Sun and Saddle Leather Part 4

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 appet.i.te, 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 G.o.d! I know so well That he ain't here no more!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._"]