Chapter 6

One month had passed and Maggie, We called her Hazel Eye, In truth was going to leave me, Was going to say good-bye. Her uncle, Mad Jack Reynolds, Reported long since dead, Had come to claim my angel, His brother's child, he said.

What could I say? We parted, Mad Jack was growing old; I handed him a bank note And all I had in gold. They rode away at sunrise, I went a mile or two, And parting says, "We will meet again; May God watch over you."

By a laughing, dancing brook A little cabin stood, And weary with a long day's scout, I spied it in the wood. The pretty valley stretched beyond, The mountains towered above, And near its willow banks I heard The cooing of a dove.

'Twas one grand pleasure; The brook was plainly seen, Like a long thread of silver In a cloth of lovely green; The laughter of the water, The cooing of the dove, Was like some painted picture, Some well-told tale of love.

While drinking in the country And resting in the saddle, I heard a gentle rippling Like the dipping of a paddle, And turning to the water, A strange sight met my view,-- A lady with her rifle In a little bark canoe.

She stood up in the center, With her rifle to her eye; I thought just for a second My time had come to die. I doffed my hat and told her, If it was just the same, To drop her little shooter, For I was not her game.

She dropped the deadly weapon And leaped from the canoe. Says she, "I beg your pardon; I thought you was a Sioux. Your long hair and your buckskin Looked warrior-like and rough; My bead was spoiled by sunshine, Or I'd have killed you sure enough."

"Perhaps it would've been better If you'd dropped me then," says I; "For surely such an angel Would bear me to the sky." She blushingly dropped her eyelids, Her cheeks were crimson red; One half-shy glance she gave me And then hung down her head.

I took her little hand in mine; She wondered what it meant, And yet she drew it not away, But rather seemed content. We sat upon the mossy bank, Her eyes began to fill; The brook was rippling at our feet, The dove was cooing still.

'Tis strong arms were thrown around her. "I'll save you or I'll die." I clasped her to my bosom, My long lost Hazel Eye. The rapture of that moment Was almost heaven to me; I kissed her 'mid the tear-drops, Her merriment and glee.

Her heart near mine was beating When sobbingly she said, "My dear, my brave preserver, They told me you were dead. But oh, those parting words, Joe, Have never left my mind, You said, 'We'll meet again, Mag,' Then rode off like the wind.

"And oh, how I have prayed, Joe, For you who saved my life, That God would send an angel To guide you through all strife. The one who claimed me from you, My Uncle, good and true, Is sick in yonder cabin; Has talked so much of you.

"'If Joe were living darling,' He said to me last night, 'He would care for you, Maggie, When God puts out my light.'" We found the old man sleeping. "Hush, Maggie, let him rest." The sun was slowly setting In the far-off, glowing West.

And though we talked in whispers He opened wide his eyes: "A dream, a dream," he murmured; "Alas, a dream of lies." She drifted like a shadow To where the old man lay. "You had a dream, dear Uncle, Another dream to-day?"

"Oh yes, I saw an angel As pure as mountain snow, And near her at my bedside Stood California Joe." "I'm sure I'm not an angel, Dear Uncle, that you know; These hands that hold your hand, too, My face is not like snow.

"Now listen while I tell you, For I have news to cheer; Hazel Eye is happy, For Joe is truly here." It was but a few days after The old man said to me, "Joe, boy, she is an angel, And good as angels be.

"For three long months she hunted, And trapped and nursed me too; God bless you, boy, I believe it, She's safe along with you." The sun was slowly sinking, When Maggie, my wife, and I Went riding through the valley, The tear-drops in her eye.

"One year ago to-day, Joe, I saw the mossy grave; We laid him neath the daisies, My Uncle, good and brave." And comrade, every springtime Is sure to find me there; There is something in the valley That is always fresh and fair.

Our love is always kindled While sitting by the stream, Where two hearts were united In love's sweet happy dream.

THE BOSTON BURGLAR

I was born in Boston City, a city you all know well, Brought up by honest parents, the truth to you I'll tell, Brought up by honest parents and raised most tenderly, Till I became a roving man at the age of twenty-three.

My character was taken then, and I was sent to jail. My friends they found it was in vain to get me out on bail. The jury found me guilty, the clerk he wrote it down, The judge he passed me sentence and I was sent to Charleston town.

You ought to have seen my aged father a-pleading at the bar, Also my dear old mother a-tearing of her hair, Tearing of her old gray locks as the tears came rolling down, Saying, "Son, dear son, what have you done, that you are sent to Charleston town?"

They put me aboard an eastbound train one cold December day, And every station that we passed, I'd hear the people say, "There goes a noted burglar, in strong chains he'll be bound,-- For the doing of some crime or other he is sent to Charleston town."

There is a girl in Boston, she is a girl that I love well, And if I ever gain my liberty, along with her I'll dwell; And when I regain my liberty, bad company I will shun, Night-walking, gambling, and also drinking rum.

Now, you who have your liberty, pray keep it if you can, And don't go around the streets at night to break the laws of man; For if you do you'll surely rue and find yourself like me, A-serving out my twenty-one years in the penitentiary.

SAM BASS

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home, And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam. Sam first came out to Texas a cowboy for to be,-- A kinder-hearted fellow you seldom ever see.

Sam used to deal in race stock, one called the Denton mare, He matched her in scrub races, and took her to the Fair. Sam used to coin the money and spent it just as free, He always drank good whiskey wherever he might be.

Sam left the Collin's ranch in the merry month of May With a herd of Texas cattle the Black Hills for to see, Sold out in Custer City and then got on a spree,-- A harder set of cowboys you seldom ever see.

On their way back to Texas they robbed the U.P. train, And then split up in couples and started out again. Joe Collins and his partner were overtaken soon, With all their hard-earned money they had to meet their doom.

Sam made it back to Texas all right side up with care; Rode into the town of Denton with all his friends to share. Sam's life was short in Texas; three robberies did he do, He robbed all the passenger, mail, and express cars too.

Sam had four companions--four bold and daring lads-- They were Richardson, Jackson, Joe Collins, and Old Dad; Four more bold and daring cowboys the rangers never knew, They whipped the Texas rangers and ran the boys in blue.

Sam had another companion, called Arkansas for short, Was shot by a Texas ranger by the name of Thomas Floyd; Oh, Tom is a big six-footer and thinks he's mighty fly, But I can tell you his racket,--he's a deadbeat on the sly.

Jim Murphy was arrested, and then released on bail; He jumped his bond at Tyler and then took the train for Terrell; But Mayor Jones had posted Jim and that was all a stall, 'Twas only a plan to capture Sam before the coming fall.

Sam met his fate at Round Rock, July the twenty-first, They pierced poor Sam with rifle balls and emptied out his purse. Poor Sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay, And Jackson's in the bushes trying to get away.

Jim had borrowed Sam's good gold and didn't want to pay, The only shot he saw was to give poor Sam away. He sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends to mourn,-- Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel blows his horn.

And so he sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends to mourn, Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel blows his horn. Perhaps he's got to heaven, there's none of us can say, But if I'm right in my surmise he's gone the other way.

Sam Bass (Mus. Not.)

Sam Bass was born in In-di-an-a, It was his na-tive home; And at the age of sev-en-teen, Young Sam be-gan to roam. Sam first came out to Tex-as, A cow-boy for to be; A kind-er-heart-ed fel-low You sel-dom ev-er see.

THE ZEBRA DUN

We were camped on the plains at the head of the Cimarron When along came a stranger and stopped to arger some. He looked so very foolish that we began to look around, We thought he was a greenhorn that had just 'scaped from town.

We asked if he had been to breakfast; he hadn't had a smear, So we opened up the chuck-box and bade him have his share. He took a cup of coffee and some biscuits and some beans, And then began to talk and tell about foreign kings and queens,--

About the Spanish war and fighting on the seas With guns as big as steers and ramrods big as trees,-- And about old Paul Jones, a mean, fighting son of a gun, Who was the grittiest cuss that ever pulled a gun.

Such an educated feller his thoughts just came in herds, He astonished all them cowboys with them jaw-breaking words. He just kept on talking till he made the boys all sick, And they began to look around just how to play a trick.

He said he had lost his job upon the Santa Fe And was going across the plains to strike the 7-D. He didn't say how come it, some trouble with the boss, But said he'd like to borrow a nice fat saddle hoss.

This tickled all the boys to death, they laughed way down in their sleeves,-- "We will lend you a horse just as fresh and fat as you please." Shorty grabbed a lariat and roped the Zebra Dun And turned him over to the stranger and waited for the fun.

Old Dunny was a rocky outlaw that had grown so awful wild That he could paw the white out of the moon every jump for a mile. Old Dunny stood right still,--as if he didn't know,-- Until he was saddled and ready for to go.

When the stranger hit the saddle, old Dunny quit the earth And traveled right straight up for all that he was worth. A-pitching and a-squealing, a-having wall-eyed fits, His hind feet perpendicular, his front ones in the bits.

We could see the tops of the mountains under Dunny every jump, But the stranger he was growed there just like the camel's hump; The stranger sat upon him and curled his black mustache Just like a summer boarder waiting for his hash.

He thumped him in the shoulders and spurred him when he whirled, To show them flunky punchers that he was the wolf of the world. When the stranger had dismounted once more upon the ground, We knew he was a thoroughbred and not a gent from town;

The boss who was standing round watching of the show, Walked right up to the stranger and told him he needn't go,-- "If you can use the lasso like you rode old Zebra Dun, You are the man I've been looking for ever since the year one."

Oh, he could twirl the lariat and he didn't do it slow, He could catch them fore feet nine out of ten for any kind of dough. And when the herd stampeded he was always on the spot And set them to nothing, like the boiling of a pot.

There's one thing and a shore thing I've learned since I've been born, That every educated feller ain't a plumb greenhorn.

THE BUFFALO SKINNERS

Come all you jolly fellows and listen to my song, There are not many verses, it will not detain you long; It's concerning some young fellows who did agree to go And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo.

It happened in Jacksboro in the spring of seventy-three, A man by the name of Crego came stepping up to me, Saying, "How do you do, young fellow, and how would you like to go And spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo?"

"It's me being out of employment," this to Crego I did say, "This going out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay. But if you will pay good wages and transportation too, I think, sir, I will go with you to the range of the buffalo."

"Yes, I will pay good wages, give transportation too, Provided you will go with me and stay the summer through; But if you should grow homesick, come back to Jacksboro, I won't pay transportation from the range of the buffalo."

It's now our outfit was complete--seven able-bodied men, With navy six and needle gun--our troubles did begin; Our way it was a pleasant one, the route we had to go, Until we crossed Pease River on the range of the buffalo.

It's now we've crossed Pease River, our troubles have begun. The first damned tail I went to rip, Christ! how I cut my thumb! While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives wasn't a show, For the Indians watched to pick us off while skinning the buffalo.

He fed us on such sorry chuck I wished myself most dead, It was old jerked beef, croton coffee, and sour bread. Pease River's as salty as hell fire, the water I could never go,-- O God! I wished I had never come to the range of the buffalo.

Our meat it was buffalo hump and iron wedge bread, And all we had to sleep on was a buffalo robe for a bed; The fleas and gray-backs worked on us, O boys, it was not slow, I'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the buffalo.

Our hearts were cased with buffalo hocks, our souls were cased with steel, And the hardships of that summer would nearly make us reel. While skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show, For the Indians waited to pick us off on the hills of Mexico.

The season being near over, old Crego he did say The crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day,-- We coaxed him and we begged him and still it was no go,-- We left old Crego's bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo.

Oh, it's now we've crossed Pease River and homeward we are bound, No more in that hell-fired country shall ever we be found. Go home to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go, For God's forsaken the buffalo range and the damned old buffalo.

Range of the Buffalo (Mus. Not.)

'Twas in the town of Jacksbo-ro, In eigh-teen eigh-ty- three, When a man by the name of Cre-go... Came step-ping up to me; Say-ing, "How do you do, young fel-low, And how would you like to go... And spend one summer sea-son On the range of the Buf-fa-lo?"

MACAFFIE'S CONFESSION

Now come young men and list to me, A sad and mournful history; And may you ne'er forgetful be Of what I tell this day to thee.

Oh, I was thoughtless, young, and gay And often broke the Sabbath day, In wickedness I took delight And sometimes done what wasn't right.

I'd scarcely passed my fifteenth year, My mother and my father dear Were silent in their deep, dark grave, Their spirits gone to Him who gave.

'Twas on a pleasant summer day When from my home I ran away And took unto myself a wife, Which step was fatal to my life.

Oh, she was kind and good to me As ever woman ought to be, And might this day have been alive no doubt, Had I not met Miss Hatty Stout.

Ah, well I mind the fatal day When Hatty stole my heart away; 'Twas love for her controlled my will And did cause me my wife to kill.

'Twas on a brilliant summer's night When all was still; the stars shone bright. My wife lay still upon the bed And I approached to her and said:

"Dear wife, here's medicine I've brought, For you this day, my love, I've bought. I know it will be good for you For those vile fits,--pray take it, do."

She cast on me a loving look And in her mouth the poison took; Down by her infant on the bed In her last, long sleep she laid her head.

Oh, who could tell a mother's thought When first to her the news was brought; The sheriff said her son was sought And into prison must be brought.

Only a mother standing by To hear them tell the reason why Her son in prison, he must lie Till on the scaffold he must die.

My father, sixty years of age, The best of counsel did engage, To see if something could be done To save his disobedient son.

So, farewell, mother, do not weep, Though soon with demons I will sleep, My soul now feels its mental hell And soon with demons I will dwell.

* * * * *

The sheriff cut the slender cord, His soul went up to meet its Lord; The doctor said, "The wretch is dead, His spirit from his body's fled."

His weeping mother cried aloud, "O God, do save this gazing crowd, That none may ever have to pay For gambling on the Sabbath day."

LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER

It's little Joe, the wrangler, he'll wrangle never more, His days with the _remuda_ they are o'er; 'Twas a year ago last April when he rode into our camp,-- Just a little Texas stray and all alone,-- On a little Texas pony he called "Chaw." With his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher kid You never in your life before had saw.

His saddle was a Texas "kak," built many years ago, With an O.K. spur on one foot lightly swung; His "hot roll" in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind, And his canteen from his saddle-horn was swung. He said that he had to leave his home, his pa had married twice; And his new ma whipped him every day or two; So he saddled up old Chaw one night and lit a shuck this way, And he's now trying to paddle his own canoe.

He said if we would give him work, he'd do the best he could, Though he didn't know straight up about a cow; So the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on, For he sorta liked this little kid somehow. Learned him to wrangle horses and to try to know them all, And get them in at daylight if he could; To follow the chuck-wagon and always hitch the team, And to help the _cocinero_ rustle wood.

We had driven to the Pecos, the weather being fine; We had camped on the south side in a bend; When a norther commenced blowin', we had doubled up our guard, For it taken all of us to hold them in. Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest; Though the kid had scarcely reached the herd, When the cattle they stampeded, like a hailstorm long they fled, Then we were all a-ridin' for the lead.

'Midst the streaks of lightin' a horse we could see in the lead, 'Twas Little Joe, the wrangler, in the lead; He was riding Old Blue Rocket with a slicker o'er his head, A tryin' to check the cattle in their speed. At last we got them milling and kinda quieted down, And the extra guard back to the wagon went; But there was one a-missin' and we knew it at a glance, 'Twas our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

The next morning just at day break, we found where Rocket fell, Down in a washout twenty feet below; And beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,--his spur had rung the knell,-- Was our little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe.

Little Joe, The Wrangler (Mus. Not.)

Lit-tle Joe, the wran-gler, He'll wran-gle nev-er-more, rode up to our herd His days with the re--mu--da they are o'er; On a lit-tle Tex-as Po-ny he call'd Chaw; 'Twas a year a-go last A-pril he rode in-to our herd; With his bro-gan shoes and o-veralls, a tough-er look-in' kid Just a lit-tle Tex-as stray, and all a-lone. You nev-er in your life be-fore had saw. It was late in the eve-ning he

HARRY BALE

Come all kind friends and kindred dear and Christians young and old, A story I'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold; 'Tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here, In the township of Arcade in the County of Lapeer. It seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill, He followed it successfully two years, one month, until, Until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail; 'Twas where this young man lost his life,--his name was Harry Bale.

On the 29th of April in the year of seventy-nine, He went to work as usual, no fear did he design; In lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear It brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe; It cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back, It threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back. He started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast; He said, "Oh, boys, I'm wounded: I fear it is my last."

His brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too, The doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue. Poor Harry had no father to weep beside his bed, No kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head. He was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know, But he withered like a flower, it was his time to go.

They placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave; His brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave. They took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest, His body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest.

FOREMAN MONROE

Come all you brave young shanty boys, and list while I relate Concerning a young shanty boy and his untimely fate; Concerning a young river man, so manly, true and brave; 'Twas on a jam at Gerry's Rock he met his watery grave;

'Twas on a Sunday morning as you will quickly hear, Our logs were piled up mountain high, we could not keep them clear. Our foreman said, "Come on, brave boys, with hearts devoid of fear, We'll break the jam on Gerry's Rock and for Agonstown we'll steer."

Now, some of them were willing, while others they were not, All for to work on Sunday they did not think they ought; But six of our brave shanty boys had volunteered to go And break the jam on Gerry's Rock with their foreman, young Monroe.

They had not rolled off many logs 'till they heard his clear voice say, "I'd have you boys be on your guard, for the jam will soon give way." These words he'd scarcely spoken when the jam did break and go, Taking with it six of those brave boys and their foreman, young Monroe.

Now when those other shanty boys this sad news came to hear, In search of their dead comrades to the river they did steer; Six of their mangled bodies a-floating down did go, While crushed and bleeding near the banks lay the foreman, young Monroe.

They took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair; There was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air; There was a fair form among them, a girl from Saginaw town. Whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down.

Fair Clara was a noble girl, the river-man's true friend; She and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend; And the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay, But the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day.

They buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of May; Come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray. Engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow Is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young Monroe.

Fair Clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief; And less than three months afterwards Death came to her relief; And when the time had come and she was called to go, Her last request was granted, to be laid by young Monroe.

Come all you brave young shanty boys, I'd have you call and see Two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree; The shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,-- 'Tis the handsome Clara Vernon and her true love, Jack Monroe.

THE DREARY BLACK HILLS