title: Irish Mag ... The resurrection of Skinny Rawlins; Captain Jack ...
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MCMXVI Copyright 1916 Earl Wayland Bowman All Rights Reserved DEC 27 1316 ©CLA446947 / , V * To The best pals any “Ramblin’ Kid” can have A True Woman A Game Little Horse Irish Mag “Her heart was gold , if her eye was bold ” “She could look clean through a buckaroo an 9 make him lay right down —” Irish Mag D ID you ever know a galoot so low that some¬ one didn’t care— Or hit a place where the human race didn’t stack up part-way square? Now a man may sink till you would think the whole blamed works was bad; But woman stays, to the end of her days, game — an’ durned if I ain’t glad! & Her hair was red as a burnt sand brick an’ her eyes were greenish brown, An’ she could look clean through a buckaroo an’ make him lay right down; Her finger was quick to turn a trick or to pull a Colt’s an’ shoot; But her heart was gold if her eye was bold—an’ she a prostitute! She was on her shift in Bonanza’s place, a reg’lar den of sin, A peddlin’ booze an’ broad-horn news when th’ Cimmaron stage drove in; When Cheyenne Bill had reined them still at th’ door of th’ hellish dive, There were only two he’d brought clean through on th’ long an’ blisterin’ drive. They weren’t good fer a man to see, as th’ looks of both would tell— Page Seven She was just a “Breed/’ an’ she soon would need a ticket plumb to hell; An’ ’twas plain to us th’ ornery cuss she trailed along behind, Was the sort of brute you’d like to shoot—just th’ mangy coyote kind. His eyes were shifty an’ his face was bad an’ he didn’t need a name— You could someway feel he would lie an’ steal, or live by a woman’s shame; An’ th’ girl he brought would never be sought by a man that wasn’t drunk— But she was too damned good for th’ thing that stood beneath a low-down skunk. When they went inside to liquor their hide, th’ crowd just spread apart From the brothel scum an’ the thing that come—th’ “Breed” with a broken heart. Mag gave one look an’ her white hand shook, as she set th’ booze in place— ’Twas plain to most she’d seen a ghost when she looked on his bloated face. With a snarlin’ oath he bought for both an’ called for red-eye straight— Th’ woman drunk, with th’ human skunk, a toast to her blackened fate; But we could easy tell th’ fires of hell were blazin’ in her soul, For a look of hate she gave her mate, when he pulled his greasy roll. An’ so they came to Chihuahua town an’ started to rustle trade; But her stock was worn an’ her beauty torn an’ blamed few sales she made! Page Eight An’ the dirty Chinks or booze-crazed ginks were all that came her way— He raved an’ swore ’cause she didn’t get more an’ beat her every day! Th’ months slid by an’ her sunken eye dulled with a look of death, An’ the worthless cur that lived on her kept rot-gut on his breath; While every day she would hunt her prey—then give him what she earned, An’ every night they’d quarrel an’ fight, an’ th’ hate she hid still burned. Th’ “Lazy S” had cleaned the range an’ th’ fall beef hunt was done, An’ th’ whole wild bunch had just one hunch—an’ that was town an’ fun. So we rambled in, a cravin’ sin, an’ th’ play was runnin’ high; We were blowin’ rolls an’ riskin’ souls an’ th’ limit was the sky! Old Bonanza’s joint was the common point sought by the rampsin’ kind; Th’ dance was goin’ an’ Albert showin’ he played like hell though blind. Th’ booze was streamin’ an’ eyes were gleamin’— some a lot too bright— For months th’ boys’d been holdin’ their noise to turn it loose that night. Th’ “Breed” was tryin’—though almost dyin’—to win a payin’ look; But we all were shy of her watery eye an’ none would grab th’ hook. An’ the filthy beast she worked to feast was watch- in’ while she tried— Page Nine At last she turned, too often spurned, an’ went to his drunken side. Th’ lights were flashin’, th’ music crashing an’ few there saw th’ play; But a sob we heard—like wounded bird—as th’ struck “Breed” reeled away! She crouched an’ pressed her hand to breast—stood for a second still; Then her blade swung high an’ we heard her cry: “You dog! At last! I kill!” As th’ “Breed’s” swift knife sought th’ coyote’s life Mag sprung between th’ two! It found her heart! We saw him start—in Mag’s eyes was a look brand new! She murmured “Jim!”—just looked at him—slipped from his arms an’ fell! Then we heard him say: “God! Good God! It's May! It was me sent her to hell!” A man should die, an’ die just once, for a friend, it says somewhere; But to die for one who black dirt’s was just left up to her. That’s what Mag did, an’ it can’t be hid, though she died in a house of sin, An’ I’m a hopin’ some in Kingdom Come we’ll find that she slid in! ^ 5^ 5^ Her hair was red as a burnt sand brick an’ her eyes were greenish brown, An’ she could look clean through a buckaroo an’ make him lay right down; Her finger was quick to turn a trick or to pull a Colt’s an’ shoot; But her heart was gold if her eye was bold—an’ she a prostitute! Page Ten To he Resurrection of SKinny Rawlins ‘He forever was a sighin’ an’ ivas lonesome through an’ through —” 75he Resurrection o/ SKinny Rawlins D ID you ever get to feelin’ like you didn’t give a cuss— Just sort of get to tirin’ of life’s worry an’ its fuss? Did you ever start to thinkin’: “Well, there ain’t a bit of use— Th’ world is somehow slippin’ an’ its morals gettin’ loose?” It’s a feelin’ that comes stealin’ over us on certain days— It’s a weariness that strikes us when we’ve made some rotten plays; It’s a line of gloomy thinkin’ that is hard to get around, But a feller’s got to quit it or ’twill put him in th’ ground! There was Puncher Skinny Rawlins who was al¬ ways gettin’ blue, He forever was a sighin’ an’ was lonesome through an’ through— Though th’ grass was like a carpet an’ th’ ev’nin’ sky was red, Yet th’ pore deluded mortal kept a wishin’ he was dead! Though th’ range was wide an’ breezy an’ th’ air was like a wine— Page Thirteen Still Skinny kept on actin’ as if th’ sun would never shine; Like a steer that’s fed on loco an’ wanders off alone, Skinny kept appearin’ as if his heart was made of stone. When we’d rampse into Chihuahua with a volley an’ a yell, Skinny’d drag along behind us like he wasn’t feelin’ well; When he’d take a jolt of liquor that had ought to raise th’ dead, Th’ ornery cuss would splutter an’ just sort of shake his head! He just couldn’t seem to hanker for a bit of harm¬ less fun, An’ if a man was ever joyless—well, Skinny, he was one! Why, Mag she used to josh him, with her clever Irish wit— He would get so blamed despondent we would have to make her quit! Th’ boys would try to cheer him with all th’ tricks they knew, But Skinny wouldn’t jolly an’ just kept a feelin’ blue; We put sorghum in his saddle an’ cactus in his bed, But Skinny wouldn’t snicker—just kept wishin’ he was dead! An’ it shore is some affliction to have to ride th’ range An’ wrangle long-horn cattle with a guy that acts so strange! Sometimes you want to kill him an’ sometimes you want to grin, Page Fourteen But still you’d probably slay him if it wasn’t such a sin! When we rambled down to Rincon, to bury “Faro” Jones, Skinny seemed delighted just to hear th’ widow’s groans— As we we filled th’ grave with ’dobe Skinny stood where he could see, He just stood there sort of whinin’, “Oh, I wish that it was me!” Well, he kept on growin’ sadder an’ he he kept on gettin’ worse— He seemed just plumb determin’d to go ridin’ in a hearse; So one day, us boys, we figured that if nothin’ else would do, We would count pore Skinny buried ’till he finished bein’ blue. Then we sent right down to Vegas an’ bought a corpse’s box— We dug an excavation an’ filled th’ coffin full of rocks; We kept it hid from Skinny ’till th’ arrangements all were made, Then we sprung it kind of sudden when our plans were fully laid. We paraded to th’ graveyard an’ took Skinny right along— Him not knowin’ who th’ corpse was or that any¬ thing was wrong; He just seemed to be contented to know that death was there. An’ why or who it was we buried he didn’t ’pear to care! Page Fifteen Then th’ boys begun a snufflin’ an’ actin’ mighty sad— They shorely were pretendin’ they were feelin’ awful bad; “Pore 01’ Skinny had to leave us,” Charley Saun¬ ders up an’ said, “I was shocked an’ plumb astonished when I heard that he was dead!” “Yes, pore Skinny has departed,” while we wept an’ clawed our eyes, “An’ by now he is prob’ly herdin’ with the angels in th’ skies!” “It’s just what he always wanted,” murmur’d Par¬ ker sort of low, “Still ’twas startlin’ an’ surprisin’ how th’ pore cuss had to go!” “Well, he’s restin’ ” Charley whispered, “an’ he’s planted clean an’ nice, An’ I shorely am a hopin’ that he ain’t a needin’ ice!” So we kept right on a mournin’ as if Skinny wasn’t near, An’ we scribbled on a head-board: “Skinny’s corpse is lyin’ here!” Pore Old Skinny stood there list’nin’, hardly knowin’ what to think— Stood there watchin’ all us mourners ’till we didn’t dare to wink; Then he spoke up sort of husky, while his face got awful red: “What th’ hell are you-all doin’? Do you think it’s me that’s dead?” Then we looked up kind of startled an’ let out a screechin’ yell— Page Sixteen “Yeow! Skinny’s resurrected sudden—he has busted out o’ hell! Skinny’s dead an’ doesn’t know it an’ is rampsin’ ’round some more!” An’ we beat it for our horses while th’ “corpse” just stood an’ swore! Well, we headed for Bonanza’s, all a laughin’ fit to kill— Just a thinkin’ of Pore Skinny cussin’ out there on th’ hill. We’d just had one round of liquor an’ were havin’ lots of fun, When Skinny batted in a snortin’ an’ wavin’ his old gun! He was shore somewhat excited an’ was strictly on th’ fight, An’ the durn fool started shoo tin’ without ever takin’ sight! He was laughin’ like a devil that is tickled quite a lot— As we went out through th’ windows—not want¬ in’ to be shot! “So I’m dead an’ nicely planted? Well, just watch my forty-four! You can’t bury Skinny Rawlins without him a get- tin' sore !” He was shorely plumb distracted an’ was seein’ mighty red, He was simply actin’ scand’lous for a guy that’s figured dead! Well, Mag she got him calmer, when he’d caved around awhile, Then us boys come back again—but it was Skinny wore th’ smile! Page Seventeen Since then he’s always grinnin’, but he says he laughed th’ most, When he “Saw a bunch of punchers just a fleein’ from a ghost!” But at that I am contendin’ th’ ornery, grinnin’ cuss. Would still have been a mopin’ if it hadn’t been for us; For it took a healthy funeral to bring Old Skinny through— An’ we had to go an’ plant him ’fore he’d quit his bein’ blue! Page Eighteen Captain JacK “Game to the end , and square ” “Nothin’ but genuine horse wrapped up in¬ side of his glistenin’ hide —” Captain JacK T HIS ain’t no story of a thoroughbred— A prancin’ around in a tan-bark ring, With ribbons decoratin’ his shapely head. While ’lectric lights glimmer on ever’- thing— No indeedy! This ain’t no story of a “horse show hero,” Nor Kentucky king of a turf-fringed track; It’s just about a little old bronch I used to know— A little old bronch called “Captain Jack.” ^ % tig tig W HEN I think of that little old horse my eyes get dim— Let’s see! It’s mighty nigh thirty years since I rode him Th’ first time that he ever was rode. How old was he? Well, nobody knowed! But he’d been bossin’ his string of wild brood mares A full half dozen years an’ dodgin’ the snares Th’ punchers had been layin’ to get his head in ropin’ throw— An’ it seemed like th’ game little devil would al¬ ways know When a human animal, his natural enemy, was any¬ ways near, An’ he’d lead his bunch in th’ get-away—they was all as fleet as deer! He was such a general an’ worked so slick Page Twenty-one To keep his herd of outlaws free from every trick To box-canyon them, or ride them down by swift relays, That th’ boys all knowed him an’ ’count of his wise old ways, ’Fore he ever had felt a man on his back, They’d up an’ christened him “Old Captain Jack.” B ERT LILLY, Charley Saunders an’ me got him to goin’ One day, up on th’ East Mesa, without ever knowin’ At th’ time that some of Old Man Lilly’s mares were with Old Jack, An’ one of them fillies happened to be a handsome black That was raised on the ranch—gentle, was a kind of pet— If she hadn’t been there I guess he’d have been a wild horse yet! All of our mounts were good an’ fresh, nifty an’ keen, An’ th’ minute Bert an’ Charley an’ me all seen Th’ tame young mare was with th’ outlaw’s bunch, We just had a sort of three-cornered hunch That if once we could get over th’ mesa’s rim, Into th’ canyon, th’ Alley—she was full of vim— Might head for th’ ranch an’ we could cut them into th’ wing corral. We got them down all right and sure enough th’ scheme worked swell— Th’ mare, runnin’ a streak, swung up th’ canyon toward th’ ranch! Th’ stallion stopped, for just a breath, where th’ trails both branch, Then like a flash he was fannin’ th’ wind after th’ coal black mare— Page Tiventy-two Straight into th’ corral ! So that’s the way we got Old Jack there; An’ that just shows he wasn’t much different from a lot of men— For he followed a female critter into a dum tight pen! C APTAIN JACK wasn’t no great shakes for beauty nor stylish grace— Just a strawberry roan with two stockin’ feet an’ blaze-streaked face, A dead black tail an’ a mane to match, an’ lots of devil in his flashin’ eye, An’ he wasn’t so overly big, ’bout fourteen an’ maybe a half hands high— But he was every inch horse, from his ear clean to the ground, An’ his wind an’ limb were smooth, an’ his nerve was strong an’ sound. You betcher life! There was nothin’ but genuine horse wrapped up inside of his glistenin’hide! An’ as he batted ’round th’ wing corral, Bert ’lowed he’d “Shore be lightnin’ to hackamore, sad¬ dle an’ ride!” Well, Charley he figured that he didn’t want him— nor neither did Bert— “That he was too blamed ornery an’ mean to be worth more’n a worn-out quirt!” But someway I felt sorry for th’ game little cuss, Smashin’ ’round inside th’ corral, makin’ such a fuss To get outside an’ again be free to run on the big broad range— An’ I reckon that was nothin’ so queer nor pow¬ erful strange, For I myself was a homeless runt an’ called by the bunch “Th’ Ramblin’ Kid”— So, a feelin’ that way I announced if they didn’t Page Twenty-three want him I shore did! Just then Old Man Lilly come ridin’ up an’ he was tickled to death ’cause we had got Th’ renegade stallion corralled at least—th’ cow¬ men wanted th’ outlaws shot. Th’ wicked old brute whipped out his gun an’ started to pull a drop on Old Jack’s head— That made me crazy an’ I yelled, as I drawed on him: “Shoot that horse an’ I’ll kill you dead!” W ELL, me workin’ at th’ time for the brash old man, ’Course that trick meant I’d lose my job an’ have to fan, But I didn’t care nor give two whoops, for th’ range was broad an’ the world was big— Anyway I wasn’t th’ kind of kid to back-trail nor ever renig; Besides I was plumb red mad from sombrerro top to spur—from outside hide to inside core— For I never could see a horse brute ’bused by no durned man without gettin’ devilish sore! Then a batty an’ fool thing happened—something naturally you’d hardly believe— I just slid offen my mount, stripped th’ saddle an’ hackamore gear an’ with one big heave Throwed th’ whole outfit, blanket, bridle an’ all, over th’ bars an’ into th’ wing corral, Then climed up an’ dropped down inside, on foot, with just my rope an’ faced that bronch that was wild as hell! For maybe a second Old Jack stopped, surprised— th’ boys outside just held their breath— Thinkin’ I’d shore went clean loco an’ was flirtin’ with certain an’ pronto death. Then here he come! His mouth wide open! Ears laid back! Eyes like coals! Strikin’ feet— an’ lowered head! Page Twenty-four I side stepped! Th’ rope went true! A quick run to th’ snubbin’ post—a single half-hitch—I’d throwed him dead! Like a flash he hit his feet! Whirled! Give a maddened squeal an’ come straight back! I run with th’ rope, side windin’ once more—yank¬ in’ my best to get th’ slack! That time when he went down—well, what’s th’ difference? I won—was safe on deck when they let us outside, An’ ’fore we stopped at th’ “Hundred an’ One,” Captain Jack an’ me had made a ninety mile ride! Then I knowed I’d found, at last, th’ one true an’ game little hoss— An’ Jack knowed th’ Kid he carried was his friend as well as his boss! C APTAIN JACK an’ me worked th’ whole blamed range from th’ Raton Hills to No-Man’s Land; We rampsed around from th’ Purgatory clean down to th’ mean old Rio Grande An' them shore were life’s most joyous an’ happy years, But now they’re gone—th’ Little Old Horse—th’ virgin plains—th’ broad-horn steers— ‘Long with th’ smell an’ moan of th’ herd—th’ night watch calm ’neath starry skies— (Shucks! This fool smoke keeps tormentin’ my dim old eyes!) Vi % % Jack an’ me were punchin’—straight—with th’ Cir¬ cle Bar an’ Lazy S— Trailin’ a bunch of restless Texans—’bout six thousand head I guess, Page Twenty-five From down on th’ Lower Pecos, ’long th’ line to th’ Upper Cimmaron. Th’ herd was down for th’ night. Dave an’ me were on th’ grave-yard watch, alone. When Parker, th’ night boss, shook me out to take my turn I hadn’t intended to ride Old Jack- Aimin’ to rest him an’ take a sorrel that was in my string, but he whinneyed an’ I turned back An’ took him—’cause, somehow—well, I was lone¬ some, I reckon, an’ anyway I had a kind of hunch To take him, for there was an uneasy feel to th’ air an’ a tenseness out there among th’ bunch Of wild Texas brutes that made me want to be shore of th’ horse I rode— An’ do you know that someway, I’ve always felt like Jack himself knowed I was goin’ to need just him that night more than ever before in all th’ years We’d been ramblin’ ’round together—(It’s that durned smoke botherin’—them ain’t tears!) An’ I believe, too, th’ game Old Boy had a notion we were startin’ to make our last hard ride— So I took him! An’ Old Jack did his best—to save my life that Little Old Bronch gave his—an’ died! W E had swung around the herd just once. They were bedded down in a sort of horse-shoe shape; Had passed Dave—was back in th’ bend of th’ band. A thundercap hung a shadow, like crape, Over th’ crest of Old Eagle Tail. Out to th’ east there was a sickly glare From th’ risin’ moon. There was a kind of dead, sullen hush to th’ midnight air— Page Twenty-six A sort of silent threat. Th’ roar grew less an’ less, th’ herd swerved east— up the Arroya—finally drifted away. Th’ boys found us there—me layin’ with my head on Old Jack’s neck—sobbin’—just at th’ break of day. We buried him—deep—no snarlin’ wolf should gnaw his bones! An’ I—well, I quit th’ range, but my heart’s still there— Where I left Little Old Captain Jack, that wasn’t no “horse show hero”—but was game to th ’ end an’ square! 3477-163 tot 74 *o *»* .0 '-', * r *. * ■ <*>. "o • * * . 0 * .c o 0 " 0 * o . V •' *» <$. 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