lizards from their play
To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.
And the mountains heaved and rippled far away
And the desert broiled as on the devil’s prong,
But he didn’t mind the devil if his head kept clear and level
And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.
Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise
Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim,
And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes
While he cussed the southern hills for growin’ dim.
Down a hazy ’royo came the coyote cries,
Like they laughed at him because he’d lost his mark,
And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter
As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.
Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher
Through the mountains that look into Mexico,
And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire
And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.
Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire
And the canyon walls flung thunder back again,
And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled
That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.
Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack
And he grabbed for leather at his hawse’s shy,
Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back
That convinced the sinner—just above the eye.
So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black
While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon,
Wabblin’ crazy in his saddle, workin’ hard to stay a-straddle
While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.
When the sheriff got up early out of bed,
How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss,
As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red
That came ridin’ in aboard a tremblin’ hawse.
But “I got ’im” was the most the ranger said
And you couldn’t hire him, now, to tell the tale;
He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin’ pilgrim stranger
And he labored with the sinners of the trail.
The Insult
I’ve swum the Colorado where she runs close down to hell;
I’ve braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne;
I’ve fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin’ swine
An’ swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;
I’ve rode a pitchin’ broncho till the sky was underneath;
I’ve tackled every desert in the land;
I’ve sampled XX whiskey till I couldn’t hardly see
An’ dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;
I’ve argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs;
I’ve been dragged free and fancy by a cow;
I’ve had three years’ campaignin’ with the fightin’, bitin’ Ninth,
An’ I never lost my temper till right now.
I’ve had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes;
I’ve grabbed an army mule plum by the tail;
But I’ve never been so snortin’, really highfalutin’ mad
As when you up and hands me ginger ale.
“The Road to Ruin”2
I went into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar,
And drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.
The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know
When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.
The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell
Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell.
This one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low,
He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.
Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin
While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.
Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe
And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.
I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men;
And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.
You know the one you liked the best?—the hang-man laid him low—
Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.
You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own—
He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.
He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow—
Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.
I visited the old church yard and there I saw the graves
Of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways.
I saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow,
Who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago.
The Outlaw
When my loop takes hold on a two-year-old,
By the feet 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 rope sing like a banjo string
And the latigoes creak and strain,
Yet I’ve got no fear of an outlaw steer
And I’ll tumble him on the plain.
For a man is a man and 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 has 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
