done, fer shore 
 
 I never sold my vote! 
 
 You cain t blame me fer gittin gay, 
 
 An playin my best cyards, 
 When I ve spent many a lonesome day 
 
 With steers an cows fer pards. 
 I may hev made a dern big noise, 
 
 An yelled to beat the band, 
 But I hain t never robbed the boys, 
 
 Ner changed a cowman s brand ! 
 
 166 
 
STANDING ON HIS MERITS 
 
 I know I ain t no parlor gent 
 
 That ain t the range I browse 
 But I ain t never stole a cent, 
 
 Ner rustled no man s cows. 
 I reckon I m about as square 
 
 As some swell guy of rank 
 Who s wanted by the sheriff there 
 
 Fer bustin up a bank ! 
 
 167 
 
i 
 
 CHRISTMAS WEEK IN SAGEBRUSH 
 
 T IS Chris mus week in Sagebrush, and the old town s 
 
 only store 
 Never had, since it was opened, such a run o trade 
 
 before. 
 
 Ev ry rancher is a-blowin his "dinero" full and free 
 Buyin gim-cracks for the young uns to put on the Chris 
 mus tree. 
 
 The cowboys ride in muffled in their wolf-skin coats and 
 chaps, 
 
 And the rancher s wife is wearin all her extry furs and 
 wraps. 
 
 The roads are rough and rutty, and the draws are full o 
 snow, 
 
 And the Sagebrush weather prophet swears it s thirty- 
 five below. 
 
 The ponies are a-standin all a-shiver at the rack, 
 
 And they champ their bits and nicker for their riders to 
 
 come back. 
 
 Ev ry poker joint is runnin , and there s faro and roulette, 
 And the booze-joints are a-grabbin all the punchers they 
 
 can get! 
 
 168 
 
CHRISTMAS WEEK IN SAGEBRUSH 
 
 The pitcher-show is crowded full o riders off the range, 
 Who are watchin actor-cowboys doin stunts both new 
 
 and strange. 
 Ev ry film brings groans and hisses, cuz those hombres 
 
 on the screen 
 Go through lots o monkey bizness that no cow ranch 
 
 ever seen! 
 
 The town s one street is swarmin with a motley caval 
 cade, 
 
 And the reservation Injun in his togs is on parade. 
 
 His squaw brings lots o plunder of the beaded kind to 
 sell, 
 
 While her lord goes after whisky but cain t even git a 
 smell ! 
 
 From the dance-hall comes the echoes of a squeaky 
 violin, 
 
 Where the painted dames are ropin all the whoopin cow 
 boys in. 
 
 Fer it s Chris mus week in Sagebrush, and there won t a 
 puncher go 
 
 Back to ride the wintry ranges while he has a cent to 
 blow! 
 
 169 
 
ON NIGHT HERD 
 
 SO-HO, longhorns ! Quit yer bawlin , 
 Bed down now, and be good steers ! 
 Can t you hear the cowboys callin , 
 
 And a-singin in your ears? 
 You re in fer a good ol cussin 
 
 If you don t stop rangin round! 
 Go to sleep and quit yer fussin , 
 Pawin up this swell bed-ground! 
 
 So-ho, longhorns ! Stop yer proddin ! 
 
 Quiet down and mind yer boss, 
 And I ll sing to you whilst ploddin 
 
 Round the herd on my ol hawss ! 
 I cain t bawl out like Caruso, 
 
 But I ll try my level best ! 
 If you want to hear me do so, 
 
 Jest lie down and go to rest ! 
 
 So-ho, longhorns! Stop that beller, 
 
 Or you ll start a mad stampede! 
 You d jest like to make a feller 
 
 Lead you in a burst o speed! 
 Like to wake the boys a-lyin 
 
 Back there by the fire tonight, 
 So they d hafto ride a-flyin 
 
 Fer to stop yer skeery flight. 
 
 170 
 
ON NIGHT HERD 
 
 So-ho, longhorns! Stop that mooin ! 
 
 Darn them Diamon Circle cows! 
 All they want to be a-doin 
 
 Is a-rangin round to browse! 
 You ain t hungry; you ve had water 
 
 And you ve had a bully feed. 
 Lie down, longhorns, like you oughter! 
 
 Ain t a darn thing that you need! 
 
 So-ho, longhorns! Now I wonder 
 
 What the devil is that noise? 
 Gosh, it sounds to me like thunder! 
 
 Reckon I d best wake the boys! 
 Hi! you punchers! In yer saddles! 
 
 Bunch em close and hold em so ! 
 Quick! Afore the herd skedaddles! 
 
 (WOOF!) By hokey! Thar they go! 
 
 171 
 
THE HOMESICK COWBOY 
 
 I M tired and sick of the city ! 
 My love for its racket has flown. 
 And nobody cares that s the pity! 
 That I m here a stranger alone! 
 I want to go back where it s quiet, 
 
 To the land that I know is the best; 
 I m homesick, and I won t deny it 
 I want to go back to the West! 
 
 I m sick of New Yawk and its flurry, 
 
 I m tired of all of its noise! 
 I jest want to pack up and hurry 
 
 Back there to the ranch and the boys ! 
 I m weary of streets that are slimy! 
 
 These pavements I plumb sure detest ! 
 I hate it so sooty and grimy ! 
 
 I want to go back to the West! 
 
 I want to git out where the breezes 
 
 Ain t smothered by canyons of brick! 
 Where a feller kin do as he pleases, 
 
 With nobody makin a kick! 
 I m hungry to tackle a saddle; 
 
 This loafin , in town I detest ! 
 Oh, Gawd! fer a bronco to straddle! 
 
 I want to go back to the West ! 
 
 172 
 
THE HOMESICK COWBOY 
 
 I m sick of the grinnin and guyin 
 
 When folks size me up on the street ! 
 Yes, pard, there is no use denyin 
 
 I long fer a cowpuncher s seat ! 
 The bunkhouse lights seem to be gleamin 
 
 Way over the canyon s wild crest 
 And me here alone and a-dreamin 
 
 I want to go back to the West ! 
 
 I m lonesome to hear a cow bawlin , 
 
 I m hungry fer sagebrush and sand! 
 Fer nights with the coyotes a-callin 
 
 Fer somethin that s wearin a brand ! 
 What wouldn t I give right this minnit 
 
 To be on the range with the rest, 
 When the round-up was on and me in it! 
 
 Oh, I want to go back to the West! 
 
 173 
 
THE MAN FROM "CHERRYCOW" 
 
 ANEW top hand blowed in today 
 From down around the Cherrycow. 
 He started in to talk and say ! 
 
 You d thought nobody else knowed how 
 To pitch a rope or run a brand, 
 
 Or ride a buckin outlaw nag ! 
 But he soon got to understand 
 
 This cow camp wa n t no place to brag ! 
 
 He told about the rides he d made 
 
 On outlaws no one d ever rode. 
 How he dumb on and how he stayed ! 
 
 That cuss from Cherrycow sure blowed ! 
 He had us all backed off the map, 
 
 And might have held the rep he claimed, 
 But for one fortunate mishap 
 
 Which must have made him plumb ashamed ! 
 
 Our foreman, Shorty Bates, says he: 
 
 "That s some talk, stranger, that you spring. 
 Come down to the corral with me, 
 
 And back up all them words you sling. 
 We got an ol blue roan out here, 
 
 And if you stick ten jumps on her, 
 You git a job right through the year 
 
 A-breakin broncs at sixty per." 
 
 174 
 
THE MAN FROM "CHERRYCOW" 
 
 The man from Cherrycow he laffed, 
 
 And trailed off down to the corral, 
 While Shorty follered him, and chaffed 
 
 The Cherrycow bronc-peeler well. 
 "I ll bet ten bones," says he, "right now 
 
 That I kin ride that bronc and stick !" 
 And Shorty says to Cherrycow: 
 
 "Here s ten that you cain t do that trick !" 
 
 They roped the roan and cinched her tight ! 
 
 She bawled and bucked like all possessed, 
 But Cherrycow clumb on all right, 
 
 With pride a-bulgin out his vest. 
 
 ********** 
 
 They re in the bunkhouse with him now ! 
 
 I reckon doc ll pull him through. 
 But there s one man from Cherrycow 
 
 Who bit off more n he could chew ! 
 
 175 
 
i 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 LONGED for the throbbing city, with its hurry and 
 
 rush and all. 
 The bustle of constant traffic, and I thought I could hear 
 
 it call. 
 
 I thought that I hated the Open, the silence and solitude, 
 Where hushed are the great wide stretches, and clamor 
 
 does not intrude. 
 
 I dreamed of the noise of commerce, I sighed for the 
 
 marts of trade, 
 Where the roar of traffic deafens, and business is never 
 
 stayed. 
 
 I looked on my desert fastness as liked to a prison cell, 
 And I chafed that my life was fettered and held by a 
 
 changeless spell. 
 
 I came from my silent ranges and breathed of the city 
 
 life; 
 I plunged in its gayest pleasures, and tasted its toil and 
 
 strife. 
 I felt the taint in my nostrils that flowed on its ceaseless 
 
 tide, 
 And I recklessly ran the gamut of all of its evil side. 
 
 176 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 And then I woke from my dreaming, and saw in the dis 
 tance there 
 
 My glorious, wide, free ranges, and tasted the wine-like 
 air! 
 
 And voices came drifting to me from over the seas of 
 sand: 
 
 "Come back to your desert fastness ! Come back to your 
 sun-kissed land!" 
 
 I saw, in the hazy distance, the trail to my cabin door, 
 And smelled on the whispered breezes the scent of the 
 
 sage once more. 
 And I will obey the summons that leaps in my blood and 
 
 thrills, 
 And list to the lure that beckons my heart to the desert 
 
 hills ! 
 
 177 
 
THE RANGE COOK S "HOLLER" 
 
 THEY sing of the puncher, that knignt of the range 
 who rounds up the bellerin steer, 
 \Yho rides at the head of a midnight stampede with nary 
 
 a symptom of fear ; 
 
 They tell of his skill with the six-gun and rope, but no 
 body mentions the dub 
 
 Who trails the chuckwagon through desert and plain, and 
 never yet failed with the grub! 
 
 The weather may find us in mud or in rain ; may bake us 
 
 and sizzle us down, 
 The treacherous quicksands may mire us deep, and the 
 
 leaders and wheelers may drown. 
 The blizzards may howl and the hurricane blow, or Injuns 
 
 may camp on our trail, 
 But nary excuse will the foreman accept for havin the 
 
 chuckwagon fail ! 
 
 For off on the range is the puncher who rides through 
 
 buck-brush and sage and mesquite, 
 With an appetite fierce for the bacon we fry and the 
 
 flapjacks we bake him to eat. 
 And we must be waitin with grub smokin hot when 
 
 riders come clatterin in, 
 No matter what troubles we ve bucked up against or what 
 
 the delays may have been. 
 
 178 
 
THE RANGE COOK S "HOLLER" 
 
 So in singin yer songs of the men of the Plains who 
 
 trailed it through desert and pine, 
 Who roughed it from Idaho s borders clear down to the 
 
 edge of the Mexican line, 
 Don t give all the due to the puncher of steers, but chip 
 
 in some dope of the dub 
 Who trailed the chuckwagon in sun or in storm, and 
 
 never yet failed with the grub! 
 
 179 
 
HIS COWGIRL SWEETHEART 
 
 AIN T she jest a beauty, stranger? 
 Slickest one in all the bunch ! 
 Best of all, she says she loves me, 
 An I ve cottoned to the hunch! 
 She s my little cowgirl savvy? 
 
 With a heart that s true an pure! 
 
 Got her corraled, roped an branded, 
 
 Yes, an hog-tied, stranger sure! 
 
 Gosh ! she was a little vixen 
 
 When I shied my rope at her! 
 Pawed an snorted like tarnation ! 
 
 Bucked like all possessed yes, sir! 
 Had to use some slick palaver 
 
 Fore I got my noose on tight! 
 That s her lopin off say, stranger, 
 
 Ain t she simply out o sight! 
 
 Ride? They s nothin that is runnin 
 
 On four laigs that she cain t ride! 
 Ought to see her sit a saddle 
 
 When she s lopin at my side! 
 Thar s some class to what she hands ei 
 
 On yer life, she cain t be beat! 
 Things move mucho pronto savvy? 
 
 When she warms a saddle-seat! 
 
 180 
 
HIS COWGIRL SWEETHEART 
 
 Mavericked round the range dern lonely 
 
 Fore I cut her from the herd ! 
 Shied around her mighty keerful! 
 
 Too plum skeered to say a word ! 
 Didn t savvy all her chaffin 
 
 Till I saw her glad eyes shine 
 With the love-light that was in em 
 
 Then I knowed that she was mine ! 
 
 Ain t she built fer keeps? You betcher! 
 
 Talk about yer slick ones say! 
 Trim an natty as they make em ! 
 
 She s a sure swell-looker hey? 
 Got a step light as a fairy s ! 
 
 Eyes jest like twin jeweled stars! 
 Thar she is ! That s her a-smilin 
 
 At me from the corral bars ! 
 
 181 
 
"BAD MAN" JONES 
 
 BAD MAN" Jones he come to town 
 To have his yearly spree! 
 Shot the hull place up an down, 
 
 An sideways, too, by gee! 
 Cowed the barkeep at one glance! 
 
 An plugged out all the lights! 
 
 An made a Boston lunger dance 
 
 Who d come to see the sights! 
 
 "Bad Man" Jones he took the place 
 
 An run the marshal out! 
 Had the hull dern populace 
 
 Plumb skeered, they ain t no doubt ! 
 Made us do jest as he d choose! 
 
 An when he ordered drinks, 
 Wasn t no one dast refuse 
 
 To licker up, by jinks! 
 
 "Bad Man" Jones he sure was game! 
 
 He shot holes ev rywhere! 
 Didn t stop to take no aim 
 
 When smokin up the air! 
 Shot the boot-heels off n some, 
 
 An laffed when they turned pale! 
 Nary deputy dast come 
 
 An march him off to jail ! 
 
 182 
 
"BAD MAN" JONES 
 
 "Bad Man" Jones he swaggered round, 
 
 A gun in either hand! 
 Sheriff tackled him, an found 
 
 He didn t have no sand. 
 "Bad Man" Jones he fired one shot ! 
 
 The sheriff stopped the pill ! 
 Now he s in a shady spot 
 
 Way up there on Boot Hill! 
 
 "Bad Man" Jones he made us sweat ! 
 
 But now his r eckerd s dim! 
 Cuz his wife a suffragette 
 
 Got plumb after him! 
 Took his gun right on the spot, 
 
 An talked in thunder tones, 
 An now the meekest man we got 
 
 Is that same "Bad Man" Jones! 
 
 183 
 
A CHANGE OF OUTFITS 
 
 LORD, look down on this poor sinner, 
 Weak and worn with Satan s brand ! 
 Twenty years he s been a winner 
 Every time he showed his hand ! 
 Twenty years he s kept me workin 
 
 With his low-lived outfit there, 
 With me never once a-shirkin 
 From a-doin my full share. 
 
 Lord, he s had me noosed and hobbled! 
 
 Had me hog-tied, tripped and slung! 
 All my best years he has gobbled 
 
 Ev ry word from off my tongue. 
 I ain t halter-broke your way, Lord, 
 
 I ain t never rode your range, 
 But I m right here now to say, Lord, 
 
 That I want to make a change. 
 
 Lord, your outfit seems to strike me! 
 
 And your range is big and wide; 
 Wonder if your bunch will like me, 
 
 If I sign with them to ride? 
 That there heaven-range they ve told me 
 
 Don t have blizzards, storm nor strife, 
 And is big enough to hold me 
 
 Fer the balance of my life! 
 
 184 
 
A CHANGE IN OUTFITS 
 
 Lord, I m only jest a battered 
 
 Poor or maverick, rough and lame! 
 All the good in me plumb shattered, 
 
 Greenhorn to this heaven-game. 
 Used to beddin down with sinners, 
 
 Sted of flowery beds of ease ! 
 Herd me, Lord, with your beginners, 
 
 Break me any way you please! 
 
 Lord, jest slip your noose about me! 
 
 Draw it tight and hold it fast ! 
 Ol Nick s got to do without me! 
 
 Herdin -days with him are past ! 
 I ll change outfits with my saddle, 
 
 And a gospel-cayuse ride ! 
 That s the bronc fer me to straddle 
 
 Till I cross the Big Divide ! 
 
 185 
 
FOREST CONSERVATION IN CRIMSON 
 GULCH 
 
 WOODMAN, spare that tree ! 
 Touch not a single bough! 
 We ve cattle rustlers three 
 
 To hang upon it now ! 
 Oh, do not touch a limb! 
 
 We re after Six-Gun Lew, 
 And when we capture him, 
 He ll decorate it, too! 
 
 This tree, in days of yore, 
 
 Was old Judge Lynch s pride! 
 Upon its branches more 
 
 Than twenty men have died ! 
 Train-Robber Bascom swung 
 
 From that limb to his death, 
 Here Hoss-Thief Higgins hung 
 
 Till he was short of breath ! 
 
 In other days than these, 
 
 Within this sheltered glade, 
 So many hanging bees 
 
 We held beneath its shade! 
 This oak we will defend ! 
 
 Tonight we storm the jail ! 
 Take Quick-shot Sparks and send 
 
 Him over the Long Trail! 
 
 186 
 
FOREST CONSERVATION IN CRIMSON 
 GULCH 
 
 We pray that you will spare 
 
 This hardy tree so dear ! 
 For many a hemp affair 
 
 Will be pulled off right here ! 
 The sheriff s posse s out 
 
 For Slim Bill s band, you see ; 
 They ll want these limbs, no doubt, 
 
 To hold a neck-tie spree ! 
 
 Woodman, hack it not! 
 
 For to this tree we cling! 
 Tomorrow night we ve got 
 
 Two bandits who must swing! 
 So spare this tree, we pray, 
 
 For it is our belief 
 This afternoon we may 
 
 Hang that Bar-5 horse-thief ! 
 
 187 
 
THE COMING OF THE RAIN 
 
 THERE S a whisper on the mesa ! 
 There s a murmur on the hills! 
 And the dusty, dry arroyo 
 
 With a new life throbs and thrills ! 
 Where the range was bare and lifeless, 
 And the sun-glare scorched the plain, 
 Lo! the brown earth is rejoicing 
 At the coming of the rain ! 
 
 The sickly grass is turning 
 
 From the sodden brown to green, 
 W r ith the dusty strain of summer 
 
 Disappearing in between ! 
 From its long, unbroken slumber 
 
 It is waking once again, 
 With a song of joy and gladness 
 
 At the coming of the rain ! 
 
 And the dull-eyed herds of cattle 
 
 Low their pleasure at the change 
 Which transforms the lifeless valleys 
 
 Into miles of greening range ! 
 Soon the blooms will smile a welcome, 
 
 And in grandeur they will reign, 
 And each soft breeze croon a joy-song 
 
 At the coming of the rain! 
 
 188 
 
THE COMING OF THE RAIN 
 
 The yucca-plumes will glisten 
 
 Far upon the mountain-height 
 Hoary sentinels on duty 
 
 In their gleaming caps of white! 
 And the cactus and the greasewood 
 
 Will be washing off its stain, 
 And be clothed in greening garments 
 
 At the coming of the rain! 
 
 Down along the rocky ridges 
 
 Will the rain-song sing its way ! 
 It will drip and patter softly 
 
 O er the sagebrush seas of gray. 
 And the whole wide range so barren, 
 
 With a glory new will reign, 
 And all Nature voice its rapture 
 
 At the coming of the rain! 
 
 189 
 
THE LAND OF THE SAGE 
 
 THERE S something about it that "gits you, 
 That lures with a call that is strong! 
 There s something about it that hits you, 
 
 That beckons and draws you along! 
 The skies are a little bit bluer, 
 
 The air has a tang of its own, 
 And friends are a little bit truer 
 
 In the land where the sagebrush is grown. 
 
 There s something about it alluring, 
 
 That holds you as if by a spell ! 
 Its glories are ever enduring, 
 
 Its beauties no land can excel! 
 The love for its plains never changes, 
 
 The charm of its canyons enthrals ; 
 There s something about its wide ranges 
 
 That grips you and beckons and calls ! 
 
 It s mountains and hills captivate you ! 
 
 You look on its streams with delight! 
 Its deserts, somehow, fascinate you, 
 
 You love those grim stretches by night ! 
 Its desolate wastes weave about you 
 
 A spell which you can t understand. 
 You ll whisper, "I m lonely without you! 
 
 I want you, my loved desert land !" 
 
 190 
 
WHY ZACK FEELS "CHESTY" 
 
 ZACK BRIGGS is feelin chesty fer a plain cow hand, 
 by gum ! 
 
 I reckon now they s nothin that ll keep him here to h um. 
 It s sence his trip to Sagebrush that Zack s lofty style 
 
 began, 
 Cuz twas there he had a offer from a movin pitcher man. 
 
 Zack s been a-punchin cattle on the Lazy-K three years, 
 An we ve never made no holler at the way he handled 
 
 steers. 
 He tended right to bizness, an in troubled trails wa n t 
 
 led, 
 Till this movin pitcher geezer put queer notion in Zack s 
 
 head. 
 
 It seems the pitcher outfit come to Sagebrush t other day 
 Fer to git some local color fer a cowboy-Injun play. 
 The boss he filled Zack s noodle with a lot o guff that s 
 
 strange, 
 An he sed the pitcher bizness beat cowpunchin on the 
 
 range. 
 
 191 
 
WHY ZACK FEELS "CHESTY" 
 
 They was actor guys an show-girls in the bunch they 
 
 brung along, 
 An the money that they offered must a-hit our Zack 
 
 dern strong! 
 
 Cuz the only thing required was to play the leaclin part 
 Where the cattle rancher s darter wins the cowboy hero s 
 
 heart ! 
 
 So Zack, he s goin to leave us, an he s all swelled up 
 
 with pride, 
 But I bet he ll miss this outfit when they re startin out 
 
 to ride! 
 
 That ere movin pitcher feller don t appeal to me a bit, 
 Cuz I m feared he ll raise the devil with the rest of my 
 
 outfit ! 
 
 192 
 
OUT OF HIS ELEMENT 
 
 A-WALKIN down yer city streets, 
 Shet in by solid walls, 
 An not a single friend that greets, 
 
 And no pard s voice that calls, 
 I feel more lonesome than I do 
 
 Way out there on the range, 
 Cuz everything I see is new, 
 An ev ry face is strange. 
 
 I m darned if I kin understand 
 
 How city folks gits on ! 
 It s rush an jump to beat the band, 
 
 Till all o daylight s gone. 
 An after that, it s come an go, 
 
 While everything jest hums 
 From time the sun is sinkin low 
 
 Until the daylight comes ! 
 
 Nobody hollers "Howdy-do!" 
 
 Ner stops to pow-wow some! 
 Nobody cares a darn fer you, 
 
 Ner who you be, by gum ! 
 They elbows you along right smart, 
 
 An cops tells you to "hike!" 
 But no one ever makes a start 
 
 To rds bein friendly-like ! 
 
 193 
 
OUT OF HIS ELEMENT 
 
 I reckon I wa n t made to be 
 
 Cooped up in sich a place, 
 Cuz you cain t look around an see 
 
 Some ol pal s friendly face. 
 Yer sky-line bounds is walls o brick, 
 
 The air is damp an foul ! 
 It ain t no wonder that I kick, 
 
 An raise a he-wolf s howl! 
 
 I likes it best where elbow-room 
 
 Is plenty big an wide! 
 Where I kin glimpse a sea o bloom 
 
 Strung out on every side! 
 Where stampin ground ain t all penned in 
 
 By walls an fences, too ! 
 And where folks grabs you by the fin 
 
 And hollers "Howdy-do!" 
 
 194 
 
THE GRUB-PILE CALL 
 
 HERE S lots o songs the puncher sang in roundin 
 A up his herds, 
 
 The music wasn t very grand, an neither was the words. 
 No op ry air he chanted when at night he circled round 
 A bunch o restless longhorns that was throwed on their 
 
 bed-ground. 
 
 But any song the cowboy on his lonely beat would bawl, 
 Wa n t half as sweet as when our cook would start the 
 grub-pile call. 
 
 I ve heered em warble "Ol Sam Bass" fer hours at a 
 time, 
 
 I ve listened to the "Dogie Song," that well-known pun 
 cher rhyme. 
 
 "The Dyin Cowboy" made me sad, an "Mustang Gray" 
 brung tears, 
 
 While "Little Joe the Wrangler" yet is ringin in my ears. 
 
 But of the songs the puncher sang, I loved, the best of all, 
 
 That grand ol chorus when the cook would start the 
 grub-pile call! 
 
 There wasn t any sound so sweet in all the wide range- 
 land; 
 
 There wa n t a song the puncher was so quick to under 
 stand. 
 
 195 
 
THE GRUB-PILE CALL 
 
 No music that he ever heard so filled him with delight 
 As when he saw the ol chuck-wagon top a-gleamin white, 
 An like a benediction on his tired ears would fall 
 The sweetest music ever heard the welcome grub-pile 
 call! 
 
 I ve laid at night an listened to the lowin of the steers, 
 
 I ve heered the coyote s melancholy wail ring in my ears. 
 
 The croonin of the night wind, as it swept across the 
 range, 
 
 Was mournful-like an dreary, an it sounded grim an 
 strange. 
 
 But when the break o day was near, and from our tarps 
 we d crawl, 
 
 The mornin song that charmed us was that welcome grub- 
 pile call ! 
 
 1% 
 
THE OLD LINE SHACK 
 
 THERE wasn t much style about it; 
 It hadn t a polished floor, 
 But only the rough-hewn lumber 
 
 For walls, with a puncheon floor. 
 It stood on a treeless prairie, 
 Afar from the beaten track; 
 Twas a cowpuncher s habitation 
 That Three-Circle old line shack. 
 
 Twas the rudest of western cabins, 
 
 Far out where the range lands roll, 
 But its comfort and cheer oft sheltered 
 
 Full many a kindly soul. 
 And often at night I ve listened 
 
 As the fitful breeze flung back 
 The sound of a coyote s wailing, 
 
 From the Three-Circle old line shack. 
 
 Oh, many a trail song echoed 
 
 Up over its rafters there, 
 Where the curling smoke-wreaths circled 
 
 In the firelight s ruddy glare. 
 And many a thrilling story 
 
 Was tuned to the rifle s crack 
 In the days of wild border troubles, 
 
 In the Three-Circle old line shack. 
 
 197 
 
THE OLD LINE SHACK 
 
 We welcomed each chance acquaintance, 
 
 And gave him a cheery hail ; 
 We sheltered the lonely stranger 
 
 Who rode up the cattle trail. 
 The latch-string was ever hanging, 
 
 And never a soul turned back 
 Who sought for a meal or blanket 
 
 At the Three-Circle old line shack. 
 
 I ve lived in palatial mansions, 
 
 Where comfort and wealth were spread ; 
 Where tapestries hung, and clustered 
 
 Themselves round my downy bed. 
 But, oh, for those days Back Yonder, 
 
 On Time s ever-shifting track, 
 With my pardners who rode the ranges 
 
 From the Three-Circle old line shack ! 
 
 198 
 
REMARKS BY "BRONCO BOB" 
 
 I WOULDN T make no Wall-street king! 
 I m no financial guy. 
 I don t know much of anything 
 
 But makin money fly! 
 But I kin pitch a rope an git 
 
 A steer at ev ry throw, 
 
 An on the ranges I am "it," 
 
 Cuz cows is all I know ! 
 
 I wouldn t make no parlor gent 
 
 Close-herdin gals, that s right! 
 Cuz I ain t wuth a tarnal cent 
 
 When wimmen heaves in sight ! 
 But when I m asked to read a brand, 
 
 Or tame an outlaw hawss, 
 Why, that s the biz I understand! 
 
 That s where I am the boss! 
 
 I couldn t sing no op ry air, 
 
 At that I ain t no bird, 
 But I kin bawl out purty fair 
 
 When I am on night herd! 
 I don t know this "II Trovatore" 
 
 That s bragged up purty steep, 
 But "Swannee River," when I roar, 
 
 Makes cattle go to sleep! 
 
 199 
 
REMARKS BY "BRONCO BOB" 
 
 I ain t no city dude, that s sure, 
 
 With starched-up shirt, by gee ! 
 For me the city has no lure, 
 
 It s Sagebrush Land fer me! 
 A hawss that s scrubby, tough an hard, 
 
 An open range to roam 
 With jest my good ol bunkhouse pard, 
 
 An I am right at home ! 
 
 I m clean stampeded when some girl 
 
 Comes maverickin round 
 To git my bronco heart a-whirl, 
 
 An range my feedin ground ! 
 But when the brandin fires gleam, 
 
 An round-up work gits hot, 
 I ain t a-travelin in no dream ! 
 
 I m Johnny-on-the-spot ! 
 
 200 
 
MY BUNKIE 
 
 (To Dr. F. C. Shurtleff) 
 
 WHO trailed it with me, year on year, 
 In herdin longhorned cow an steer, 
 But now ain t any longer here? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who had a heart so big an free 
 He d give his last durn cent to me, 
 Though lackin stall-fed pedigree? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who as a buster was the boss; 
 Could tame the wildest outlaw hawss 
 That anyone could fetch across? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who wouldn t back down, on a dare, 
 To straddle anything with hair, 
 But rode it to a finish there? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who pitched a rope so skillful that 
 He allus got what he throwed at, 
 No matter if on hill er flat? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 201 
 
MY BUNKIE 
 
 Who beat at poker ev ry night 
 Down there around the bunkhouse light, 
 But played a game twas square an white? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who stuck by me through thick an thin, 
 
 In ev ry scrap we figgered in, 
 
 An many a time has saved my skin? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 W T ho was the best ol pal I knew 
 
 In all the lone years we lived through, 
 
 A diamond rough, but tried an true? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 W r ho stopped a bullet in a spree 
 With rustlers, that was meant fer me, 
 An died, his head agin my knee? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 Who rides the heavenly ranges dim, 
 Way up beyond the star-world s rim, 
 An misses me like I do him? 
 
 My bunkie. 
 
 202 
 
THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE homesteader comes from a land that is fair, 
 To a land that is homeless and wide; 
 The broad, open prairies stretch out everywhere, 
 
 All fenceless, o er draw and divide. 
 Within his sod shack does the homesteader dream 
 
 Of riches and wealth he shall win, 
 And he schemes and he plans, in the firelight s gleam, 
 Of the treasures his crops shall bring in. 
 
 The homesteader lives in a land that is lone, 
 
 Far out where the green stretches roll. 
 No sound of the city life enters his zone, 
 
 No master exacts from him toll. 
 The howl of the wolf, on the dim, star-lit night, 
 
 Is drearily borne to his ear. 
 To follow the plow is his only delight, 
 
 As he shapes out his lonely career. 
 
 He gives to the soil all the strength of the years, 
 
 The soil springs to life at his hand, 
 And slowly the desolate waste disappears, 
 
 And bounties from God crown the land. 
 And there, in the blessing of plenty and peace, 
 
 With those he may cherish and love, 
 The homesteader watches the comforts increase, 
 
 Which are showered on him from above. 
 
 203 
 
TROUBLE FOR THE RANGE COOK 
 
 COME, wrangle yer bronco an saddle him, quick ! 
 The cook is in trouble down there by the creek! 
 Oh, cinch up yer latigoes, all o you runts, 
 An pull em so tight that yer ol bronco grunts ! 
 Twill need all you punchers the foreman kin send, 
 Cuz the chuckwagon s mired down there at the bend ! 
 
 The cattle are scatterin over the plain, 
 
 While punchers are yellin in language profane! 
 
 But let em jest go for the cook s in a muss, 
 
 An quicksands are causin the feller to cuss! 
 
 Oh, this is the time ev ry puncher s his friend, 
 
 Cuz the chuckwagon s mired down there by the bend ! 
 
 Come on with yer ropes that are heavy an stout! 
 No grub fer the bunch till the wagon s pulled out! 
 It s in to the hubs, an a-sinkin down slow, 
 An cookie is cussin an watchin it go! 
 Come ! hustle, you punchers, an haul him to land, 
 Before he is flooded by water an sand ! 
 
 A-strainin of ropes an a-gruntin of nags, 
 
 An woe to the puncher whose lariat sags ! 
 
 It s spur em an quirt em, an make em lay to! 
 
 An now she is movin ! An hooray ! she is through ! 
 
 It s worth all the time that the effort required, 
 
 Cuz it s nothin to eat when the chuckwagon s mired ! 
 
 204 
 
BACK TO THE RANGE 
 
 I VE played the movin pitcher game 
 An worked it good an hard, 
 But it is too all-fired tame 
 
 For real cowpunchers, pard ! 
 Them actor-guys are tender feet 
 
 That never saw the range, 
 An when they hit a saddle-seat 
 Their ridin s fierce an strange! 
 
 They put us through a lot o stunts 
 
 That punchers never do ! 
 A feller feels jest like a dunce 
 
 Afore the fillum s through ! 
 It s mostly jest some honey-mush 
 
 About a gal, by gee ! 
 It makes an honest puncher blush, 
 
 Sich goin s-on to see! 
 
 Becuz out on the range, you know, 
 
 Around the chaparral, 
 We never have no time to go 
 
 Close-herdin any gal. 
 They s too much chasin round fer strays, 
 
 Er else a-buildin fence, 
 Er branclin calves on round-up days, 
 
 Fer any sich nonsense ! 
 
 205 
 
BACK TO THE RANGE 
 
 They ain t a cuss in all the bunch 
 
 Kin cinch a saddle right ! 
 Twould fetch a snort from a cowpunch ! 
 
 Their togs is jest a fright! 
 The other day I most was floored 
 
 While watchin of the boss, 
 Who, in one fillum, climbed aboard 
 
 The wrong side of his hawss! 
 
 I m sick of all sich sights as those ! 
 
 I ll quit, and go back there 
 Among the bunkhouse bunch that knows 
 
 The cowboy game f er fair ! 
 I ll strike for my ol stampin -ground 
 
 Where range-life is lived true, 
 Where there s no actor-guys around 
 
 To show me what to do! 
 
 206 
 
THE OLD COWMAN 
 
 THE old cowman, with pipe aglow, 
 Is dreaming of the past. 
 Of troubled trails he used to know 
 
 Where longhorn steers were massed. 
 Of lonely hours, rough and hard, 
 
 On ranges wintry-blurred, 
 And stormy nights he used to guard 
 A restless, bawling herd. 
 
 The old cowman can glimpse once more 
 
 The line camp, far away, 
 Where sunshine lingered at the door, 
 
 Just at the break of day. 
 He hears his "bunkie" roaring out 
 
 An olden-time trail song, 
 And from the hills an answering shout 
 
 Comes echoing along. 
 
 The old cowman can close his eyes, 
 
 And see, as in a dream, 
 The punchers off on yonder rise, 
 
 Where branding fires gleam. 
 He hears the thud of restive feet, 
 
 The rush of frantic steers, 
 Which comes to him as music sweet, 
 
 Borne back adown the years! 
 
 207 
 
THE OLD COWMAN 
 
 The old cowman looks far beyond 
 
 The mountains white with snow, 
 To sloping mesas, fair and fond, 
 
 Where soft the breezes blow. 
 And in his dreaming fancy still, 
 
 He hears his bunkie s hail, 
 While over ridge and draw and hill, 
 
 Drift herds he used to trail. 
 
 208 
 
A LOCOED OUTFIT 
 
 THE new schoolmarm on Bear Paw Creek 
 Has rosy cheeks an twinklin eyes ; 
 She s got my cowboys all love-sick! 
 I never seen sich locoed guys ! 
 
 They want to shave now ev ry day, 
 
 An ile their hair an change their clo es ! 
 
 The roundup s workin down this way, 
 But they won t ride, I don t suppose. 
 
 Instid o blowin in their rocks 
 
 Fer silver spurs an guns an things, 
 
 They buy b iled shirts an fancy socks, 
 Store ties an collars, too, by jings! 
 
 I don t suppose it s nothin strange, 
 Cuz gals is scarce around these parts ; 
 
 Though she s ten mile across the range, 
 
 She s sure stirred my cowpunchers hearts. 
 
 If they go out a-huntin strays, 
 
 Or ridin fence, they re sure to roam 
 
 To rds Bear Paw Creek, to ride a ways 
 With that new schoolmarm goin home ! 
 
 209 
 
A LOCOED OUTFIT 
 
 They sure close-herd that schoolmarm gal 
 They re lovers that don t never shirk! 
 
 They hang around her home corral, 
 An do blamed little cowpunch work! 
 
 They moon around the bunkhouse door, 
 Plumb jealous of each other, too! 
 
 I m hopin school will quit, afore 
 She hypnotizes em clean through! 
 
 210 
 
T 
 
 THE RANGE IN SPRING 
 
 HE grassy trails they lead me out where Springtime 
 
 breezes fall, 
 And through the aisles of bloom I hear the Springtime 
 
 voices call. 
 The desert s face is wreathed in smiles, where colors 
 
 richly blend 
 Into a sea of wondrous tints and beauties without end. 
 
 Above me sunny skies bend down and meet the sea of 
 
 bloom, 
 
 And prairie zephyrs waft abroad the rarest of perfume! 
 I catch the song of feathered friends that trill an echo 
 
 sweet, 
 While sunshine s benediction casts its splendors at my 
 
 feet. 
 
 I splash through muddy streams which come from rock- 
 ribbed canyon heights, 
 
 And on the sagebrush flats I see Spring wonders and 
 delights. 
 
 My bronco lopes at tireless pace across the mesas fair, 
 
 And Springtime odors come to me upon the soft winds 
 there. 
 
 211 
 
THE RANGE IN SPRING 
 
 And when the hand of God is seen a-crimsoning the skies, 
 And purple settings flash their rays as sunset s glory dies, 
 I wrap my blanket round me there and watch the star- 
 world gleam, 
 And in the firelight s ruddy glow I doze away, and dream ! 
 
 212 
 
THE NEW WEST 
 
 NO longer in the West 
 Does the "bad man" ride to town 
 With a gun beneath his vest 
 
 And a thirst that he must drown! 
 The old frontier has gone, 
 
 Men no longer wade in gore; 
 Tis a newer, brighter dawn 
 That the West now has in store. 
 
 The days have long gone by 
 
 Since the men from Cattle Land 
 Rode through town upon the fly, 
 
 With a gun in either hand! 
 No lusty cowboy shout 
 
 Wakes the echoes, as in days 
 When they scattered lead about 
 
 With their six-guns all a-blaze ! 
 
 The old West s disappeared ; 
 
 Law and order are on tap! 
 For the outlaw now is skeered 
 
 To get out and start a scrap! 
 The graveyard on the hill 
 
 Has no latter-day recruits 
 Who have stopped a leaden pill 
 
 Still a-wearin of their boots! 
 
 213 
 
THE NEW WEST 
 
 The tenderfoot don t dance 
 
 To the barkin of a gun ! 
 For he doesn t get a chance 
 
 Since the marshal stopped that fun. 
 And the Injun doesn t chase 
 
 After scalps of frightened whites, 
 And the frontier populace 
 
 Doesn t fear to sleep o nights! 
 
 Yes, the West is gittin tame 
 
 Since the nester came to stay ; 
 It has lost its wooly name, 
 
 Tis no longer wild and gay. 
 Tis the reaper and the plow 
 
 Since the wild life had to go, 
 And you only see it now 
 
 In the movin picture show ! 
 
 214 
 
THE COWMAN S SADDLE 
 
 IT is big and wide and roomy and it s solid, every bit, 
 And there s fifty pounds of substance in the makin 
 
 up of it! 
 
 It isn t nothin fancy, cuz it ain t made fer display, 
 It is just the cowman s workshop where he spends a busy 
 day. 
 
 The seat is smooth and shiny, and it s colored a rich 
 
 brown, 
 Cuz it s polished on the roundup, or when he rides into 
 
 town. 
 
 It gits hard knocks a-plenty, and it s out in rain and sun, 
 And gits throwed around permisc us when the puncher s 
 
 day is done. 
 
 The latigoes are heavy and the cinches good and strong, 
 So there won t be nothin bustin if the cowboy s work 
 
 goes wrong. 
 And when he s settled in it, you can bet he makes things 
 
 hum, 
 And whatever he may tie to when he s ropin has to come ! 
 
 215 
 
THE COWMAN S SADDLE 
 
 When the old chuckwagon s mired, and the cook begins 
 
 to swear, 
 Then the puncher and his saddle and his rope are always 
 
 there ! 
 When unlucky steers get foundered, and are sinkin in 
 
 the sand, 
 Tis the same old combination hauls the critters to dry 
 
 land! 
 
 But you can climb aboard it, and no matter where you go, 
 You will think you re in a cradle cuz the motion soothes 
 
 you so! 
 
 And when you have ridden in it fer about a week, by jing, 
 You will swear the cowman s saddle is about the proper 
 
 thing! 
 
 216 
 
A BUNK HOUSE REVERY 
 
 HEAVEN may be a finer place 
 Than this rollin mundane sphere, 
 But I m mighty glad I ve got 
 Interests that keep me here. 
 Streets of gold is mighty nice, 
 
 And a shinin crystal sea, 
 But you bet they don t entice 
 Earthly charms away from me! 
 
 Mansions built o precious stones, 
 
 Angels wingin up and down; 
 Music in harmonic tones, 
 
 And a diamon -studded crown 
 Yes, it all sounds rather swell, 
 
 When you ve quit your life career, 
 But I hope that fer a spell 
 
 I ll be brandin cows down here! 
 
 Don t believe that heaven kin beat 
 
 These ol prairies in the Spring 
 When the birds is singin sweet, 
 
 And the grass peeps up, by jing! 
 Heaven may be a paradise, 
 
 But I d ruther spend my hours 
 Right where I kin feast my eyes 
 
 On a range all decked with flowers! 
 
 217 
 
A BUNK HOUSE REVERY 
 
 Why, the sun cain t shine, I know, 
 
 Any brighter, way up there, 
 And no fairer breezes blow, 
 
 I am certain, anywhere. 
 And no pal on heaven s range 
 
 Beats the pard who shares my fun! 
 Betcher life I wouldn t change 
 
 Good ol* Slim fer anyone! 
 
 Heaven is fine in lots o ways, 
 
 So the gospel-sharps hev told; 
 But I ain t a-huntin strays 
 
 Yet awhile, through streets o gold. 
 Don t believe that heaven-spot 
 
 With its angel band o white, 
 And its harps and crowns has got 
 
 This ol earth discounted QUITE! 
 
 218 
 
THE WEST 
 
 WHEN you have lived out in the West 
 Till it becomes a part of you, 
 And you ve a feeling in your breast 
 
 No other spot on earth will do; 
 When you can call the desert "home," 
 
 And love the ranges vast and drear, 
 Then every butte and rocky dome, 
 
 And stretch of sage will grow more dear. 
 
 When every flaming sunset seems 
 
 To hold you by a magic spell, 
 And you have visions in your dreams 
 
 Of mesa tops and chaparral, 
 And when the rolling prairie-land 
 
 You love more than the city street, 
 Then shall you know and understand 
 
 The charm which draws your eager feet. 
 
 When all of God s great out-of-doors 
 
 You worship with a new delight; 
 When rocky ridge and canyon floors 
 
 Show added wonders day and night ; 
 When wide, free plains seem reaching out 
 
 To welcome you with open arms, 
 You will have learned, without a doubt, 
 
 The secret of the great West s charms. 
 
 219 
 
THE WEST 
 
 When you can ride each lengthening trail 
 
 Without a sense of loneliness ; 
 When every coulee, draw and swale 
 
 Holds beauties which you would possess ; 
 W r hen you can read the starry skies 
 
 Beneath which you lie down to rest. 
 Then shall you know and realize 
 
 The fascination of the West! 
 
 220 
 
THE INEVITABLE 
 
 I VE packed my war-bag full o duds, 
 I ve sacked my saddle, too; 
 They ve sold the ranch to city bloods, 
 
 And I am feelin blue. 
 The bunkhouse has been padlocked tight ! 
 
 It s goodby to my pards ! 
 No more around the old oil light 
 We ll have our game o cards ! 
 
 And down there in the ol corral 
 
 The dust ain t flyin thick, 
 And you don t hear no cowpunch yell 
 
 Whilst watchin someone stick 
 Aboard a squealin outlaw s back 
 
 Them good old days hev gone ! 
 And me and Slim and Happy Jack 
 
 Hev got to mosey on ! 
 
 The range is shy the cows and steers 
 
 That roamed about at will. 
 I never heered, in years and years, 
 
 This old ranch so durn still ! 
 They make me sick them tender feets 
 
 That to this region trots 
 And lays this old ranch out in streets, 
 
 With fancy b ildin lots ! 
 
 221 
 
THE INEVITABLE 
 
 The pony bunch has all been sold! 
 
 It durn near makes me cry ; 
 It makes me think I m gittin old, 
 
 To see the cow game die! 
 I reckon I must bow to Fate, 
 
 When off this range I creep, 
 And earn my livin in some state 
 
 A-herdin blattin sheep! 
 
 222 
 
THE CALL OF THE RANGE 
 
 NOTHIN but man-made canyons 
 Of mortar and steel and brick! 
 Nary a stretch of open 
 
 Gosh! but it makes me sick! 
 Nothin but roar and jostle; 
 Only th pace that kills! 
 Gimme th ol line cabin 
 Back in th sagebrush hills! 
 
 Nary a soft breeze croonin ; 
 
 Nothin but air that s foul, 
 Smoky and black and grimy, 
 
 And street cyars that moan and growl ! 
 Oh, fer a desert sunrise, 
 
 With songs of th birds that thrills, 
 And th bunkhouse boys a-callin , 
 
 Back in th sagebrush hills! 
 
 Rivers of ce-ment pavement! 
 
 Oceans of mac-a-dam! 
 Nothin but rush and bustle! 
 
 Hurry and push and jam ! 
 Wish t I was with th cattle, 
 
 Out where the ki-yote shrills, 
 There in th Lord s big open, 
 
 Back in th sagebrush hills ! 
 
 223 
 
THE CALL OF THE RANGE 
 
 Nobody seems t see me, 
 
 Though some of em stare dern hard ; 
 I m off n my range, I reckon, 
 
 Off n my bed-ground, pard ! 
 Hanged if I ain t nigh smothered! 
 
 Cain t ketch a breath that fills! 
 Oh, fer them coolin breezes 
 
 Back in th sagebrush hills! 
 
 Trompin yer brick-built royos, 
 
 Dreamin of home sweet home! 
 Thinkin of ol range pardners 
 
 Back where I used to roam! 
 Somethin down here that s callin , 
 
 Callin in tones that thrills : 
 "Come to yer wide, free ranges, 
 
 Back in th sagebrush hills!" 
 
 224 
 
HIS TRADEMARKS 
 
 THE cowboy ain t no dandy 
 When it comes to wearin clo es, 
 But when he trails to the city, 
 He ll go as other folks goes. 
 But there s jest two things he s wearin 
 
 From which he never scoots 
 He ll stick to his ol sombrero, 
 
 He ll stick to his high-heeled boots! 
 
 He ll tackle a stranglin collar 
 
 That s hitched to a stiff b iled shirt ; 
 He ll discard chaps and gauntlets, 
 
 And wash off the prairie dirt. 
 But he ll hang to two possessions, 
 
 Though folks turn up their snoots 
 He ll stick to his ol sombrero 
 
 He ll stick to his high-heeled boots ! 
 
 He ll peel off his ol bandana, 
 
 And his overalls, too, he ll drop, 
 And he ll wear store duds an neckties, 
 
 And his ol blue shirt he ll swap. 
 But for jest a part of his outfit 
 
 He never has substitutes 
 He ll stick to his ol sombrero 
 
 He ll stick to his high-heeled boots ! 
 
 225 
 
HIS TRADEMARKS 
 
 He ll part his hair in the middle, 
 
 With perfume adorn his pelt; 
 He ll put on some store suspenders, 
 
 Instead of a ca tridge belt. 
 He ll lay off the gun he s wearin 
 
 But in spite of the jeers an hoots, 
 He ll stick to his ol sombrero 
 
 He ll stick to his high-heeled boots! 
 
 Oh, yes, he s a queerish mixture 
 
 When in from the range he strays, 
 And puts on a town man s toggin s, 
 
 And copies the town man s ways. 
 But when to the town he s comin , 
 
 To mix with the dude recruits, 
 He ll stick to his ol sombrero 
 
 He ll stick to his high-heeled boots! 
 
 226 
 
THE MOVING PICTURE COWBOY 
 
 THE cowboy game is busted cuz the cattle biz is dead ; 
 The railroad trains go tootin where the cattle 
 
 trails once led. 
 
 The only time we ever hit the pace we uster know 
 Is when we re out performin for a movin pitcher show. 
 
 Our chaps and guns and saddles nowadays are only seen 
 When we are out a-doin Western features for the screen. 
 We ain t woke up o mornin s at the early flush o dawn 
 To git out on the round-up, cuz the round-up s dead and 
 gone! 
 
 We are gittin better fodder than the range-cook slung at 
 
 us, 
 
 Fer the feller that directs us is a decent sort o cuss. 
 We are actor-guys for sartin, and the pay is ten a day 
 Jest to do a little posin in a woolly Western play! 
 
 There is Hop-a-Long and Happy, me and Bony, Chip 
 
 and Ben, 
 
 Who is doin cowboy features for the movin picture men. 
 The only thing axed of us is to rescue Cheyenne Lou 
 From the clutches of some Injuns that don t know a word 
 
 o Sioux! 
 
 227 
 
THE MOVING PICTURE COWBOY 
 
 We are gittin fat and sassy, cuz the job s a snap, you 
 
 bet! 
 And we draw our pay, no matter if the weather s shine 
 
 or wet. 
 
 Cowpunchin on the ranges was all right in days o yore, 
 But the movin pitcher bizness has it skinned a mile er 
 
 more! 
 
 228 
 
THE DESERT PROSPECTOR 
 
 O ER miles and miles of arid plain, 
 Out where the coyote howls, 
 Where all the brown earth gasps for rain, 
 
 The old prospector prowls. 
 No lover of Progression he, 
 
 But stolidly and grim 
 He spurns the towns, and wanders free 
 Where desert lands lure him. 
 
 He stumbles o er the great divides 
 
 In search for hidden gold, 
 And over trackless wastes he strides, 
 
 Through varied heat and cold. 
 The summer sun may scorch and sear, 
 
 The winter chill may blight, 
 But on the ridges, lone and drear, 
 
 His campfire gleams at night. 
 
 Alone, glum, moody, silent, stern, 
 
 A lover of the wild, 
 Back from the city s haunts he ll turn, 
 
 To his life reconciled. 
 Now cheered where prospects lure him on, 
 
 And golden colors gleam, 
 And now arising at the dawn, 
 
 To find it but a dream! 
 
 229 
 
THE DESERT PROSPECTOR 
 
 Over the sand dunes, year on year, 
 
 The old prospector stalks! 
 Lured by the riches lurking near, 
 
 But which a harsh fate balks. 
 Tortured by thirst and storm and sun, 
 
 But with a courage bold, 
 The comforts of the town he ll shun 
 
 To delve for hidden gold! 
 
 230 
 
A COWPUNCH COURTSHIP 
 
 SHE got me clean stampeded 
 An locoed to a turn! 
 I oughtn t to hev heeded 
 
 Them fetchin ways o her n. 
 I might hev knowed fer certain 
 
 She d git the bulge on me, 
 
 When I commenced a-flirtin 
 
 With her so all-fired free. 
 
 She was a peach, a pippin! 
 
 An twasn t nothin strange 
 That I commenced a-skippin 
 
 Across onto her range. 
 I shouldn t gone cavortin 
 
 On her bed-ground, I know, 
 Head up an jest a-snortin 
 
 To hog-tie her, you know. 
 
 You see, at this here love game, 
 
 I wasn t halter-broke! 
 Twas new to me this dove game, 
 
 I liked it that s no joke ! 
 An when I started chasin 
 
 Around in her corral, 
 Twa n t long fore I was facin 
 
 Conditions which was hell! 
 
 231 
 
A COWPUNCH COURTSHIP 
 
 I told her I was ready 
 
 To slap on her my brand ! 
 She was close-herded steady 
 
 By this love-sick cow-hand. 
 But jest when I was tryin* 
 
 To slip on her my noose, 
 Why, she commenced a-shyin , 
 
 An framin an excuse. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The boys ain t quit their naggin 
 
 An rubbin on my raw! 
 My under lip is saggin 
 
 The wust you ever saw ! 
 There s reason fer it, maybe! 
 
 But twon t occur again 
 She s married, and her baby 
 
 An old man s in Cheyenne! 
 
 232 
 
THE BUNKHOUSE BOYS 
 
 WHO are a mighty happy crew 
 In ev rything they say and do ? 
 The wildest bunch I ever knew 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 Who, though their manners may be rough, 
 Are true as steel the pure-gold stuff, 
 And mighty quick to call a bluff? 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 Who ride the ranges, lone and drear, 
 And herd the restless, bawlin steer 
 Through storm and sunshine, year on year? 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 Who ride through town to have their fun, 
 With foamin broncos on the run, 
 And smoke a-spittin from each gun? 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 Who paint the town a lurid red, 
 When decent folks are all in bed? 
 That bunch that s allus raisin Ned 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 233 
 
THE BUNKHOUSE BOYS 
 
 Who blow their hard-earned ducats in 
 At playin poker, lose or win, 
 Yet takes their losses with a grin ? 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 When they ain t broke, who allus lends 
 A five or ten-spot to their friends, 
 And don t expect no divvydends? 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 Who are the kings of Sagebrush Land, 
 And allus out with the glad hand? 
 That crowd what wears the true-blue brand- 
 The bunkhouse boys. 
 
 234 
 
THE COWMAN JUBILATES 
 
 THE sodden slopes are turnin green 
 Where grassy shoots are peepin out- 
 Trie purtiest sight you ever seen ! 
 
 It makes a cowman want to shout! 
 The cattle snuff the warm south air, 
 An calves are friskin ev rywhere ! 
 
 Each dry arroyo tinkles now 
 With music of a singin stream ; 
 
 It sort o seems to me somehow 
 Like Nature wakin from a dream, 
 
 An rubbin of her eyes, an then 
 
 A-donnin her Spring duds again ! 
 
 The dusty sagebrush sheds its stains 
 
 Of powdery, pungent alkali, 
 An at the comin of the rains 
 
 It seems to give a heart- felt sigh, 
 An shake itself a time or two, 
 Then blossom out in gyarments new! 
 
 The bunkhouse rings with joyous shouts! 
 
 There ain t a puncher feelin sore 
 Er even grouchy hereabouts, 
 
 235 
 
THE COWMAN JUBILATES 
 
 Sence all the range waked up once more. 
 Jest hear em singin as they ride 
 A-lopin crost that big divide ! 
 
 An ev ry bronco s wide awake, 
 
 An gingery as he kin be! 
 They ll liven up an no mistake, 
 
 When they hev browsed on filaree ! 
 There ain t no spot on earth, by jing, 
 Like this cow ranch in early Spring! 
 
 236 
 
A ROAR FROM THE BUNKHOUSE 
 
 NARY thing to eat Thanksgivin 
 Only tin can truck ! 
 Gittin tired of sich livin , 
 
 Darn th ornery luck! 
 Nothin only beans an bacon 
 
 Pard, excuse these tears ! 
 Seems jest like we ve bin forsaken 
 Darn this punchin steers! 
 
 Folks back home are just a-stuffin 
 
 Turkey meat an pie! 
 Our blame cook is jest a-bluffin ! 
 
 Gosh, it makes me sigh! 
 No sich dinner fer us fellers 
 
 In this camp appears! 
 Turkey ain t fer cowboys smellers 
 
 Darn this punchin steers! 
 
 Weather soggy-like an murky, 
 
 Makes me mighty blue ; 
 Thinkin of Thanksgivin turkey 
 
 Makes me homesick, too! 
 Sour-dough bread an canned tomaters 
 
 Ain t the grub that cheers 
 Oh, fer pie an mashed pertaters ! 
 
 Darn this punchin steers ! 
 
 237 
 
A ROAR FROM THE BUNKHOUSE 
 
 Bunkhouse bunch are sick as blazes 
 
 Bein fed this way! 
 Gittin so the maynoo raises 
 
 Sam Hill every day! 
 Every mother s son a-kickin 
 
 When the truck appears ! 
 Never git a sniff o chicken 
 
 Darn this punchin steers ! 
 
 Same ol beans an bread furever ! 
 
 Gosh, we d like a change! 
 Reckon we won t git it never 
 
 While we ride the range. 
 Oh, fer some o mother s cookin 
 
 That s the dope that cheers! 
 Guess my callin I ve mistooken 
 
 DARN this punchin steers! 
 
 238 
 
AN OLD-TIMER S LAMENT 
 
 NO more we ll hear the driver s shout, 
 Nor creak of wagon wheel ! 
 The old stagecoach is down and out 
 
 Our gloom we cain t conceal! 
 No clank of trace-chain any more 
 
 Across the mesas brown ! 
 It s goodby to them days o yore 
 The railroad s come to town! 
 
 We listen fer the bronco s feet 
 
 A-poundin down the trail, 
 Or windin past sage and mesquite, 
 
 Across each hill and swale. 
 But, durn our ears! it isn t there, 
 
 And gosh, it makes us frown ! 
 The old West s almost gone, I swear! 
 
 The railroad s come to town ! 
 
 She uster come a-rockin in 
 
 With broncos on the run, 
 Amid the shouts the dust and din 
 
 But them old days is done ! 
 We hear a toot and see some smoke 
 
 Beyond Ol Baldy s crown, 
 And then we know it ain t no joke 
 
 The railroad s come to town! 
 
 239 
 
AN OLD-TIMER S LAMENT 
 
 We uster stand and watch fer it 
 
 A-swayin crost the flats, 
 And lungin onward, hell-to-split ! 
 
 And then we d wave our hats 
 And hail the driver, "Shotgun Smith" 
 
 Frontiersman of renown 
 But all of that we ve parted with 
 
 The railroad s come to town! 
 
 There ain t no West no more, by jinks! 
 
 The old town s awful tame! 
 And ev ry old-time plainsman thinks 
 
 That it s a beastly shame! 
 The old stagecoach is weather-scarred, 
 
 It stands there rottin down! 
 It makes me plumb distracted, pard 
 
 The railroad s come to town! 
 
 240 
 
THE OLD COWMAN S CHOICE 
 
 YOU kin have yer car as it s standin thar, 
 With its paint all slick and bright, 
 Its brass work new, and its engine, too, 
 
 And its tires all sound and tight. 
 You kin speed it up like a frightened pup, 
 
 Till its motors purr and whine, 
 But fer downright joy in the West, ol boy, 
 It s the ol cow hawss fer mine! 
 
 Of course you go like a streak, I know, 
 
 As around the curves you wind, 
 And the engines hum with a soothin thrum, 
 
 As you leave the miles behind! 
 You open her wide and you let her slide, 
 
 Where the roadway s smooth and fine! 
 But, after all, though you seem to crawl, 
 
 It s the ol cow hawss fer mine! 
 
 No, I won t deny you kin fairly fly 
 
 In yer high-geared tony car, 
 And the grades you climb in a quicker time, 
 
 With skeercely a jolt er jar! 
 But, with due regard fer yer auto, pard, 
 
 With its glimmer and speed and shine, 
 What I love best in the grand ol West, 
 
 Is the ol cow hawss fer mine! 
 
 241 
 
THE OLD COWMAN S CHOICE 
 
 Per a saddle seat wal, it caint be beat, 
 
 As you lope down blossomed trails! 
 And you feel the swing of yer hawss, by jing, 
 
 As he crosses the draws and swales! 
 If you feel serene in yer swell machine, 
 
 As yer motorin down the line, 
 That s the place, by gee, that you ought to be, 
 
 BUT the ol cow hawss fer mine! 
 
 242 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 FLUSH, and the world will greet you ! 
 Broke, and you herd alone ! 
 For you cut no ice when you haven t the price, 
 
 And no good friend you can "bone" ! 
 Wealthy, and how they ll love you 
 
 As long as you ve got a cent ! 
 They ll pester your soul while you flash a roll, 
 And kick you out when it s spent ! 
 
 Up, and they ll praise your sharpness ! 
 
 Down, and they ll jump your frame ! 
 If you re coining the chink, you re a wise old gink, 
 
 And gosh ! how they ll laud your name ! 
 But let some little misfortune 
 
 Despoil you of every yen, 
 Just take this hunch not one of the bunch 
 
 Would whisper your name again ! 
 
 Spend, and the world comes flocking 
 
 To follow where er you ll lead ! 
 Borrow a sou and they ll glare at you, 
 
 And ask who you re trying to bleed ! 
 Win, and they ll "take one on you" ! 
 
 Lose, and you ll be the goat ! 
 You are up a peg till they ve pulled your leg, 
 
 And then they ll set you afloat ! 
 
 243 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 Smoke, and you pay for the stogies ! 
 
 If you want one, nobody buys! 
 Twas ever that way since Adam s day, 
 
 For people are worldly-wise ! 
 They ve room in their auto to take you 
 
 If you ll pay as they eat and dance, 
 But you bet your skates, they will make no dates 
 
 When there s fringe on your Sunday pants! 
 
 244 
 
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