Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp | Page 3

is in the making,
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
That's where the West begins;
Where there's more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there's more of giving and less of buying,
And a man makes friends without half trying,
That's where the West begins.
Arthur Chapman.

THE SHALLOWS OF THE FORD

DID you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river
Floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange,
Till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver
As the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change?

Once I waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me;
Saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the Lord;
Was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me,
When I saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford.

Saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed,
As the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend;
Saw the face I used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed;
And God knows I wished to warn him, for I once had called him friend.

But an oath had come between us--I was paid by Law and Order;
He was outlaw, rustler, killer--so the border whisper ran;
Left his word in Caliente that he'd cross the Rio border--
Call me coward? But I hailed him--"Riding close to daylight, Dan!"

Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning,
Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name,
Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning,
Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came.

He had passed his word to cross it--I had passed my word to get him--
We broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take
For old times. I could have killed him from the brush; instead, I let
him
Ride his trail--I turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched
awake;

Saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me;
Asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward
Muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he
eyed me
As the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford.
Henry Herbert Knibbs.

THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY

DON'T you hear the big spurs jingle?
Don't you feel the red blood tingle?
Be it smile or be it frown,
Be it dance or be it fight,
Broncho Bill has come to town
To dance a dance tonight.

Chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel;
"Hello, Gil!" and "Hello, Pete!" "How do you think you feel?"
"Drinks are mine. Come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right.
Here's happy days and honey joys. I'm going to dance tonight."
(On his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.)

Bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at Beaver Bend,
Ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend;
Ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race;
Going blind with bridle loose every inch of space.

Down at Johnny Schaeffer's place, see them trooping in,
Up above the women laugh; down below is gin.
Belle McClure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair;
Broncho Bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare.
Round and round with Belle McClure he whirls a dizzy spin.

Jim Kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim.
Bill whispers, "Belle, you know it well; it is me or him.
Jim Kershaw, so help me God, if you dance with Belle
It is either you or me must travel down to hell."
Jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim.

Don't you hear the banjo laugh? Hear the fiddles scream?
Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream.
Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure."
(Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure."
Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.

The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.
"You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and
Belle.
Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.
And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure."

Downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white,
Upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright.
Round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot;
Laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot.
Broncho Bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight.

Don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?
Don't you hear the banjo speaking?
Don't you hear the big spurs jingle?
Don't you feel the red blood tingle?
Faces dyed with desert brown,
(One that's set and white);
Broncho Bill has come to town
And danced his dance tonight.
William Maxwell.

THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL

AT a round-up on the Gila
One sweet morning long ago,
Ten of us was throwed quite freely
By a hoss from Idaho.
An' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin'
For a man to