Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp

stood back for a minute; then up spoke Poker Bill:
“Young man, yer a stranger, I reckon. We don’t wish yer any ill;
But come out of the range of the Greaser, or, as sure as I live, you’ll croak;”
And he drew a bead on the stranger. I’ll tell yer it wa’n’t no joke.
But the stranger moven’ no muscle as he looked in the bore of Bill’s gun;
He hadn’t no thought to stir, sir; he hadn’t no thought to run;
But he spoke out cool and quiet, “I might live for a thousand year
And not die at last so nobly as defendin’ this Greaser here;
For he’s wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn’t had no fair show;
And the first of ye boys that strikes him, I’ll lay that first one low.”
The gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die;
They respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye.
They saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall;
And he was a Texas cowboy⁠—never heard of Rome at all.
Don’t tell me of yer Romans, or yer bridge bein’ held by three;
True manhood’s the same in Texas as it was in Rome, d’ye see?
Did the Greaser escape? Why certain. I saw the hull crowd over thar
At the ranch of Bill Simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the bar.

From recitation. Anonymous.

Broncho Versus Bicycle

The first that we saw of the high-tone tramp
War over thar at our Pecos camp;
He war comin’ down the Santa Fé trail
Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail,
A-skinnin’ along with a merry song
An’ a-ringin’ a little warnin’ gong.
He looked so outlandish, strange and queer
That all of us grinned from ear to ear,
And every boy on the round-up swore
He never seed sich a hoss before.

Wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile
An’ a-smokin’ a cigarette, an’ I’ll
Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen
Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine.
Why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn’t half
Big enough fer the back of a suckin’ calf.
He tuk our fun in a keerless way,
A-venturin’ only once to say
Thar wasn’t a broncho about the place
Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race.

I’d a lightnin’ broncho out in the herd
That could split the air like a flyin’ bird,
An’ I hinted round in an off-hand way,
That, providin’ the enterprise would pay,
I thought as I might jes’ happen to light
On a hoss that would leave him out er sight.
In less’n a second we seen him yank
A roll o’ greenbacks out o’ his flank,
An’ he said if we wanted to bet, to name
The limit, an’ he would tackle the game.

Jes’ a week before we had all been down
On a jamboree to the nearest town,
An’ the whiskey joints and the faro games
An’ a-shakin’ our hoofs with the dance hall dames,
Made a wholesale bust; an’, pard, I’ll be cussed
If a man in the outfit had any dust.
An’ so I explained, but the youth replied
That he’d lay the money matter aside,
An’ to show that his back didn’t grow no moss
He’d bet his machine against my hoss.

I tuk him up, an’ the bet war closed,
An’ me a-chucklin’, fer I supposed
I war playin’ in dead-sure, winnin’ luck
In the softest snap I had ever struck.
An’ the boys chipped in with a knowin’ grin,
Fer they thought the fool had no chance to win.
An’ so we agreed fer to run that day
To the Navajo cross, ten miles away⁠—
As handsome a track as you ever seed
Fer testin’ a hosses prettiest speed.

Apache Johnson and Texas Ned
Saddled up their hosses an’ rode ahead
To station themselves ten miles away
An’ act as judges an’ see fair play;
While Mexican Bart and big Jim Hart
Stayed back fer to give us an even start.
I got aboard of my broncho bird
An’ we came to the scratch an’ got the word;
An’ I laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear
To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear.

The first three miles slipped away first-rate;
Then bronc began fer to lose his gait.
But I warn’t oneasy an’ didn’t mind
With tenderfoot more’n a mile behind.
So I jogged along with a cowboy song
Till all of a sudden I heard that gong
A-ringin’ a warnin’ in my ear⁠—
Ting, ting, ting, ting,⁠—too infernal near;
An’ lookin’ backwards I seen that chump
Of a tenderfoot gainin’ every jump.

I hit old bronc a cut with the quirt
An’ once more got him to scratchin’ dirt;
But his wind got weak, an’ I tell you, boss,
I seen he wasn’t no ten-mile hoss.
Still, the plucky brute took another shoot
An’ pulled away from the wheel galoot.
But the animal couldn’t hold his gait;
An’ the idea somehow entered my pate
That if tenderfoot’s legs didn’t lose their grip
He’d own that hoss at the end of the trip.

Closer an’ closer come tenderfoot,
An’ harder the whip to the hoss I put;
But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his face
Ran up to my side with his easy pace⁠—
Rode up to my side, an’ dern his hide,
Remarked ’twere a pleasant day fer a ride;
Then axed, onconcerned, if I had a match,
An’ on his britches give it a scratch,
Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day,
An’ as fresh as a daisy scooted away.

Ahead he went, that infernal gong
A-ringin’ “good-day” as he flew along,
An’ the smoke from his cigarette came back
Like a vaporous snicker along his track.
On an’ on he sped, gettin’ further ahead,
His feet keepin’ up that onceaseable tread,
Till he faded away in the distance, an’ when
I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again
He war thar with the boys at the end of the race,
That same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face.

Now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don’t swar
Nor kick, if the beatin’ are done on the squar;
So I tuck that Easterner right by the hand
An’ told him that broncho awaited his brand.
Then I axed him his name, an’ where from he came,
An’ how long he’d practiced that wheel-rollin’ game.
Tom Stevens he said war his name, an’ he come
From a town they call Bosting, in old Yankeedom.
Then he jist paralyzed us by sayin’ he’d whirled
That very identical wheel round the world.

Wal, pard, that’s the story