Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger, Out where the smile dwells a little longer, That’s where the West begins; Out where the sun is a little brighter, Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, Out where friendship’s a little truer, That’s where the West begins; Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing, Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, That’s where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts in despair are aching, That’s where the West begins; Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing, Where there’s more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying, That’s where the West begins.

Arthur Chapman.

Did you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river Floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange, Till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver As the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change?

Once I waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me; Saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the Lord; Was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me, When I saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford.

Saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed, As the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend; Saw the face I used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed; And God knows I wished to warn him, for I once had called him friend.

But an oath had come between us⁠—I was paid by Law and Order; He was outlaw, rustler, killer⁠—so the border whisper ran; Left his word in Caliente that he’d cross the Rio border⁠— Call me coward? But I hailed him⁠—“Riding close to daylight, Dan!”

Just a hair and he’d have got me, but my voice, and not the warning, Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my

At a round-up on the Gila One sweet morning long ago, Ten of us was throwed quite freely By a hoss from Idaho. An’ we ’lowed he’d go a-beggin’ For a man to break his pride Till, a-hitchin’ up one leggin’, Boastful Bill cut loose an’ cried: “I’m a ornery proposition for to hurt, I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt, I can ride the highest liver ’Twixt the Gulf an’ Powder River, An’ I’ll break this thing as easy as I’d flirt.”

So Bill climbed the Northern fury An’ they mangled up the air Till a native of Missouri Would have owned the brag was fair. Though the plunges kept him reelin’ An’ the wind it flapped his shirt, Loud above the hoss’s squealin’ We could hear our friend assert: “I’m the one to take such rockin’s as a joke; Someone hand me up the makin’s of a smoke. If you think my fame needs brightnin’, Why, I’ll rope a streak o’ lightnin’ An’ spur it up an’ quirt it till it’s broke.”

Then one caper of repulsion Broke that hoss’s back in two, Cinches snapped in the convulsion, Skyward man and saddle flew, Up they mounted, never flaggin’, And we watched them through our tears, While this last, thin bit o’ braggin’ Came a-floatin’ to our ears: “If you ever watched my habits very close, You would know I broke such rabbits by the gross.

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 shore 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 passion; 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!

’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 the 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!’ ”