the one, lone brute, from the West to the East,
That he kaint quite break, is himse’f.
The Desert
’Twas the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul,
As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky,
The tale of the Upland Rider’s fate while I dug in the water hole
For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!
“He came,” said the lean coyote, “and he cursed as his pony fell;
And he counted his pony’s ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done.
He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell,
Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop—just one.”
“His name?” I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin:
“His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside;
Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin,
And I watched his face as he spelled it out—laughed as I laughed, and died.
“And thus,” said the lean coyote, “his need is the hungry’s feast,
And mine.” I fumbled and pulled my gun—emptied it wild and fast,
But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast;
There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! ’Twas I that should laugh the last.
Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote;
Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line
I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float
Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine.
Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain;
Hands that proffered a brimming cup—empty, ere I could take;
Then the burst of a thunder-head—rain! It was rude, fierce rain!
Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!
Dawn—and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame,
As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead;
But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider’s name;
Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun—and the old home trail ahead.
Whiskey Bill—A Fragment
A-down the road and gun in hand
Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;
A-lookin’ for some place to land
Comes Whiskey Bill.
An’ everybody’d like to be
Ten miles away behind a tree
When on his joyous, aching spree
Starts Whiskey Bill.
The times have changed since you made love,
O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!
The happy sun grinned up above
At Whiskey Bill.
And down the middle of the street
The sheriff comes on toe and feet
A-wishin’ for one fretful peek
At Whiskey Bill.
The cows go grazing o’er the lea—
Poor Whiskey Bill! Poor Whiskey Bill!
An’ aching thoughts pour in on me
Of Whiskey Bill.
The sheriff up and found his stride;
Bill’s soul went shootin’ down the slide—
How are things on the Great Divide,
O Whiskey Bill?
Denver Jim
“Say, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us,
For I jist saw him across this way to the right;
Ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak
As fearless and cool as if waitin’ all night.
Well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready
Fur him, if he’s spilin’ to give us a fight;
The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic
An’ that limb hangin’ over him stands about right.
“Say, stranger, good mornin’. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys,
If it ain’t Denver Jim that’s corralled here at last.
Right aside for the jilly. Well, Jim, we are searchin’
All night for a couple about of your cast.
An’ seein’ yer enter this openin’ so charmin’
We thought perhaps yer might give us the trail.
Haven’t seen anything that would answer description?
What a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail.
“Want to trade hosses fur the one I am stridin’!
Will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot?
Say, Jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation
An’ many a man would say take it and scoot.
But we don’t belong to that denomination;
You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim.
In ten minutes more we’ll be crossin’ the prairie,
An’ you will be hangin’ there right from that limb.
“Have you got any speakin’ why the sentence ain’t proper?
Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask.
Ar’ not dry? Well, I am, an’ will drink ter yer, pard,
An’ wish that this court will not bungle this task.
There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture;
Here, boys, take the line an’ wait fer the word;
I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under;
Fer yer don’t meet yer fate like the low, common herd.
“What’s that? So yer want me to answer a letter—
Well, give it to me till I make it all right,
A moment or two will be only good manners,
The judicious acts of this court will be white.
’Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August,
My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West,
For long, weary months I’ve been waiting for tidings
Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.
“ ‘God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,
Remembering your mother when sorely in need.
May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger
And happiness follow your generous deed.
How I long so to see you come into the doorway,
As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest.
May the days be but few when again I can greet you,
My comfort and staff, is your mother’s request.’
“Say, pard, here’s your letter. I’m not good at writin’,
I think you’d do better to answer them lines;
An’ fer fear I might want it I’ll take off that lasso,
An’ the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines.
An’ Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her
That a wee bit o’ writin’ kinder hastened the day
When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always.
Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away.”
O’er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,
The dew on the grass flashed
