CHAPTER XX.

BORDER POETRY.

BILL CODY.

You bet I know him, pardner, he ain’t no circus fraud, He’s Western born and Western bred, if he has been late abroad. I knew him in the days way back, beyond Missouri’s flow, When the country round was nothing but a huge Wild Western Show; When the Injuns were as thick as fleas, and the man who ventured through The sandhills of Nebraska had to fight the hostile Sioux. These were hot times, I tell you; and we all remember still The days when Cody was a scout, and all the men knew Bill.

I knew him first in Kansas in the days of ’68, When the Cheyennes and Arapahoes were wiping from the slate Old scores against the settlers, and when men who wore the blue, With shoulder-straps and way-up rank, were glad to be helped through By a bearer of dispatches, who knew each vale and hill From Dakota down to Texas, and his other name was Bill.

I mind me too of ’79, the time when Cody took His scouts upon the Rosebud, along with General Crook; When Custer’s Seventh rode to their death for lack of some such aid To tell them that the sneaking Sioux knew how to ambuscade. I saw Bill’s fight with Yellow Hand, you bet it was a “mill”; He downed him well at thirty yards, and all the men cheered Bill.

They tell me that the women folk now take his word as laws; In them days laws were mighty skerce, and hardly passed with squaws; But many a hardy settler’s wife and daughter used to rest More quietly because they knew of Cody’s dauntless breast; Because they felt, from Laramie way down to old Fort Sill, Bill Cody was a trusted scout, and all their men knew Bill.

I haven’t seen him much of late; how does he bear his years? They says he’s making ducats now, from shows and not from “steers”; He used to be a judge of “horns,” when poured in a tin cup, And left the wine to tenderfeet, and men who felt “way up”; Perhaps he cracks a bottle now, perhaps he’s had his fill; Who cares, Bill Cody was a scout, and all the world knows Bill.

To see him in his trimmins, he can’t hardly look the same, With laundered shirt and diamonds, as if “he run a game.” He didn’t wear biled linen then, or flash up diamond rings; The royalties he dreamed of then were only pasteboard kings; But those who sat behind the queens were apt to get their fill, In the days when Cody was a scout, and all the men knew Bill.

WILLIAM E. ANNIN, Omaha _Bee_.

WASHINGTON, D. C., February 28, 1891.

BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT, TO BUFFALO BILL.

[The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips are founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on September 8, 1876, at Slim Buttes. He was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the words credited to him below.--Capt. JACK CRAWFORD, Poet Scout.]

The evenin’ sun war settin’, droppin’ slowly in the west, An’ the soldiers, tired an’ tuckered, in the camp would find that rest Which the settin’ sun would bring ’em, for they’d marched since break o’ day, Not a bite to eat ’cept horses as war killed upon the way. For ye see our beans an’ crackers an’ our pork were outen sight, An’ the boys expected rashuns when they struck our camp that night; For a little hand had started for to bring some cattle on, An’ they struck an Indian village, which they captured just at dawn.

Wall, I were with that party when we captured them ar’ Sioux, An’ we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the news. Old Crook! I should say gen’l, cos he war with the boys, Shared his only hard-tack, our sorrows, and our joys; An’ thar is one thing sartin--he never put on style; He’d greet the scout or soldier with a social kinder smile. An’ that’s the kind o’ soldier as the prairy likes to get, An’ every man would trump Death’s ace for Crook or Miles, you bet.

But I’m kinder off the racket, cos these gener’ls get enough O’ praise ’ithout my chippin’, so I’ll let up on that puff; Fer I want to tell a story ’bout a mate of mine as fell, Cos I loved the honest fellar, and he did his dooty well. Buffalo Chips we call’d him, but his other name war White; I’ll tell ye how he got that name, an’ reckon I am right. You see a lot of big-bugs an’ officers came out One time to hunt the buffaler an’ fish fer speckled trout.

Wall, little Phil, ye’ve heerd on him, a dainty little cuss As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little muss; Well, Phil he said ter Johnathin, whose other name war White, “You go an’ find them buffaler, an’ see you get ’em right.” So White he went an’ found ’em, an’ he found ’em sech a band As he sed would set ’em crazy, an’ little Phil looked bland; But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war there. Then Phil he call him “Buffalo Chips,” an’ swore a little swear.

Wall, White he kinder liked it, cos the gener’l called him Chips, An’ he us’ter wear two shooters in a belt above his hips. Then he said, “Now, look ye, gener’l, since ye’ve called me that ar’ name, Jist around them little sandhills is yer dog-gone pesky game!” But when the hunt war over, an’ the table spread for lunch, The gener’l called for glasses, an’ wanted his in punch; An’ when the punch was punished, the gener’l smacked his lips, While squar’ upon the table sot a dish o’ _buffalo chips_.

The gener’l looked confounded, an’ he also looked for White, But Johnathin he reckon’d it war better he should lite. So he skinned across the prairy, cos ye see he didn’t mind A _chippin’_ any longer while the gener’l saw the _blind_; Fer the gener’l would _a raised him_, if he’d jist held up his hand, But he thought he wouldn’t _see him_, cos he didn’t hev the sand; An’ he rode as fast--aye, faster--than the gener’l did that day, Like lightin’ down from Winchester some twenty miles away.

Wall, White he had no cabin, an’ no home to call his own, So Buffaler Bill he took him an’ shared with him his home. An’ how he loved Bill Cody! By gosh! it war a sight Ter see him watch his shadder an’ foller him at night; Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o’ thieves, As carried pistols in thar belts, an’ bowies in thar sleeves. An’ Chips he never left him, for fear he’d get a pill; Nor would he think it mighty hard to die for Buffalo Bill.

We us’ter mess together, that ar’ Chips an’ Bill an’ me, An’ ye oughter watch his movements; it would do ye good ter see How he us’ter cook them wittles, an’ gather lots o’ greens, To mix up with the juicy pork an’ them unruly beans. An’ one cold chilly mornin’ he bought a lot o’ corn, An’ a little flask o’ likker, as cost fifty cents a horn. Tho’ _forty yards_ war nowhar, it was finished soon, ye bet; But, friends, I _promised some one_, and I’m strong teetotal yet.

RATTLIN’ JOE’S PRAYER.

(By Capt. JACK CRAWFORD.)

Jist pile on some more o’ them pine knots, An’ squat yoursel’ down on this skin, An’, Scotty, let up on yer growlin’-- The boys are all tired o’ yer chin. Allegheny, jist pass round the bottle, An’ give the lads all a square drink, An’ as soon as yer settled I’ll tell ye A yarn as ’ll please ye, I think.

’Twas eighteen hundred an’ sixty, A day in the bright month o’ June, When the angel o’ death from the diggin’s Snatched “Monte Bill”--known as McCune. Wal, Bill war a favorite among us, In spite o’ the trade that he had, Which war gamblin’; but--don’t you forget it-- He of’en made weary hearts glad. An’, pards, while he lay in that coffin, Which we hewed from the trunk o’ a tree, His face war as calm as an angel’s, An’ white as an angel’s could be.

An’ thar’s whar the trouble commenced, pards. Thar war no gospel-sharps in the camps, An’ Joe said, “We can’t drop him this way, Without some directions or stamps.” Then up spoke old Sandy McGregor, “Look’ee yar, mates, I’m reg’lar dead stuck, I can’t hold no hand at religion, An’ I’m ’feared Bill’s gone out o’ luck. If I knowed a darn thing about prayin’, I’d chip in an’ say him a mass; But I ain’t got no show in the layout, I can’t beat the game, so I pass.”

Rattlin’ Joe war the next o’ the speakers, An’ Joe war a friend o’ the dead; The salt water stood in his peepers, An’ these are the words as he said, “Mates, ye know as I ain’t any Christian, An’ I’ll gamble the Lord don’t know That thar lives sich a rooster as I am; But thar once war a time long ago When I war a kid; I remember, My old mother sent me to school, To the little brown church every Sunday, Whar they said I was dumb as a mule. An’ I reckon I’ve nearly forgotten Purty much all that I ever knew. But still, if ye’ll drop to my racket, I’ll show ye jist what I kin do.

“Now, I’ll show you _my_ bible,” said Joseph, “Jist hand me them cards off that rack; I’ll convince that this _are_ a bible,” An’ he went to work shufflin’ the pack. He spread out the cards on the table, An’ begun kinder pious-like, “Pards, If ye’ll jist cheese yer racket an’ listen, I’ll show ye the pra’ar-book in cards.

“The ‘ace’; that reminds us of one God; The ‘deuce’ of the Father an’ Son; The ‘tray’ of the Father, an’ Son, Holy Ghost, For ye see all them three are but one. The ‘four-spot’ is Matthew, Mark, Luke, an’ John; The ‘five-spot’ the virgins who trimmed Their lamps while yet it was light of the day; And the five foolish virgins who sinned. The ‘six-spot,’ in six days the Lord made the world, The sea, and the stars in the heaven; He saw it war good w’at he made, then he said, ‘I’ll jist go the rest on the “seven.”’ The ‘eight-spot’ is Noah, his wife, an’ three sons, An’ Noah’s three sons had their wives; God loved the hull mob, so bid ’em emb-ark-- In the freshet he saved all their lives. The ‘nine’ were the lepers of Biblical fame, A repulsive and hideous squad. The ‘ten’ are the holy commandments, which came To us perishin’ creatures from God. The ‘queen’ war of Sheba in old Bible times, The ‘king’ represents old King Sol. She brought in a hundred young folks, gals an’ boys, To the king in his government hall. They were all dressed alike, an’ she axed the old boy (She’d put up his wisdom as bosh) Which war boys an’ which gals. Old Sol said, ‘By Joe, How dirty their hands! Make ’em wash!’ An’ then he showed Sheba the boys only washed Their hands and a part o’ their wrists, While the gals jist went up to their elbows in suds. Sheba weakened an’ shook the king’s fists. Now the ‘knave,’ that’s the devil, an’ God, if ye please, Jist keep his hands off’n poor Bill. An’ now, lads, jist drop on yer knees for a while Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill; An’ havin’ no Bible, I’ll pray on the cards, Fur I’ve showed ye they’re all on the squar’, An’ I think God’ll cotton to all that I say, If I’m only sincere in the pra’r. Jist give him a corner, good Lord--not on stocks, Fur I ain’t such a durned fool as that. To ax ye fur anything worldly fur Bill, Kase ye’d put me up then fur a flat. I’m lost on the rules o’ yer game, but I’ll ax Fur a seat fur him back o’ the throne, And I’ll bet my hull stack thet the boy’ll behave If yer angels jist lets him alone. Thar’s nothin’ bad ’bout him unless he gets riled, The boys’ll all back me in that; But if any one treads on his corns, then you bet He’ll fight at the drop o’ the hat. Jist don’t let yer angels run over him, Lord; Nor shut off all to once on his drink; Break him in kinder gentle an’ mild on the start, An’ he’ll give ye no trouble, I think. An’ couldn’t ye give him a pack of old cards To amuse himself once in a while? But I warn ye right hyar not to bet on his game, Or he’ll get right away with yer pile. An’ now, Lord, I hope that ye’ve tuck it all in, An’ listened to all thet I’ve said. I know that my prayin’ is just a bit thin, But I’ve done all I kin for the dead. An’ I hope I hain’t troubled yer lordship too much, So I’ll cheese it by axin’ again Thet ye won’t let the ‘knave’ git his grip on poor Bill. Thet’s all, Lord--yours truly--Amen.”

Thet’s Rattlin’ Joe’s prayer, old pardners, An’--what! You all snorin’? Say, Lew-- By thunder! I’ve talked every rascal to sleep, So I guess I hed best turn in, too.

BUFFALO BILL AND YELLOW HAND.

(By HUGH A. WETMORE, Editor _People’s Press_.)

You may talk ’bout duels requirin’ sand, But the slickest I’ve seen in any land Was Buffalo Bill’s with Yellow Hand.

Thar wa’n’t no seconds to split the pot, No noospaper buncombe, none o’ the rot Your citified, dudefied duels ’as got.

Custer was not long into his shroud When a bunch o’ Cheyennes quit Red Cloud To j’in the cranky Sittin’ Bull crowd.

It looked somewhat like a crazy freak, But Merritt’s cavalry made a sneak To head the reds at Big Bonnet Creek.

Bill an’ some soljers was on one side, For which Bill was actin’ as chief an’ guide, When he git this call from the copper-hide:

“I know ye, Long Hair,” yells Yellow Hand, A-ridin’ out from his pesky band (A reg’lar bluff o’ the Injun brand).

“You kill heap Injun, I kill heap white; My people fear you by day or night; Come, single-handed, an’ you me fight.”

“I’ll go ye!” quick as a thunder-clap Says Bill, who jest didn’t care a rap; “Stan’ by, an’ watch me an’ the varmint scrap.”

They was then ’bout fifty yards apart, When without a hitch they made a start Straight for each other, straight as a dart.

The plug which was rid by that Cheyenne Was plugged by a slug from Bill’s rifle, an’ Bill’s hoss stumbled--now ’twas man to man!

Or man to devil, ’f you like that best. But in them days, in the sure-enough West, All stood as equals who stood the test.

They next at twenty steps blazed away, An’ had they ben equal both had ben clay, But Bill was best, an’ he win ther day.

It’s a good shot to hit a Injun’s heart, For obvious reasons. Bill wa’n’t scart, An’ found the center without a chart.

When they see Bill claim the tommyhawk An’ feathers an’ beads wore by the gawk, The other Injuns begin to squawk.

It all happened so dad-gasted quick, The opposition must ’a’ felt sick; But to my taste the duel was monstrous slick.

The other Injuns made for Bill, But the soljers met ’em on the hill, An’ convinced ’em they had best keep still.

When Yellow Hand, Senior, heared the news He offered ponies ’f Bill’d let loose Them trophies--but Bill he wa’n’t no goose.

With this remark I’ll close my letter: “Thar’s nought a Injun can do--no matter What--but a white man can do it better.”