Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp | Page 4

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 break his pride
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
Boastful Bill cut loose an' cried:
"I'm a ornery proposition for to hurt,
I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt,
I can ride the highest liver
'Twixt the Gulf an' Powder River,

An' I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."

So Bill climbed the Northern fury
An' they mangled up the air
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned the brag was fair.
Though the plunges kept him reelin'
An' the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hoss's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert:
"I'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke;
Someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke.
If you think my fame needs brightnin',
Why, I'll rope a streak o' lightnin'
An' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke."

Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hoss's back in two,
Cinches snapped in the convulsion,
Skyward man and saddle flew,
Up they mounted, never flaggin',

And we watched them through our tears,
While this last, thin bit o' braggin'
Came a-floatin' to our ears:
"If you ever watched my habits very close,
You would know I broke such rabbits by the gross.
I have kept my talent hidin',
I'm too good for earthly ridin',
So I'm off to bust the lightnin'--Adios!"

Years have passed since that ascension;
Boastful Bill ain't never lit;
So we reckon he's a-wrenchin'
Some celestial outlaw's bit.
When the night wind flaps our slickers,
And the rain is cold and stout,
And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
We can sometimes hear him shout:
"I'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky,
I'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly.
Hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders,

We're a-rippin' clouds to flinders.
If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die."

Star-dust on his chaps and saddle,
Scornful still of jar and jolt,
He'll come back sometime a-straddle
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt;
And the thin-skinned generation
Of that dim and distant day
Sure will stare with admiration
When they hear old Boastful say:
"I was first, as old raw-hiders all confest,
I'm the last of all rough riders, and the best.
Huh! you soft and dainty floaters
With your aeroplanes and motors,
Huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the West?"
From recitation, original, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr.

THE TEXAS COWBOY AND THE MEXICAN GREASER

I THINK we can all remember when a Greaser hadn't no show

In Palo Pinto particular,--it ain't very long ago;
A powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole Greaser race
That murdered bold Crockett and Bowie pervaded all in the place.
Why, the boys would draw on a Greaser as quick as they