RIDIN' UP THE ROCKY TRAIL FROM TOWN

"Billy Leamont rode out of the town-- _Close at his shoulder rode Jack Lorell--_ Over the leagues of the prairies brown, Into the hills where the sun goes down-- _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_

Billy Leamont looked down the dell-- _Dead below; him lay Jack Lorell--_ With his gun at his forehead he fired and fell, Then rode they two through the streets of h.e.l.l-- _Billy Leamont and Jack Lorell!_"

THE BALLAD OF BILLY LEAMONT.[5]

WE'RE the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, But we had to come to town to get the mail.

And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then-- All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.

Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin', All our toilets show a touch of disarray, For we found that City life is a constant round of strife And we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray.

_Chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'

For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_

We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.

From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.

We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.

So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'

'Twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends, And he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, While my merry pardners entertained his friends.

_Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.

Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.

We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin'

When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town._

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves, Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange.

And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds Still is useful in the language of the range.

_Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.

We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation-- Ee-Yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_

[5] This fragment is not included in Mr. Clark's poem.

THE DISAPPOINTED TENDERFOOT

HE reached the West in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are, With the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed.

He looked around for the Buckskin Joes and the things he'd seen in the Wild West shows-- The cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the Injun child.

He listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop, And he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books.

He'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot, And entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance While the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air, But all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the dead are laid.

Not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green.

'Twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly West.

He vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose, And the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear.

Not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side, And the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts, The cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits He'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him.

He peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold, And a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with the diamond hitch.

The rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit the trail; And no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to see.

But the oldest settler named Six-Gun Sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him: "The West hez gone to the East, my son, and it's only in tents sich things is done."

_E. A. Brinninstool._

A COWBOY ALONE WITH HIS CONSCIENCE

WHEN I ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird, Whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd, An' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air, An' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere; Then I sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head I'm the only livin' mortal--everybody else is dead-- An' I feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd, When thar ain't n.o.body near me, 'ceptin' G.o.d.

Every rabbit that I startle from its shaded restin' place, Seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless s.p.a.ce, An' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray Helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way.

Every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath, Every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death-- Tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod, When thar ain't n.o.body near him, 'ceptin' G.o.d.

Somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways, An' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days, When a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep, Used to listen while I'd whisper, "Now I lay me down to sleep."

Then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast, An' I wonder how I'll stack up at the final judgment test, Conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod, When thar ain't n.o.body near me, 'ceptin' G.o.d.

Take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw, One that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law, One that never does an action that's commendable or good, An' immerse him fur a season out in Nature's solitude, An' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear, More'n if he 'tended preachin' every Sunday in the year, Fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod, When thar ain't n.o.body near him, 'ceptin' G.o.d.

_James Barton Adams._

JUST A-RIDIN'!

OH, for me a horse and saddle Every day without a change; With the desert sun a-blazin'

On a hundred miles o' range,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', Desert ripplin' in the sun, Mountains blue along the skyline,-- I don't envy anyone.

When my feet are in the stirrups And my horse is on the bust; When his hoofs are flashin' lightnin'

From a golden cloud o' dust; And the bawlin' of the cattle Is a-comin' down the wind,-- Oh, a finer life than ridin'

Would be mighty hard to find,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', Splittin' long cracks in the air, Stirrin' up a baby cyclone, Rootin' up the p.r.i.c.kly pear.

I don't need no art exhibits When the sunset does his best, Paintin' everlastin' glories On the mountains of the west.

And your operas look foolish When the night bird starts his tune And the desert's silver-mounted By the kisses of the moon,

Just a-ridin', just a-ridin', I don't envy kings nor czars When the coyotes down the valley Are a-singin' to the stars.