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 of how that smart chap Done me up w'en I thought I had sich a soft snap, Done me up on a race with remarkable ease, An' lowered my pride a good many degrees.

Did I give him the hoss? W'y o' course I did, boss, An' I tell you it warn't no diminutive loss.

He writ me a letter from back in the East, An' said he presented the neat little beast To a feller named Pope, who stands at the head O' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred.

_Anonymous._

RIDERS OF THE STARS

TWENTY abreast down the Golden Street ten thousand riders marched; Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time; And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime.

Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the concourse strode, And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head; The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed; "Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said.

A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim replied: "He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange, Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride, Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!"

Then warily spake the Texas man: "A pet.i.tion and no complaint We here present, if the Law allows and the Marster He thinks it fit; We-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that ain't, So we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:--

"_'Give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the Pearly Gate, And turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds, Hunting each stray in the Milky Way and running the Rancho straight; Not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds._

"_'Maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em fair, So they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks below, And we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all be there, Ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago._

"_'We've studied the Ancient Landmarks, Sir; Taurus, the Bear, and Mars, And Venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal, Plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars, With Saturn's rings for our home corral and the Dipper our water hole._

"_'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by, And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake; Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_"

Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word: "He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go; Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd; My glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. I would have it so."

Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam, The _Yip! Yip! Yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar, As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome, And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star?

_Henry Herbert Knibbs._

LASCA

I WANT free life, and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in battle, The medley of hoofs and horns and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love-- And Lasca!

Lasca used to ride On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side, With blue serape and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her!

Little knew she of books or creeds; An Ave Maria sufficed her needs; Little she cared save to be at my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's sh.o.r.e to Lavaca's tide.

She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow: From her little head to her little feet, She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro By each gust of pa.s.sion; a sapling pine That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun At something I whispered or looked or done, One Sunday, in San Antonio, To a glorious girl in the Alamo, She drew from her garter a little dagger, And--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger!

An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight; But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound Her torn rebosa about the wound That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown; Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.

She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire One does not drink in little sips.

The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side and forgot, forgot; Forgot the herd that were taking their rest, Forgot that the air was close oppressed, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon; That, once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop their flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, That falls in front of their mad stampede!

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word.

I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared.

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one-- Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carca.s.s, and take your chance; And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, goodbye To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together--and, what was the rest?

A body that spread itself on my breast, Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard to my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise-- Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in the Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; And there she is lying, and no one knows; And the summer shines, and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides and glitters and slides Into the rift of a cottonwood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still, like a ship at sea.

And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are, like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

_Frank Desprez._