Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp | Page 3

RANGER
THE INSULT
"THE ROAD TO RUIN"
THE OUTLAW
THE DESERT
WHISKEY BILL,--A FRAGMENT
DENVER JIM
THE VIGILANTES
THE BANDIT'S GRAVE
THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
THE SHEEP-HERDER
A COWBOY AT THE CARNIVAL

THE OLD COWMAN
THE GILA MONSTER ROUTE
THE CALL OF THE PLAINS
WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS
A COWBOY TOAST
RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN
THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT
A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE
JUST A-RIDIN'!
THE END OF THE TRAIL


PART I

COWBOY YARNS

The centipede runs across my head,
The vinegaroon crawls in my bed,
Tarantulas jump and scorpions play,
The broncs are grazing far away,

The rattlesnake gives his warning cry,
And the coyotes sing their lullaby,
While I sleep soundly beneath the sky.

OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

OUT where the handclasp's a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That's where the West begins;
Out where the sun is a little brighter,
Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
Out where friendship's a little truer,
That's where the West begins;
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,
Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing,
Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,
That's where the West begins.

Out where the world 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