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Out across the
way, where the coyotes play, cowboys were trailin' a
herd.
As they rode
along one sang a song, with a voice that fairly
purred.
When the sun
went down, they bedded down and sent the nightguard
out.
Things were
goin' right on this peaceful night as the cattle
milled about.
It was around
midnight, when the guard saw the light that's called
Saint Elmo's fire.
The
nightguard's shout brought the cowboys out, it was
time to earn their hire.
As the lightnin'
flashed one cowboy dashed to turn the big, lead
steer.
His horse too
slow he watched them go and his gut filled up with
fear.
The trailboss
was saddlin' his hoss, when he saw the cook go by.
Salt pork flew
and sugar did too and he lost an apple pie.
One young hand
without much sand yelled out, "Don't take me Lord!"
The lightnin'
flashed, the thunder crashed and the rain just
poured.
The old
nightguard and thirty pokes rode hard to turn the
herd around.
In a full out
ride to turn the tide, hooves matched the thunder's
sound.
One waddy in
the lead was gainin' speed and closin' on the big,
lead steer.
Three thousand
head or more crashed across the prairie floor and
made his duty clear.
Blood mixed
with sweat, and its no sure bet he'll see the next
sunrise.
Live fast, love
hard, die young ol' pard and a cowpoke never cries.
Empty words
mispoke by a brazen poke sure don't help the fear.
The thunder's
boom sounds impendin' doom and its all that he can
hear.
He saw the
trailboss put the hooks to his hoss and go down in
the herd.
No hope, no
chance in this wicked dance death has the final
word.
Rain fell hard
on the old nightguard and then he went down too.
Two men were
dead, and the herd still sped on through this
devil's brew.
The waddy got 'em
turned and they bawled and churned in the mud, the
blood and the
rain.
In a mighty
fight, the cowboys held 'em tight in a storm that
had gone insane.
At the break of
day, they held the cows at bay, while they buried
their dead.
They tallied
the cost of the cows they'd lost at around four
hundred head.
On a brand, new
day they rode away and headed down the trail.
The cost gets
high, when good men die on a journey to the rail.
They were the
best, and they faced every test from snakes to bogs
and snow.
They came and
went and their lives are spent, but we can't let
their memories go.
Verlin Pitt was born and raised in Lander,
Wyoming, and has lived here most of his life. When he
was 12 years old he lived in eastern Montana, where his
father had an interest in a ranch near Richey, Montana.
He says that he went through
 some
of the roughest winters he's ever known during that
time. While he has lived other places, the mountains
around Lander always call him back. He is currently a
Deputy Sheriff for the Fremont County Sheriff's Office.
Besides writing poetry, his hobbies include hunting in
the hills for metal artifacts. So far he has found
old rusty beer cans and horseshoe nails, but he keeps
searching. He says that he can tell from experience that
shoeing horses and mules was a profitable trade, during
the time Pioneers were heading West. My high dollar
metal detector has found it's share of rusty horseshoe
nails along the Oregon trail. He sometimes think the
horses and mules were the only individuals who lost
anything.
Verlin Pitt writes cowboy poetry because that
is what he is all about. He loves the West and its
people; and hopes that the Western traditions will be
passed on to future generations. His poetry is featured
on a new CD-
Way Out West;
$13.50 postpaid. For more information contact
Verlin Pitt, 788 Vance Dr., Lander, Wyoming 82520.
He welcomes your
comments and inquiries :
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