35t( Fletcher PrlcklT Pear Pomes THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES * A 'N '9*nojXs PRICKLY PEAR POMES 1 \,9Tf ft I H , * I i / _ Written l>\ BOB FLETCHER POET LARIAT v^*V, c^ ^t^ / v , .. z^ ^= JL/>^ <^jX^ si**/^ 3=2=3 // Sr-H *i*v7 Li 7 Baldy Hos You see that li'l baldy hoss A standin' over there, His eyes half shut, his head drooped With a plum' dejected air? Looks to you worth 'bout twobits An' not a speck of use But I wouldn't take a million For that li'l ol' cayuse! That brand upon his shoulder? Sure! That's a "Lazy B" Which signifies my pilgrim friend, That he belongs to me. An' we've been pals together, Fifteen years gone by last spring, Which is longer than most men agrees. An' that's a dead sure thing. An' he has packed me miles an' miles, Along the western trails. From Montana down to Texas; He could tell you many tales 'Bout the night herds, an' the roundup, Valley, mountain, tableland, Chinook an' northern blizzard, An' the desert's burning sand. (3? y, he's tougher than the devil, Ain't so doggone long on looks, ut he knows a powerful lot of things That ain't wrote down in books. He knows the quiet coulees, He knows the hills an' brakes; Tlte alkali an' sage brush, An' the stagnant prairie lakes. He has seen the dogies milling, By the crooked lightning flash ]&ye thousand longhorns waiting For that hell-bent thunder crash That seems to set 'em locoed, An' starts the big stampede, While the air is full of terror, Like the souls of Hell were freed. *? > &_- ... ~fr V r* e sure knows 'bout the rangela: Cattle, ropes, an' branding fire, An' he savvys what I'm talkin' Right now or I'm a liar. For see him cock his ears up An' sorter bat his eyes? He's got hoot owls by the tree full Skun to death for being wise. An' when I point away to find The Happy Hunting Ground, He'll be waiting there to pack me, An' to kinder show me 'round. Course he's no thoroughbred, but then I'm here to tell you, Boss, That I wouldn't take a million For that li'l baldy hoss! 16] An Exile's Wail ke me out of old Nevada, 'or I've had enuf of sand, unipers and sage brush, In this God forsaken land Where there ain't enuf good water To make a sawlog float, W^ere a man must be part camel And the balance mountain goat. i Where you have to frisk your soogans And shake your tarp at night, 'Clause they're a scorpion's fav'rite place To take his homestead right. I've grown tired of lean jackrabbits, Swifts, coyotes and rattlesnakes, Divorcees, Gila monsters, And wildcat mining fakes. I've grown tired of sunscorched desert And of mountains that are bare. And there's such a thing as too much Alkali and prickly pear. And talk of porphyry dikes and float, Contact veins and lodes, And when you're lonesome, say, who gives A damn, for just horned toads? A^ - ^'/ ^ A 3^ V^" '' \ '* if! I want to see the prairie And the dogies on the range, An' mountain trout a fryin' In bacon grease, would be a change; I want to see the ponies In the dust of the corral, I don't want to be a knocker, But gee! This State is hell! Take me where they savvy "coulees," "Buttes," "cayuses," an' such dope, Where a "fuzz-tail" is a "slick-ear," Where the boys don't "lass'," they "rop Stranger, I am sure plum' lonesome For a fairer, better land, What's that you say? MONTANA! ! Well, say, I'd tell a man! ! ! o [7] The Belled Coyote no one loves a coyote ,t I ever heard about, '.e's nothing but a pestilence Requiring stamping out. A sneaking, thieving rustler, A grey, ga'nt vagabone Whose locoed vocal tendencies Are lacking depth and tone. Seems like he's always hungry, An' Lord, man, when he wails It's the concentrated sinfulness From lost and vanished trails. Well, there's one of them Carusos Hangs around the Lazy B An' makes hisself obnoxious, Most plum' consistently. So one day, a cayuse dying, We surrounds the corpse with traps, Where we cached it in a coulee, A thinkin' that perhaps In a moment, inadvertent, That coyote will come around, An' meet a lot of darn tough luck, An' we will have him downed. Sure enuf, he made an error, For he let his appetite Prevail agin' his judgment, And we cinched him that same He made connections with one And jumpin' 'round about, Another glommed him by a leg And sorter stretched him out. Naw! Pard, we didn't shoot him, Just aimed to give him hell. So we took an' strapped around his n A jinglin' little bell And turned him loose to ramble. Yes, I reckon it was cruel, Ain't a cottontail or sagehen That is just a plain darn fool Enuf to not take warning, When they heard that little bell, An' so he doesn't get much food or Company, I'm here to tell. He's an outlaw with his own kind, And his pickin's pretty slim, 'Cause ev'rywhere he goes the bell Gives warnin' that it's him. 0. o [9] n' sometimes when it's getting dusk An' ev'rything plum' still, You can hear that bell a tolling As he slips around a hill. And it kind of gets upon my nerves, That, and his mournful cry, Cause I know the skunk is fond of Same as you and I. One day I'm in the saddle A buildin' up of a smoke, When he sneaks out of a coulee, And, man, it ain't no joke, When I sees him starved and lonesome A lookin' most all in, W T ell, perhaps I'm chicken hearted But it seemed a dirty sin, And besides, that bell, it haunts me, So there doesn't seem to be A way to square things, but to Put him out of misery So I takes my 30-30 As he sits and gives a yell. I drawed a bead an' cracked away, An' busted that damn bell! [10] {fe*" ; -"~'^ Desert Rat Sure we've been out on the desert, Me and that burro there. Searchin' around for the rainbow's en Missin' her just by a hair. Say, an' them ol' forty-niners Never had nothin' on us Talk about crossin' the desert. Talk about "Pike's Peak or bust." That Rocky Mountain canary An' me has been hittin' the trail, Both of us footsore and weary, Both of us thin as a rail. An' stranger, this ol' town of Reno Ain't half so bad as you think, For eatin', there's some things that aren't in cans An' something that's decent to drink. Why go out on the desert When there's still lots of room left in Hell? Well listen and I'll try to tell you Tho' it's something not easy to tell. A tenderfoot talked to me, one time, And raved of the desert's lure Tho' the desert's no place for a pilgrim, And would drive him plum' loco, sure. [ii] ;here's something about it that gets yo You don't notice it right at the start, Till you hate it, you loathe it, you curse it, Yet love it way down in your heart. Perhaps it's the hills, when the sunlight Paints them all yellow and red. s gaudy as bucks at a war dance; erhaps it's the graves of the dead That border the trails between water, Perhaps it's the shifting sand, Perhaps it's the gold that lies hidden, Perhaps it's the blood of a man. God! but it's hot on the desert, When the sun shines at its best. Say! but it's cold on the desert, When the sun sinks in the west. [12J fc*ftf ^ A - Once I hit it plum' lucky, Swore that I'd cash in my stack, Go and live in God's country But hell! Of course I came back. Lonesome, I guess, for the rattlers, Taranterlers, swifts, and the like, Restless, with water a plenty Just had to get out and hike. Wanted to see the sandhills, The mirage, that's a beautiful lie And all of the things of the desert The things that money can't buy. Sure, it's pretty in Reno The lights and the trees, but then, As soon as I get me a grubstake, It's back to the desert again. o [13] Come and Get It 've heard tell of that restauraw, ere eastern pilgrims feed, un by a sport "Dell Monikker," Or some such foreign breed. 'Vhere they have a band a playin' v'ry evenin', while they eat, An* solid silver knives an' forks, An' clothes! ! why, Holy Pete, The gents wear dinky bugtail coats, Fried collars, baldfaced shirts, The garls just have on wide suspenders Holding up their skirts An' say, they eat the darndest stuff, The names all parley voo, It's all wrote out upon a card, That they calls the "menoo." Now tho' I ain't no tourist, Yet, pard, I'm here to say, That I once et in Helena Down at the Weiss Cafe, Where a pussyfooted waiter Comes and asks you with a smile, Whatever are you goin' to have, Oh, they sure put on style. [14] But my oP pardner, Copper Jack's, hL [The best cook in the land. *.M; ; I plays that bet agin' 'em all And don't lay down my hand. We got a quartz claim in the hills, An' holes up in our shack Up near the head of Injun Gulch, Just me and Copper Jack. Say, he don't use no recipes, Nor ladies' cookin' book, Tho' he can swing a double jack He likewise sure can cook. For breakfast there is hot cakes, An' bosom of the sow, Sugar lick an' warmed up spuds, A can of Silver Cow To put into your Java Or, if you like it black, No man can make it blacker. Why, damn it, that oP Jack Can cook them sourdough bullets, Light as foam, an' lighter, too, w: Frijolies, punk, and mulligan Like mother used to do. We has smear and roughlock, Huckleberry pie as well, An' we don't aim to let no deer Come up and bite us. Hell, [15] "i ere's trout in ev'ry riffle, Grouse in ev'ry tree. An' cottontails an' foolhens, Plum' numerous they be. ow when a man can have such feeds All cooked swell as you please What's the use of lobster salad An' such luxuries? And honey would be honey ~on't you reckon, just the same, And not taste any sweeter With a locoed foreign name? ell, I just blew in here pard To get a grubstake and the mail, An' now I've got to haze them pack Cayuses up the trail, ut if you come up that a way For deer or elk or game, Drop in. A drink? No, thanks, But here's luck just the same. Injun Gulch Sure! Don't forget it. Got to breeze now, on the square. So when Jack yells "Come and get it," Place your chips that I'll be there. [16] r ^X- S 4^ifi'*v Us old timers too, you bet, Till a fellow feels like cussin' or a cryin'. Now where's the roundup wagon? & Oh, where's the old time stage? And where's the boys that wore the high heeled boots ? There is just a few a laggin' With the alkali and sage, And a cussin' out the dryland farm galoots. [19] here's the buffalo and beaver, Say where's the antelope? Where's the freighters on the old Cow trail? Well, pard, they had to leave 'er, Had to quit and give up hope, hen the squatters came and range began to fail. The chinooks don't seem so mellow And the air ain't half as sweet, y, there ain't no real cowpunchers out here now ; Nowadays you see a fellow A settin' in a seat And a discing or a riding on a plow. V With their whiskey now, they have a Big red cherry in the glass, Or maybe there's a little chunk of ice. Do they call their "4X" Java? Hell, no! Now it's "demi tasse," And a man can't eat these days without the price. [20] ft. i /> i\>r the ranches where they mee With a welcome and a meal And want that you should make a week long call Are scarce for now they greet you Like a rustler come to steal And tax you if they let you stop at all. Man, it ain't no use a tryin' To save a single foot, Guess them dryland farmer folks are bound to come, Ain't no use in even dyin' Cause some day they'll fence and put The Happy Hunting Ground all on the bum. So my spurs are getting rusty And my rope is laid away And the leather's rotting on my saddle tree, My chaps are getting musty My hair is getting grey For, stranger, times ain't like they used to be. [21] / Clinch Your Knees and Le a Little Back When they hand you out the rough string, Pard, don't think you're out of luck, Rope the toughest bronc and top him off first crack, Cinch your cactus on, and crawl him And when he starts to buck ust clinch your knees and lean a little back. When the cards all run agin' you 'Till you think you'd best adjourn Cause the jack wins, when you're coppering th< jack, If the game is on the square don't quit Perhaps you'll call the turn, Just clinch your knees and lean a little back. [22] A S'pose you've crosscut all the summer, Haven't cut that good pay ground, And you wish you'd never seen a single jack, Why, just stay with it, pardner, You might fetch her one more round, Just clinch your knees and lean a little back. For it can't be always summer, Got to have a little snow, Sunshine can't be always peekin' in your sha Never mind, tho' it is winter That chinook is bound to blow So just clinch your knees and lean a little back. efore the Days of Gasolim re, that's the trail to Zortman Pointing out there thru the sage, And that dust cloud you remarks on Is the automobile stage Which it makes me plum' disgusted When I think of what I've seen, A fogging that same trail, before The days of gasoline. I reckon, like the buffalo, The wild west days must pass, And the old stage coach is going Like the puncher and the grass. It was prettier to look at, Wasn't poisoning the air Like that coughing, wheezing skunk cai That's a coming over there. Them days she was a Concord coach, The kind that's hung on straps, You've seen 'em in the Wild West shows Or museums perhaps, And they'd string out six cayuses, Come a swinging down the street, Pull up at the hotel, Badland Bill upon the seat. [24] ' : *>w And them leaders would be danciri An' the swing team, restless like, The wheelers true and steady Waiting for the word to hike. They'd fill 'er up with passengers, Both inside, and on top, Bill would sort the ribbons out, Then make the buckskin pop. The team would hit the collar, Apalucy, roan and bay, A heading for the Hog Ranch Over twenty miles away. They wouldn't linger on the trail Or stop for any hill, Wa'nt a man could pour the leather Into them, like Badland Bill. And so they'd go a swayin' And a breezin' cross the range, Didn't have no low gear Or punctured tires to change. 4 Aw! it makes me plum' disgusted When I think of what I've seen A foggin' that same trail before The days of gasoline. O [25] Grizzly Bill n hombre both simple and ancient Is this party old Grizzly Bill Which he's been holed up here in these diggi Since the gulch there was only a hill. He imbibes and he waxes loquacious frequent and set interludes, And the pilgrims term him local color For his job is a wrangling the dudes. Give Bill a good jolt of four fingers And his tongue will line out on a lope, I opine that this reckless old savage Throws a wicked and long verbal rope. He ain't hobbled nor hampered by conscience, Plain facts to old Bill are plumb strange, He throws off the bridle of Truth, and He turns loose his fancy to range. One time, now, he strings out verbose like, His hand's overplayed once, dead sure; Does it injure that wolf's reputation? Hell, no why, this old raconteur Who sure is deserving a hanging Had them shorthorns admiring his gush. Stranger, here is the tale that he renders, And does it without qualm or blush: [26] 'X* fc # T7 He's a herdin' a parcel of pilgrims, x\ One sport packs a small flash of rye Which he'd fetched to this garrulous Willyum Till his breath smelled like steaming mince pie So then Bill's alleged brain started seething, With nary a thought of his sins, He uncinches the pack of his mem'ry Builds a smoke for himself and begins: "See this Paradise, beautyus though earthy, As one of these poets would say, Which we done took away from the Injun Way back in a past early day? And you note them far off distant mountains? The Moccasin Range, is their name, Well, strangers, I've been here a lifetime And thev was all here when I came. In them days there wasn't no railroads, And likewise no autos to honk, And to travel, I'm saying you all went by hand Unless you were forking a bronc. ^ You packed in them days an old rifle With a homeopath dose of lead pills For the Injuns that roamed were plumb hostile Infesting these yere peaceful hills. O [27] e, why, I've got me some dogies A ranging around in them days, So one morning I saddled up Hotfoot And lined out a looking for strays. This Hotfoot horse sure is some pony, All horse from his hocks to his ears, nd fast well, a touch in the flank, pards, d he vanishes; plumb disappears. About noon we clum out of a coulee f~ ooked back down the trail and I see ull sixty-nine gaudy buck warriors A comin' fair splittin the breeze. I don't stop to ponder the matter, And Hotfoot starts off on his feet, Something told me unless we moved sudden We'd sure be those savages' meat. Them wild, roving children of nature Are persistent, for come three o'clock Those Siwashes still are a trailing, Twenty now left in the flock. So I figured I'd best quit the prairie And point for the mountains instead, So I sauntered away for a canyon And sure gave old Hotfoot his head. [28] ' 'Jf ' Pretty soon them old trees whistled by usP Till they looked to all signs and intents As close together as shingles And like my old Dad's picket fence. Six p. m. and the canyon, she narrows, Walls straight up as ever you'd find, And I hear the blood curdling echo Of them redskins a whooping behind. This canyon is crooked as corkscrews, We made a sharp turn and kerplunk Old Hotfoot rares back on his haunches And slid fifty feet on his rump. For there a straight wall is a standing, Blocking the trail, what I mean, And say talk about your box canyons, The worst that I ever have seen. o 129] limbered my trusty Sharps rifle, And I done kissed myself a goodbye, I shot the first ten of them Injuns Dead center, full square in the eye Which leaves me without ammunition, And ten Injuns left, too, you see; They let out a triumphant war cry, And spread like a blanket on me." Right here Grizzly Bill stopped his story Leaving them pilgrims aghast; "Oh, mercy, oh, how did they treat you?" Says a she one, all breathless, at last. Then Bill bats his eyes for a minute, He chokes and he sighs dolorous, "Why, ma'am, them there heathen, they killed me," Asserts that there lyin' old cuss. [30] A *k-^ * 4 >- 4* # Crosses The Great Divid I'm feeling plumb sad and despondent I've sure got some sorrow to tote, There's a pain way down here in my chest, par And sort of a lump in my throat. That meadlow lark's tune, now, seems mou And the sun's even trying to hide, For old Jim why, Jim left me this morning And pointed across the Divide. I knew that it couldn't last always, Knew some day old Jim had to go, That some day I'd lose my old pardner, But that doesn't soften the blow. Now, Jim wasn't handsome to look at, His ancestors weren't real swell; But take old Jim here in the rangeland, And he savied things, I'm here to tell. O Sometimes when we're riding on nighthei Cattle quiet and easy to hold, Maybe the moon is a shining And the stars look like nuggets of gold, Then I've talked by the hour to my par/fher As man seldom talks to a man. Of my dreams and my innermost feelings, For he'd listen and sure understand. [31] and kind as a woman, Dependable, too, was old Jim; Oh, the toughest of times we both weathered With never a whimper from him. you've felt joy and sorrow together, hen you've taken the bitter and sweet .nd still stick together, why stranger ch friendship is sure hard to beat. So that is the reason I miss him, The reason it makes it so hard No man that I ever met up with Can take the same place as my pard. Perhaps you will watch for me, Jimmy, Perhaps we will ride as before, But I'm missing you, Jim little cow horse The best ever wore hackamore. ft Croix de Guerre' I'V 8 I'm on a high lope for the home range, I'm a wolf, and it's my night to yell) I've got my discharge in my pocket And it's white paper, I'm here to tell. I'm tired : of this yere raging warfare, Give me action that's not so acute. Say the hurricane deck of a bronco Or some such like peaceful pursuit. I was riding way down near the Bear Paws When a bunch of us wild buckeroos Comes hazin', one day, to Big Sandy In search of red liquor and news. Watchful waiting we learn is abandoned So I quit that there cow hand environ, For I aimed to go get me some Germans And to ride for the old U. S. iron. Now, stranger, I'm raised in a saddle; Pedestrians, I'm taught to scorn, BlSt I take off my Stetson to DOUGHBOYS For they made me one, sure as you're born. Then they done shipped me over the ocean, Yes, stranger, I've been "over there"; And we sure filled a lot of them Boches Full of holes as a cane bottomed chair. JH This, now, Paris place I'm not a lyin', Them Omaha stockyards are great, But gee, they don't stack up with Paris, Though of course I ain't seen 'em of late. That there cross? Well, now, stranger, ; Good Lord, I don't know what I done, But one of them Frogs pinned it on me And kissed me the son of a gun. But I'm tired of this being a maverick There's a schoolma'am I'm anxious to see, She's sure got me roped, thrown, and hog tied, Montana will look good to me. And I'm tired of this yere raging warfare, Give me action that's not so acute, Such as bustin' a steer at the round up Or some such like peaceful pursuit. w 6^ - / f ^^^/ ^^^^/^ Copyright, 192(t. by Rol)ort Fletcher, Helena, Montana. Designed and Printed by- Independent Publishing Co. of Helena, Montana. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-50m-ll,'50 (2554)444 PS Catcher - 3511 Frickley pear F64p poiaes. 000 924 755 2 PS 3511 F64p