Chapter 11

The afternoon shadows are starting to lean, When the chuck wagon sticks in the marshy ravine; The herd scatters farther than vision can look, For you can bet all true punchers will help out the cook. Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair; Come break your old broncho to take in his share; Come from your steers in the long chaparral, For 'tis all in the drive to the railroad corral.

But the longest of days must reach evening at last, The hills all climbed, the creeks all past; The tired herd droops in the yellowing light; Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight So flap up your holster and snap up your belt, And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt; Good-bye to the steers from the long chaparral, For there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad corral.

THE SONG OF THE "METIS" TRAPPER

BY ROLETTE

Hurrah for the great white way! Hurrah for the dog and sledge! As we snow-shoe along, We give them a song, With a snap of the whip and an urgent "mush on,"-- Hurrah for the great white way! Hurrah!

Hurrah for the snow and the ice! As we follow the trail, We call to the dogs with whistle and song, And reply to their talk With only "mush on, mush on"! Hurrah for the snow and the ice! Hurrah!

Hurrah for the gun and the trap,-- As we follow the lines By the rays of the mystic light That flames in the north with banners so bright, As we list to its swish, swish, swish, through the air all night, Hurrah for the gun and the trap! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah for the fire and cold! As we lie in the robes all night. And list to the howl of the wolf; For we emptied the pot of the tea so hot, And a king on his throne might envy our lot,-- Hurrah for the fire and cold! Hurrah!

Hurrah for our black-haired girls, Who brave the storms of the mountain heights And follow us on the great white way; For their eyes so bright light the way all right And guide us to shelter and warmth each night. Hurrah for our black-haired girls! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

THE CAMP FIRE HAS GONE OUT

Through progress of the railroads our occupation's gone; So we will put ideas into words, our words into a song. First comes the cowboy, he is pointed for the west; Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best; You will miss him on the round-up, it's gone, his merry shout,-- The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.

There is the freighters, our companions, you've got to leave this land, Can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand. The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best; So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west. Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,-- The cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out.

When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill; When I think of the tin can by the fire and the cayote on the hill. I'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,-- Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know. But things have changed now, we are poorly clothed and fed. Our wagons are all broken and our ponies most all dead. Soon we will leave this country, you'll hear the angels shout, "Oh, here they come to Heaven, the campfire has gone out."

NIGHT-HERDING SONG

BY HARRY STEPHENS

Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, You have wandered and tramped all over the ground; Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow, And don't forever be on the go,-- Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too, But to keep you together, that's what I can't do; My horse is leg weary and I'm awful tired, But if I let you get away I'm sure to get fired,-- Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

O say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay down And quit this forever siftin' around? My limbs are weary, my seat is sore; Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,-- Lay down, little dogies, lay down.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down, Stretch away out on the big open ground; Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound That will all go away when the day rolls round,-- Lay still, little dogies, lay still.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo. . . . . . .

TAIL PIECE

Oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope, As he races over the plains; And the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip, And the rattle of his concord chains; And we'll all pray the Lord that we will be saved, And we'll keep the golden rule; But I'd rather be home with the girl I love Than to monkey with this goddamn'd mule. . . . . . . . . . . .

THE HABIT[5]

I've beat my way wherever any winds have blown, I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone, From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill; For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I settles down quite frequent and I says, says I, "I'll never wander further till I comes to die." But the wind it sorta chuckles, "Why, o' course you will," And shure enough I does it, cause I can't keep still.

I've seed a lot o' places where I'd like to stay, But I gets a feelin' restless and I'm on my way. I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, And once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I've been in rich men's houses and I've been in jail, But when it's time for leavin', I jes hits the trail; I'm a human bird of passage, and the song I trill, Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."

The sun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clear And the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear. It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

[Footnote 5: A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.]

OLD PAINT[6]

REFRAIN: Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,--

My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan'; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

I'm a ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' old Fan; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can; Goodbye, little Annie, I'm off for Cheyenne.

Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, And seat yourself by me so long as you stay.

My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay; My wagon is loaded and rolling away.

My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand; Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand.

Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

[Footnote 6: These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.]

DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE

From way down south on the Rio Grande, Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

You'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle Of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Ole Abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger, 'Til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Old Jeff swears he'll sew him together With powder and shot instead of leather,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em, But I know them mavericks when I see 'em,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

SILVER JACK[7]

I was on the drive in eighty Working under Silver Jack, Which the same is now in Jackson And ain't soon expected back, And there was a fellow 'mongst us By the name of Robert Waite; Kind of cute and smart and tonguey Guess he was a graduate.

He could talk on any subject From the Bible down to Hoyle, And his words flowed out so easy, Just as smooth and slick as oil, He was what they call a skeptic, And he loved to sit and weave Hifalutin' words together Tellin' what he didn't believe.

One day we all were sittin' round Smokin' nigger head tobacco And hearing Bob expound; Hell, he said, was all a humbug, And he made it plain as day That the Bible was a fable; And we lowed it looked that way. Miracles and such like Were too rank for him to stand, And as for him they called the Savior He was just a common man.

"You're a liar," someone shouted, "And you've got to take it back." Then everybody started,-- 'Twas the words of Silver Jack. And he cracked his fists together And he stacked his duds and cried, "'Twas in that thar religion That my mother lived and died; And though I haven't always Used the Lord exactly right, Yet when I hear a chump abuse him He's got to eat his words or fight."

Now, this Bob he weren't no coward And he answered bold and free: "Stack your duds and cut your capers, For there ain't no flies on me." And they fit for forty minutes And the crowd would whoop and cheer When Jack spit up a tooth or two, Or when Bobby lost an ear.

But at last Jack got him under And he slugged him onct or twict, And straightway Bob admitted The divinity of Christ. But Jack kept reasoning with him Till the poor cuss gave a yell And lowed he'd been mistaken In his views concerning hell.

Then the fierce encounter ended And they riz up from the ground And someone brought a bottle out And kindly passed it round. And we drank to Bob's religion In a cheerful sort o' way, But the spread of infidelity Was checked in camp that day.

[Footnote 7: A lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.]

THE COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS BALL[8]

Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's waters flow, Where the cattle are a-browzin' and the Spanish ponies grow; Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the Neutral Strip; And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip; Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark; Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound, And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call,-- It was there I attended the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The town was Anson City, old Jones' county seat, Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat; Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health, Where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; Where they print the _Texas Western_, that Hec McCann supplies With news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size; Where Frank Smith "pulls the badger" on knowing tenderfeet, And Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat; Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, from Lamar, Who used to be the sheriff "back east in Paris, sah"! 'Twas there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder Wall, That I went to that reception, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; The ladies, kinder scatterin', had gathered in for miles. And yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, 'Twas gave on this occasion at the Morning Star Hotel. The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, And a viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene. The room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, And the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls. The wimmen folks looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, Till the leader commenced yelling, "Whoa, fellers, let's stampede," And the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hall As a kind of introduction to the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The leader was a feller that came from Swenson's ranch,-- They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman's Branch. His rig was kinder keerless,--big spurs and high heeled boots; He had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots. His voice was like the bugle upon the mountain height; His feet were animated, and a mighty movin' sight, When he commenced to holler, "Now fellers, shake your pen! Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men; Saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let 'em go; Climb the grapevine round 'em; neow all hands do-ce-do! You maverick, jine the round-up,--jes skip the waterfall," Huh! hit was getting active, the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, That old bass viol's music just got there with both feet! That wailin', frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; And Windy kept a-singin'--I think I hear him yet-- "Oh, X's, chase yer squirrels, and cut 'em to our side; Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Charley's bride, Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' chain, Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond's train. All pull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change; Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitchfork's range. Purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope and balance all!" Huh! Hit were gettin' active--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round, Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar Dick was downed. We buckled to our partners and told 'em to hold on, Then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. No sir-ee! That whirl at Anson City jes takes the cake with me. I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my fill, Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy Bill. McAllister ain't nowhere, when Windy leads the show; I've seen 'em both in harness and so I ought ter know. Oh, Bill, I shan't forget yer, and I oftentimes recall That lively gaited sworray--the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

[Footnote 8: This poem, one of the best in Larry Chittenden's _Ranch Verses_, published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. I have heard it in New Mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,--always as a song. None of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.]

PINTO

I am a vaquero by trade; To handle my rope I'm not afraid. I lass' an _otero_ by the two horns Throw down the biggest that ever was born. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

My name to you I will not tell; For what's the use, you know me so well. The girls all love me, and cry When I leave them to join the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

I am a vaquero, and here I reside; Show me the broncho I cannot ride. They say old Pinto with one split ear Is the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

There strayed to our camp an iron gray colt; The boys were all fraid him so on him I bolt. You bet I stayed with him till cheer after cheer,-- "He's the broncho twister that's on the rodero." Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

My story is ended, old Pinto is dead; I'm going down Laredo and paint the town red. I'm going up to Laredo and set up the beer To all the cowboys that's on the rodero. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Pinto, whoa!

THE GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME

I struck the trail in seventy-nine, The herd strung out behind me; As I jogged along my mind ran back For the gal I left behind me. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!

If ever I get off the trail And the Indians they don't find me, I'll make my way straight back again To the gal I left behind me. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!

The wind did blow, the rain did flow, The hail did fall and blind me; I thought of that gal, that sweet little gal, That gal I'd left behind me! That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!

She wrote ahead to the place I said, I was always glad to find it. She says, "I am true, when you get through Right back here you will find me." That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!

When we sold out I took the train, I knew where I would find her; When I got back we had a smack And that was no gol-darned liar. That sweet little gal, that true little gal, The gal I left behind me!

BILLY THE KID

Billy was a bad man And carried a big gun, He was always after Greasers And kept 'em on the run.

He shot one every morning, For to make his morning meal. And let a white man sass him, He was shore to feel his steel.

He kept folks in hot water, And he stole from many a stage; And when he was full of liquor He was always in a rage.

But one day he met a man Who was a whole lot badder. And now he's dead, And we ain't none the sadder.

THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN

A Texas cowboy lay down on a bar-room floor. Having drunk so much he could drink no more; So he fell asleep with a troubled brain To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

The engine with murderous blood was damp And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp; An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones, While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.

The boiler was filled with lager beer And the devil himself was the engineer; The passengers were a most motley crew,-- Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,

Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags, Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags, Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white. All chained together,--O God, what a sight!

While the train rushed on at an awful pace, The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face; Wider and wider the country grew, As faster and faster the engine flew.

Louder and louder the thunder crashed And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed; Hotter and hotter the air became Till the clothes were burnt from each quivering frame.

And out of the distance there arose a yell, "Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!" Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain And begged the devil to stop the train.

But he capered about and danced for glee And laughed and joked at their misery. "My faithful friends, you have done the work And the devil never can a payday shirk.

"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor; The starving brother you've turned from the door, You've laid up gold where the canker rust, And have given free vent to your beastly lust.

"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown, And trampled the laws of nature down. You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied, And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.

"You have paid full fare so I'll carry you through; For it's only right you should have your due. Why, the laborer always expects his hire, So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire.

"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar, And my imps torment you forever more." Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry, His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high.

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour To be saved from his sin and the demon's power. And his prayers and his vows were not in vain; For he never rode the hell-bound train.

THE OLD SCOUT'S LAMENT

Come all of you, my brother scouts, And listen to my song; Come, let us sing together Though the shadows fall so long.

Of all the old frontiersmen That used to scour the plain There are but very few of them That with us yet remain.

Day after day they're dropping off, They're going one by one; Our clan is fast decreasing, Our race is almost run.

There are many of our number That never wore the blue, But faithfully they did their part As brave men, tried and true.

They never joined the army, But had other work to do In piloting the coming folks, To help them safely through.

But brothers, we are failing, Our race is almost run; The days of elk and buffalo And beaver traps are gone--

Oh, the days of elk and buffalo! It fills my heart with pain To know these days are past and gone To never come again.

We fought the red-skin rascals Over valley, hill, and plain; We fought him in the mountain top, We fought him down again.

These fighting days are over. The Indian yell resounds No more along the border; Peace sends far sweeter sounds.

But we found great joy, old comrades, To hear and make it die; We won bright homes for gentle ones, And now, our West, good-bye.

THE DESERTED ADOBE

Round the 'dobe rank sands are thickly blowin', Its ridges fill the deserted field; Yet on this claim young lives once hope were sowing For all the years might yield; And in strong hands the echoing hoof pursuin' A wooden share turned up the sod, The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' And sang content to God. The toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' And sang content to God.

A woman fair and sweet has smilin' striven Through long and lonesome hours; A blue-eyed babe, a bit of earthly heaven, Laughed at the sun's hot towers; A bow of promise made this desert splendid, This 'dobe was their pride. But what began so well, alas, has ended--, The promise died. But what began so well alas soon ended--, The promise died.

Their plans and dreams, their cheerful labor wasted In dry and mis-spent years; The spring was sweet, the summer bitter tasted, The autumn salt with tears. Now "gyp" and sand do hide their one-time yearnin'; 'Twas theirs; 'tis past. God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', To fail at last. God's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', To fail at last.

THE COWBOY AT WORK

You may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to tame, You may heap vile epithets upon his head; But to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his hard name, For he will divide with you his beef and bread.

If you see him on his pony as he scampers o'er the plain, You would think him wild and woolly, to be sure; But his heart is warm and tender when he sees a friend in need, Though his education is but to endure.

When the storm breaks in its fury and the lightning's vivid flash Makes you thank the Lord for shelter and for bed, Then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him dash, No protection but the hat upon his head.

Such is life upon a cow ranch, and the half was never told; But you never find a kinder-hearted set Than the cattleman at home, be he either young or old, He's a "daisy from away back," don't forget.

When you fail to find a pony or a cow that's gone a-stray, Be that cow or pony wild or be it tame, The cowboy, like the drummer,--and the bed-bug, too, they say,-- Brings him to you, for he gets there just the same.

HERE'S TO THE RANGER!

He leaves unplowed his furrow, He leaves his books unread For a life of tented freedom By lure of danger led. He's first in the hour of peril, He's gayest in the dance, Like the guardsman of old England Or the beau sabreur of France.