It happened down in Kansas,
in the cattle drive that year.
We'd driven several thousand head;
and Dodge was drawing near.
The men were feelin’ frisky;
and the herd was feelin’ fine.
Ahead was Dodge and whisky-
and poker, woman, wine.

The cattle all were travelin’ good.
Each paunch was filled with grass.
The stock had watered three hours back
at Conestoga Pass.
Cows are plodding animules;
but scare ‘em, they get fast.
A thousand hoofs will jump as one;
then swiftly thunder past.

Some folks say a cowboy sings,
to calm the skittish steers..
While others say a cowboy sings
to simply please his ears.
 But put a cowboy in the dark,
then like as not he'll sing.
The reason matters little….
his song's a soothin’ thing.
Rawhide Smith was singin’
as he circled on his rounds.
The cattle seemed to cotton
to Rawhide’s yodelin’ sounds.
            Yippee ti yi yea.  Git along little dogie.
             It's your misfortune and none a’ my own.

The night had cooled the prairie down.
It baked the whole day long;
but now the dust was kickin’ up..
the wind was growin’ strong.
Overhead and to the west
some ominous black clouds
had formed above the skyline
and draped the moon in shrouds.

The storm was still a long way off…
it's rumble barely heard.
The cattle all were laying quiet;
with very few that stirred.
Save for streaks of lightening
showin’ cattle now and then,
you'd not have known two thousand steers
were there beside the men.

Then a slashing bolt of lightening
gave the sky a jagged tear;
and a crashing jolt of  thunder
exploded in the air.
Rawhide Smith was singin’,
“a yippee ti yi yay”,
I’d bet that with that singin’,
he was prayin’ all the way.
Blinding rain came pelting down
obscuring all the herd.
You couldn't make out Rawhide;
and his song was barely heard.

The thunder shook the country.
The herd jumped up as one.;
and then without exception
each steer began to run.
The rain came down  with fury,
bombarding every steer.
Rawhide Smith was caught up front;
with cattle in the rear.

We looked around for Rawhide.
His slicker caught our sight.
Racing like a deer, he was…
to outrun hoofs in flight.
The lightening cast an eerie light
upon each racing steer.
The prairie shook from pounding hoofs…
I mostly shook with fear.

No sign of Rawhide….no more songs….
No yippee ti yi yay…
Just thunder on the prairie
as the hoof beats drummed away.
No sign of Rawhide…no one heard
him singing anymore….
not a glimpse of Rawhide
or the slicker that he wore.

The cattle ran and ran and ran-
and we rode by their side.
We looked around to find our friend,
searching far and wide.
Not till daybreak did we stop;
with Rawhide’s fate unknown.
The trail looked like the wreckage
left by Texas ‘clones.

The cattle were all smeared with mud,
with tongues all lolling out.
Soon, they started feeding
and milling all about.
Where was Rawhide? Not around!
We couldn't find a trace.
It wasn't hard to track in mud.
We searched most everyplace.

And then we saw some yellow
from the slicker Rawhide wore.
We searched and found poor Rawhide
concealed by mud and gore.
Rawhide was a prairie man.
We buried him out there.
Lonesome-  yet not quite alone,
with echoes sounding everywhere.
               Yippee ti yi yea.  Git along little dogie.
                      I've unpacked my bedroll and found a new home.

© 1999 Bette Wolf Duncan.  All rights reserved.
 

I'm just a tax-broke Texas plumber.
I've been plunged out good and drained.
An audit by the tax man
has left me down right pained.

I've got those Texas Taxes Blues, oh Lord..
those Texas Taxes Blues….
the kind a’ blues that not much helps
except fer Texas booze.

This plumber's done been plumb plumbed out.
I got those Plumbed-Out Blues…
the kind a’ blues that once y’ get
are kind a’ hard to lose.

A couple bucks been overlooked.
They're hidden in the till.
If IRS don't get ‘em first,
that Texas tax-ass will.

I got those Texas Taxes Blues, oh Lord…
those Texas Taxes Blues…
the kind a’ blues that not much helps,
except fer Texas booze.

Through riding bulls and bucking broncs,

he earned a certain fame.

From Canada to Mexico,

his was a well-known name.

“There is no bull that I can't ride”,

You'd often hear him say.

And sometimes he would show with pride

the buckle won that day.

But when the cowboy's ride was done,

the whiskey rode on him.

It rode his back and kicked his flank

and spurred his every limb.

There was no bull he couldn't ride…

or drink he could refuse.

There came a day when whiskey won-

then every ride, he'd lose.

In the end, the whiskey won—

the whiskey, wine, and gin.

He doesn't ride bulls any more—

But whiskey still rides him.

The cowboys gathered ‘round his grave

to mourn his passing on—

but deep inside they really felt

his life had long since gone.

They shared the same old bunkhouse

and they'd known the man for years.

They rode with him…they branded—

they all wrestled down the steers.

He'd answer questions put to him—

then turn away, or cough—

or grunt some non-committal phrase

that cut the speaker off.

He'd let no one get near to him.

He neither laughed nor cried.

He didn't seem to feel or care….

like someone dead inside.

Sometimes he'd ride to Rock Creek

and stare as ripples passed,

but mostly he'd sit in some chair

and stare into the past.

The way he went was how he spent

each day his flesh survived:

He ate his grits, worked hard all day,

then just sat down and died.

The day he went was how he spent

each summer, spring and fall

and winter, too. When work was through,

into his grave he'd crawl.

Died he had- a long time back.

I don't know when or why.

What makes a man give up on life

and opt to up and die?

After riding through the plains,

the tumbleweeds and sage—

he'd come back home and ride into

the new computer age.

He entered his computer,

and the rancher felt the same

as Lewis and Clark must have felt

while crossing Western plains.

The rancher, like the two of them,

rode through a vast unknown—

to find a strange and distant range

a million miles from home.

Alone…uncertain…hesitant,

he fought his own “Star Wars”.

He crossed into a surreal world

as alien as Mars.

Exaggerated? “NO!” he'd say.

“In essence, it's quite true.

It's like a science fiction tale…

the things this box can do!”

A cowboy they called Whiskey Bill

was camped out on Rattlesnake Hill.

He drank between shakes,

And said, seeing snakes,

“They're not real. It's this snake-water swill.”

This tale that I tell isn't bunk.

He was so pickled up on the junk

That, although he was bit,

He remained well and fit…

but the snakes that bit him got quite drunk.

© 1998 Bette Wolf Duncan. All rights reserved.

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THE COWBOY FROM THE WEST

Bette Wolf Duncan

It wasn't his genetics

or some fabled cowboy deed.

His rock-hard ranch existence

had spawned a different breed.

He was indeed a different breed-

this cowboy of the west.

It wasn't how he walked or talked

or how the cowboy dressed.

And it was more than how he roped,

or how the man could ride.

His rock-hard ranch existence

had branded him inside.

So deep inside the brand was burnt,

it set the man apart…

more inner strength; more stamina;

more steely grit and heart.

Just like Montana cattle,

a breed that has survived

when other stock have languished,

or dropped somewhere and died.

It wasn't his genetics

or some fabled cowboy deed.

His rock-hard ranch existence

had spawned a different breed.

© 1998 Bette Wolf Duncan. All rights reserved.

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HE'LL MAKE A COWBOY YET

Bette Wolf Duncan

“You can always tell an eastern dude”,

my Grandpa used to say.

“It's not the way he looks or talks.

He thinks a different way.

But give the dude a couple years

of gripping leather reins;

and herding cattle all day long,

across the wind-swept plains;

of getting bucked off from his horse

and battered, bruised and skinned-

with mouth that's full of prairie grit,

whipped up by flogging wind.

Give the dude a couple years

of forty-plus below;

of struggling to feed cattle

through six-foot drifts of snow;

of praying for an early spring--

just to face some flood,

and gully washers bearing down

on cattle mired in mud.

Give the dude a couple years

of callused hands and sweat.

A couple years of all of this….

he'll make a cowboy yet.

One day when he looks around,

he'll see a circling hawk.

He'll take the time to listen

and he'll hear the prairie talk.

The same old horse he used to curse,

he'll cherish as a friend.

He'll stoke his fire contented,

as the day draws to an end.”

© 1998 Bette Wolf Duncan. All rights reserved.

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