Part 2

_Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!_ _(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)_ _Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,_ _But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_

Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford-- Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!

_Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!_ _(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)_ _Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,_ _But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!

_Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!_ _(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)_ _Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw_ _When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"_

THE OUTLAW

When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, By the foot or the neck or the horn, He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string And the latigoes creak and strain, Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer And I'll tumble him on the plain.

_For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,_ _And the man is the boss of the herd,_ _And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,_ _Must come down when he says the word._

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse And my spurs clinch into his hide, He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, But wherever he goes I'll ride. Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel Till he's happy to own he's broke.

_For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,_ _And the hawse may be prince of his clan_ _But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot_ _And own that his boss is the man._

When the devil at rest underneath my vest Gets up and begins to paw And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, Then I tackle the real outlaw. When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild And my temper is fractious growed, If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.

_For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast._ _He kin brag till he makes you deaf,_ _But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,_ _That he kaint quite break is himse'f._

THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL

At a roundup on the Gily, One sweet mornin' long ago, Ten of us was throwed right freely By a hawse from Idaho. And we thought he'd go-a-beggin' For a man to break his pride Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin, Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--

"_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_ _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_ _I kin ride the highest liver_ _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_ _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury And they mangled up the air Till a native of Missouri Would have owned his brag was fair. Though the plunges kep' him reelin' And the wind it flapped his shirt, Loud above the hawse's squealin' We could hear our friend assert

"_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._ _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_ _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_ _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_ _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"

Then one caper of repulsion Broke that hawse's back in two. Cinches snapped in the convulsion; Skyward man and saddle flew. Up he mounted, never laggin', While we watched him through our tears, And his last thin bit of braggin' Came a-droppin' to our ears.

"_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_ _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._ _I have kep' my talent hidin';_ _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_ _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"

Years have gone since that ascension. Boastful Bill ain't never lit, So we reckon that he's wrenchin' Some celestial outlaw's bit. When the night rain beats our slickers And the wind is swift and stout And the lightnin' flares and flickers, We kin sometimes hear him shout--

"_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_ _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._ _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_ _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._ _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"

Stardust on his chaps and saddle, Scornful still of jar and jolt, He'll come back some day, astraddle 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 rawhiders all confessed._ _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._ _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_ _With your a'roplanes and motors--_ _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"

THE TIED MAVERICK

Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast And my wild record closes. This maverick is down at last Just roped and tied with roses. And one small girl's to blame for it, Yet I don't fight with shame for it-- Lay on the iron; I'm game for it, Just roped and tied with roses.

I loped among the wildest band Of saddle-hatin' winners-- Gay colts that never felt a brand And scarred old outlaw sinners. The wind was rein and guide to us; The world was pasture wide to us And our wild name was pride to us-- High headed bronco sinners!

So, loose and light we raced and fought And every range we tasted, But now, since I'm corralled and caught, I know them days were wasted. From now, the all-day gait for me, The trail that's hard but straight for me, For down that trail, who'll wait for me! Ay! them old days were wasted!

But though I'm broke, I'll never be A saddle-marked old groaner, For never worthless bronc like me Got such a gentle owner. There could be colt days glad as mine Or outlaw runs as mad as mine Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine, But never such an owner.

Lay on the iron, and lay it red! I'll take it kind and clever. Who wouldn't hold a prouder head To wear that mark forever? I'll never break and stray from her; I'd starve and die away from her. Lay on the iron--it's play from her-- And brand me hers forever!

A ROUNDUP LULLABY

Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill, Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line, Time for millin' cattle to be still.

_So--o now, the lightnin's far away,_ _The coyote's nothiny skeery;_ _He's singin' to his dearie--_ _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_ _Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'._

Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need, Nothin' we kin see to take your eye. Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede, Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.

_So--o, now, for still the shadows stay;_ _The moon is slow and steady;_ _The sun comes when he's ready._ _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_ _No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'._

Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim, Dreamin' of a land too far to see. There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim And it often seems the same to me.

_So--o, now, for dreams they never pay._ _The dust it keeps us blinkin',_ _We're seven miles from drinkin'._ _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_ _But we got to stand it till the mornin'._

Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through. Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns. Always far away is misty silver-blue; Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.

_So--o, now. It must be this away--_ _The lonesome owl a-callin',_ _The mournful coyote squallin'._ _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_ _Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'._

Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue, Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting. Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true, So I ride around myself and sing.

_So--o, now, a man has got to stay,_ _A-likin' or a-hatin',_ _But workin' on and waitin'._ _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_ _All of us are waitin' for the mornin'._

THE TRAIL O' LOVE

My love was swift and slender As an antelope at play, And her eyes were gray and tender As the east at break o' day, And I sure was shaky hearted And her flower face was pale On that silver night we parted, When I sang along the trail:

_Forever--forever--_ _Oh, moon above the pine,_ _Like the matin' birds in Springtime,_ _I will twitter while you shine._ _Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',_ _Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',_ _Strong as redwoods ever growin',_ _So will be this love o' mine._

I rode across the river And beyond the far divide, Till the echo of "forever" Staggered faint behind and died. For the long trail smiled and beckoned And the free wind blowed so sweet, That life's gayest tune, I reckoned, Was my hawse's ringin' feet.

_Forever--forever--_ _Oh, stars, look down and sigh,_ _For a poison spring will sparkle_ _And the trustin' drinker die._ _And a rovin' bird will twitter_ _And a worthless rock will glitter_ _And the maiden's love is bitter_ _When the man's is proved a lie._

Last the rover's circle guidin' Brought me where I used to be, And I met her, gaily ridin' With a smarter man than me. Then I raised my dusty cover But she didn't see nor hear, So I hummed the old tune over, Laughin' in my hawse's ear:

_If the snowflake specks the desert_ _Or the yucca blooms awhile._ _Ay! what gloom the mountain covers_ _Where the driftin' cloud shade hovers!_ _Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,_ _Where "forever" lasts a mile!_

BACHIN'

Our lives are hid; our trails are strange; We're scattered through the West In canyon cool, on blistered range Or windy mountain crest. Wherever Nature drops her ears And bares her claws to scratch, From Yuma to the north frontiers, You'll likely find the bach', You will, The shy and sober bach'!

Our days are sun and storm and mist, The same as any life, Except that in our trouble list We never count a wife. Each has a reason why he's lone, But keeps it 'neath his hat; Or, if he's got to tell some one, Confides it to his cat, He does, Just tells it to his cat.

We're young or old or slow or fast, But all plumb versatyle. The mighty bach' that fires the blast Kin serve up beans in style. The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows Kin mix the biscuits true-- We earn our grub by drippin' brows And cook it by 'em too, We do, We cook it by 'em too.

We like to breathe unbranded air, Be free of foot and mind, And go or stay, or sing or swear, Whichever we're inclined. An appetite, a conscience clear, A pipe that's rich and old Are loves that always bless and cheer And never cry nor scold, They don't. They never cry nor scold.

Old Adam bached some ages back And smoked his pipe so free, A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack Beneath a mango tree. He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways, And scripture proves the same, For Adam's only happy days Was 'fore the woman came, They was, All 'fore the woman came.

THE GLORY TRAIL

'Way high up the Mogollons, Among the mountain tops, A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones And licked his thankful chops, When on the picture who should ride, A-trippin' down a slope, But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride And mav'rick-hungry rope.

"_Oh, glory be to me," says he,_ "_And fame's unfadin' flowers!_ _All meddlin' hands are far away;_ _I ride my good top-hawse today_ _And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J----_ _Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!_"

That lion licked his paw so brown And dreamed soft dreams of veal-- And then the circlin' loop sung down And roped him 'round his meal. He yowled quick fury to the world Till all the hills yelled back; The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled And Bob caught up the slack.

"_Oh, glory be to me," laughs he._ "_We hit the glory trail._ _No human man as I have read_ _Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,_ _Nor ever hawse could drag one dead_ _Until we told the tale._"

'Way high up the Mogollons That top-hawse done his best, Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones, From canyon-floor to crest. But ever when Bob turned and hoped A limp remains to find, A red-eyed lion, belly roped But healthy, loped behind.

"_Oh, glory be to me" grunts he._ "_This glory trail is rough,_ _Yet even till the Judgment Morn_ _I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,_ _For never any hero born_ _Could stoop to holler: Nuff!_'"

Three suns had rode their circle home Beyond the desert's rim, And turned their star-herds loose to roam The ranges high and dim; Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross Bob pounded, weak and wan, For pride still glued him to his hawse And glory drove him on.

"_Oh, glory be to me," sighs he._ "_He kaint be drug to death,_ _But now I know beyond a doubt_ _Them heroes I have read about_ _Was only fools that stuck it out_ _To end of mortal breath._"

'Way high up the Mogollons A prospect man did swear That moon dreams melted down his bones And hoisted up his hair: A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, A lion trailed along, A rider, ga'nt but chin on high, Yelled out a crazy song.

"_Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,_ "_And to my noble noose!_ _Oh, stranger, tell my pards below_ _I took a rampin' dream in tow,_ _And if I never lay him low,_ _I'll never turn him loose!_"

BACON

You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin But of all grub we love you the best. You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin And helped us win out in the West, You froze with us up on the Laramie trail; You sweat with us down at Tucson; When Injun was painted and white man was pale You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail And load up our Colts and hang on.

You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain Over campfires of sagebrush and oak; The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main Have carried your savory smoke. You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest; You're as good in December as May; You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased And the rough course of empire to westward was greased By the bacon we fried on the way.

We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat And your virtues we often forget. We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat, But we love you and swear by you yet. Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin', All the westerners join in the toast, From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine, From Canada down to the Mexican Line, From Omaha out to the coast!

THE LOST PARDNER

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet. Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so. I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite-- And yet I liked 'em just a week ago. I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares! The bird songs make me sore. I seem the only thing on earth that cares 'Cause Al ain't here no more!

'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur-- And, when I raised him up so limp and weak, One look before his eyes begun to blur And then--the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak! And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, And after year on year When we had always trailed it side by side, He went--and left me here!

We loved each other in the way men do And never spoke about it, Al and me, But we both _knowed_, and knowin' it so true Was more than any woman's kiss could be. We knowed--and if the way was smooth or rough, The weather shine or pour, While I had him the rest seemed good enough-- But he ain't here no more!

What is there out beyond the last divide? Seems like that country must be cold and dim. He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride, And he'd miss me, the same as I do him. It's no use thinkin'--all I'd think or say Could never make it clear. Out that dim trail that only leads one way He's gone--and left me here!

The range is empty and the trails are blind, And I don't seem but half myself today. I wait to hear him ridin' up behind And feel his knee rub mine the good old way. He's dead--and what that means no man kin tell. Some call it "gone before." Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well That he ain't here no more!

GOD'S RESERVES

One time, 'way back where the year marks fade, God said: "I see I must lose my West, The prettiest part of the world I made, The place where I've always come to rest, For the White Man grows till he fights for bread And he begs and prays for a chance to spread.

"Yet I won't give all of my last retreat; I'll help him to fight his long trail through, But I'll keep some land from his field and street The way that it was when the world was new. He'll cry for it all, for that's his way, And yet he may understand some day."

And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin, God stripped some places to sand and clay And dried up the beds where the streams had been. He marked His reserves with these plain signs And stationed His rangers to guard the lines.

Then the White Man came, as the East growed old, And blazed his trail with the wreck of war. He riled the rivers to hunt for gold And found the stuff he was lookin' for; Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.

He flung out his barb-wire fences wide And plowed up the ground where the grass was high. He stripped off the trees from the mountain side And ground out his ore where the streams run by, Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar, And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.

But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves, Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs And guarded the lines of God's reserves. So the folks all shy from the desert land, 'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.

There the world's the same as the day 'twas new, With the land as clean as the smokeless sky And never a noise as the years have flew, But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by; And there, alone, with the man's world far, There's a chance to think who you really are.

And over the reach of the desert bare, When the sun drops low and the day wind stills, Sometimes you kin almost see Him there, As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills, A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken And restin' Himself from the noise of men.

THE MARRIED MAN

There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door And watches the evenin' skies. He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before And I reckon he will till he dies. El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies, And hear through the dim, quiet air Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep And the creak of her rockabye chair.

Once we made camp where the last light would fail And the east wasn't white till we'd start, But now he is deaf to the call of the trail And the song of the restless heart. El pobre! the song of the restless heart That you hear in the wind from the dawn! He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things, For a slow little song that a tired woman sings And a smoke when his dry day is gone.

I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange, Where I'd drifted from glory to dread. He'd tell me the news of his little old range And the cute things his kids had said! El pobre! the cute things his kids had said! And the way six-year Billy could ride! And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal And thought of him like he had died.

He rides in old circles and looks at old sights And his life is as flat as a pond. He loves the old skyline he watches of nights And he don't seem to care for beyond. El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond, Nor the room he could find, there, for joy. "Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day. But he only just smiled in a pityin' way While he braided a quirt for his boy.

He preaches that I orter fold up my wings And that even wild geese find a nest. That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things And a saddle nap isn't a rest. El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest And he's less for the wind and the fight, Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes, I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.

I've courted the wind and I've followed her free From the snows that the low stars have kissed To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea, Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed. El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed, And it mebbe is more than I've won-- Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep, And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep When I'm tired from the wind and the sun.

NOTE.--"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow."

THE OLD COW MAN

I rode across a valley range I hadn't seen for years. The trail was all so spoilt and strange It nearly fetched the tears. I had to let ten fences down (The fussy lanes ran wrong) And each new line would make me frown And hum a mournin' song.

_Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_ _Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!_ _The nester brand is on the land;_ _I reckon I'll retire,_ _While progress toots her brassy horn_ _And makes her motor buzz,_ _I thank the Lord I wasn't born_ _No later than I was._

'Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss, Belonged in pardnership to God, The Gover'ment and us. With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come, I loved my fellow man the best When he was scattered some.

_Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_ _Close and closer cramps the wire._ _There's hardly play to back away_ _And call a man a liar._ _Their house has locks on every door;_ _Their land is in a crate._ _These ain't the plains of God no more,_ _They're only real estate._

There's land where yet no ditchers dig Nor cranks experiment; It's only lovely, free and big And isn't worth a cent. I pray that them who come to spoil May wait till I am dead Before they foul that blessed soil With fence and cabbage head.