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Autumn
on the Range Back
to the Range The Bunkhouse Boys Cattle
Land's Farewell A Cattle Range at
Night Christmas Week in Sagebrush (separate page) The Country to the West A
Cowboy's Version The
Cowgirl The
Cowman Jubilates The
"Finale" of the Puncher Frederic
Remington The
Grub-Pile Call His
Trade-Marks
Juanita The Old
Yellow Slicker
On Night Herd The
Passing of the Old West Rainy
Day in a Cow Camp The Range Cook's "Holler" A Range Rider's Appeal
The Range Rider's Soliloquy Remarks by "Bronco Bob" A Roar
from the Bunkhouse Sence
Slim Got Piled Unrest on
the Range The West The
West for Me A Westerner
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Some Poems
The Bunkhouse Boys
Who are a mighty happy crew
In ev'rything they say and do?
The wildest bunch I ever knew —
The bunkhouse boys.Who, through their manners may be rough,
Are true as steel — the pure gold stuff,
And might quick to call a bluff?
The bunkhouse boys.Who ride the ranges, lone and drear,
And herd the bawlin', restless steer
Through storm and sunshine, year on year?
The bunkhouse boys.Who ride through town to have their fun,
With foamin' broncos on the the run,
And smoke a-spittin' from each gun?
The bunkhouse boys.Who paint the place a lurid red,
When decent folks are all in bed?
The bunch that's allus raisin' Ned —
The bunkhouse boys.Who blow their hard-earned ducats in
At playing poker — lose or win,
And take their losses with a grin?
The bunkhouse boys.When they ain't broke, who allus lends
A five or ten-spot to their friends,
An' don't expect no dividends?
The bunkhouse boys.Who are the kings of sagebrush land,
And allus give the glad, glad hand?
The crowd that wears the true-blue brand —
The bunkhouse boys.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Remarks by "Bronco Bob"
I wouldn't make no Wall Street king;
I'm no financial guy;
I don't know much o' anything
But makin' money fly.
But I kin pitch a rope an' git
A steer at ev're throw,
An on the ranges I am "it,"
'Cuz cows is all I know.I wouldn't make no parlor gent
Close-herding' gals — that's right!
'Cuz I ain't wuth a tarnal cent,
When wimmen heaves in sight.
But when I'm asked to read a brand,
Or tame an outlaw hawss,
Well, pard, that's biz I understand;
That's where I am the boss.I couldn't sing no op'ry air;
At that I ain't no bird,
But I kin bawl out purty fair
When I am on night herd.
I don't know this "Il Trovatore"
That's bragged up purty steep,
But "Swannee River" when I roar
Makes cattle go to sleep.I ain't no city dude, that's sure,
With starched-up shird by gee!
For me the city has no lure;
It's Sagebrush Land for me!
A bronc' that's scrubby, touch an' hard,
An open range to roam;
A blanket in the bunkhouse pard,
An' that's what I call home!I'm clean stampeded when some girl
Comes maverickin' 'round
To git my bronco heart a-whirl,
An range my feedin' ground.
But when the brandin' fires gleam,
An' round-up work gits hot,
I ain't a-travelin' in no dream,
I'm Johnny-on-the-spot!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
A Westerner
I knowed he was a Westerner
I knowed it by his talk;
I knowed it by his headgear,
I knowed it by his walk.
His face was bronzed and fearless;
His eye was bright and keen,
That spoke of wide, vast ranges
I knowed that he had seen.Somehow I knowed he'd ridden
The range-lands of the West;
His speech was bunkhouse patter—
The kind I love the best.
He brought a hint of prairies,
Of alkali and sage;
Of stretches wide and open —
The Western heritage.I knowed he was a Westerner
Just from the way he done;
His footgear, too, proclaimed him
A stalwart Western son...
He had "the makin's" with him,
And I could not forget
His bed-ground from the manner
He rolled his cigaret.He brought with him the freedom
Of that great Western land;
Where grassy billows, endless,
Sprawl out on ev'ry hand.
The city noises chafed him,
And each skyscraper tall
Seemed like grim barriers risin',
Or some deep canyon wall.He seemed a part and parcel
Of countries wide and far,
Where great herds dot the mesas,
Out where the cowmen are.
I knowed he was a Westerner
Becuz he was so free
In yellin' "Howdy pardner!"
When he was passin me.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The Country to the West
When the hull big world gits gloomy and as dark as all tarnation,
And a feller feels as grumpy as a lone steer on the range;
When he cain't see nothin' 'round him but despair and desolation,
'Cuz the trails that he is follerin' are new and fresh and strange;When the people that he's meeting' ain't the kind he likes to chum with,
And he feels a homesick feelin' jest a-tuggin' 'neath his vest,
How he hankers for the Open, and the pals he used to bum with
In the sagebrush stretches lyin in the country to the West!And he glimpses wide arroyos stretchin' out as if to greet him,
While the rocky buttes they lure him, and they whisper to him, "Come!"
And the hoary mountains call him, and the cattle trails entreat him
To forget the busy city and its life so burdensome.There's a whisper from the mesas which forever hauntshis dreamin'
And his heart rebels within him with its burden of unrest,
And he sees the sand-dunes sparklin' and the yucca-plumes a-gleamin'
In the sagebrush stretches lyin' in the country to the West!There's the croonin' of the pine trees — jest forever callin', callin',
There's the murmur of the river as it glides through chasms deep;
There's the lowin of the cattle on his restless senses fallin',
And the yelpin' of the ki-yote, as he's dropping off to sleep.There's the purpled sunsets sparklin' like a molten sea off yonder
There's a glint of gold a-shinin' on the rugged canyon's crest,
And the vision stands before him, growin' dearer, growin' fonder,
Of the sagebrush stretches lyin' in the country to the West.Oh there ain't no spot that's dearer in the hull of God's Creation
When you've felt the call within you as you packed your kit to go!
And you had a mental picture of the lonely railroad station
Where the boys would ride to meet you — all the pals you used to know.How the rangelands smiled upon you, and the skies seemed all the bluer,
With the prairie jest a-blazin' with the blooms upon its breast!
Then you knew that life was sweeter, and your pards were kinder, truer,
In the sagebrush stretches lyin' in the county to the West.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The WestWhen you have lived out in the West,
Till it becomes a part of you,
And you've a feeling in your breast
No other spot on earth will do;
When you can call the desert home,
And love the ranges vast and drear,
Then every butte and rocky dome,
And stretch of sage will grow more dear.When every flaming sunset seems
To hold you by a magic spell,
And you have visions in your dreams
Of mesa tops and chaparral;
And when the rolling prairie land
You love more than the city street,
Then shall you know and understand
The charm which draws your eager feet.When all God's great out-of-doors
You worship with a new delight;
When rocky ridge and canyon floors,
Show added wonders day and night;
When wide, free plains seem reaching out
To welcome you with open arms,
You will have learned, without a doubt,
The secret of the great West's charms.When you can ride each lengthening trail
Without a sense of loneliness;
When every coulee, draw and swale
Hold beauties which you may possess;
When you can read the starry Skies
Beneath which you lie down to rest,
Then shall you know and realize
The fascination of the West!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
A Cattle Range at Night
The prairie zephyrs have dropped to rest,
And the dust-clouds settle down;
The sun dips low in the golden west,
O'er the mesa bare and brown.
The wearied riders come loping in,
As the hills grow dim and strange,
And the songs of the insect world begin--
'Tis a night on a cattle range.
The stars gleam out in the calm, clear sky
Like twinkling orbs of light,
And over the range drifts the coyote's cry
Through the star-lit summer night;
The night-hawk whirls in its ceaseless rush,
As the evening breeze is stirred,
And the cowboy's song breaks the lonely hush,
As he circles the bedded herd.
The campfire throws but a fitful glare,
And the buttes, like specters, rise
Far over the deep arroyo there,
As sentinels in the skies.
While the silent forms in their blanket beds
Dream on, to the night wind's sigh,
As gently about their sleeping heads,
The breeze drifts idly by.
The moon steals up o'er the dark butte's crest
In silvery shafts, which gleam
And sparkle there on the brown earth's breast
Like gems in a fairy dream.
The night creeps on, with its mystic charms,
To the song of the whip-poor-will,
And drifts to Dreamland in Nature's arms,
And the range grows hushed and still.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Autumn on the Range
Off across the wide arroyo sweeps the breezes of the fall,
Where the haze of Injun summer sort o' lingers over all;
Ev'ry bronco is cavortin' in the chilly autumn air,
And the yippin' of their riders is resoundin' everywhere.The campfire smoke is risin' sort o' lazy-like and slow,
Where the cook is busy mixin' up a batch o' sour-bread dough;
And the boys who rode on night-herd are a a-yawnin' in their beds,
While the foreman showers cuss-words down upon their luckless heads.There's a smell of fryin' bacon as it sizzles in the pan,
And the boys'll soon be lined up at the mess-box to a man;
And the cups'll be a-clatter, for the coffee's b'ilin' hot,
While the slapjacks that are bakin' are a-going to hit the spot.Soon the dust-clouds will be risin' where the herd is stragglin' through,
And there'll be some lively doin's by the hull blamed round-up crew;
There'll be runnin', there'll be dodgin' when they start to cuttin' out,
And the sagebrush flats will echo with the cowman's lusty shout.So you'd better cord yer beddin' and then climb into your chaps,
And when you hev gulped your coffee, cinch yer latigoes and straps,
For they're drivin' in the hawss-herd and the puncher's day's begun,
And there's goin' to be some sweatin' 'fore the cuttin' out is done.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The Grub-Pile Call
There's lots o' songs the puncher sang in roundin' up his herds;
The music wasn't very grand, an' neither was the words.
No op'ry air he chanted, when at night he circled 'round
A bunch of restless longhorns that was throwed on their bed-ground;
But any song the cowboy on his lonely beat would bawl,
Wa'n't half as sweet as when the cook would start the rub-pile call.I've heard 'em warble "Ol' Sam Bass" for hours at a time;
I've listened to the "Dogie Song," that well-known puncher rhyme;
"The Dyin' Cowboy" made me sad, an' "Mustang Gray" brung tears,
While "Little Joe the Wrangler" yet is ringin' in my ears.
But of the songs the puncher sang, I loved the best of all,
That grand ol' chorus when the cook would start the grub-pile call.There wasn't any sound so sweet in all the wide range land;
There wa'n't a song the puncher was so quick to understand.
No music that he ever heard so filled him with delight
As when he saw the ol' chuck-wagon top a-gleamin' white;
An' like a benediction on his tired ears would fall
The sweetest music ever heard--the welcome grub-pile call.I've laid at night an' listened to the lowin' of the steers;
I've heard the coyote's melancholy wail ring in my ears.
The croonin' of the night-wind as it swept across the range
Was mournful-like an' dreary, an' it sounded grim an' strange.
But when the break o' day was near, an' from our tarps we'd crawl,
The mornin' song that charmed us was that welcome grub-pile call.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
His Trade-Marks
The cowboy ain't no dandy
When it comes to wearin' clo'es;
But when he trails to the city,
He'll go as other folks goes.
But there's just two things he's wearin'
From which he never scoots--
He'll stick to his old sombrero
He'll stick to his high-heeled boots!He'll tackle a stranglin' collar
That's hitched to a stiff b'iled shirt;
He'll discard his chaps and gauntlets,
And wash off the prairie dirt;
But he'll hand to two possessions,
Though folks turn up their snoots--
He'll stick to his old sombrero
He'll stick to his high-heeled boots!He'll peel off his old bandana,
And his overalls, too, he'll drop,
And he'll wear store duds and neckties,
And his old blue shirt he'll swap.
But for just a part of his outfit
He never has substitutes--
He'll stick to his old sombrero,
He'll stick to his high-heeled boots!He'll part his hair in the middle,
And with perfume adorn his pelt;
He'll put on some real suspenders,
Instead of a ca-tridge belt.
He'll lay off the gun he's wearin'
But in spite of the jeers and hoots,
He'll stick to his old sombrero,
He'll stick to his high-heeled boots!Oh, yes, he's a queerish mixture
When in from the range he strays,
And puts on a town man's toggin's,
And copies the town man's ways.
But when to the town he's comin'
To mix with the dude recruits,
He'll stick to his old sombrero,
He'll stick to his high-heeled boots!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
A Roar from the Bunkhouse
Nary a thing to eat Thanksgivin'
Only tin can truck!
Gettin' tired of such a livin',
Blame the orn'ry luck!
Nothin' only beans an' bacom--
Pard, excuse these tears!
Seems jest like we've been fursaken--
Darn this punchin' steers!Folks back home are jest a-stuffin'
Turkey-meat an' pie;
At them feed-fests there's no bluffin';
Gosh, it makes me sigh!
No sich dinner for us fellers
In this camp appears;
Turkey ain't fer cowboys' smellers--
Darn this punchin' steers!Weather soggy-like an' murky;
Makes me mighty blue;
Thinkin' of Thanksgivin' turkey
Makes me h'umsick, too.
Sour-dough bread an' canned tomaters
Ain't th' grub that cheers;
Oh fer pie an' mashed pertaters!
Darn this punchin' steers!Bunkhouse bunch are sick as blazes
Bein' fed this way;
Gettin' so th' maynoo raises
Sam Hill ev'ry day!
ev'ry mother's son a-kickin'
When th' truck appears!
Never git a sniff o' chicken--
Darn this punchin' steers!Same ol' bread an' beans furever!
Gosh, we'd like a change!
Reck'n we won't git it never
While we ride th' range!
Oh, fer some o' mother's cookin;--
That's th' dope that cheers!
Guess my callin' I've mistooken--
DARN this punchin' steers!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The Old Yellow Slicker
How dear to my heart was that old yellow slicker,
I carried 'way back in my cowpunchin' days;
'Twas stiff as a board, but I wasn't a kicker
When it was a-rainin' an' me huntin' strays.
I carried it tied at the back of my saddle,
All ready for blizzard or windstorm or rain,
An' 'twas my salvation when I had to straddle
My bronc' an' lope out on the mud-spattered plain.
That old yellow slicker,
That spacious old slicker,
I carried on many a round-up campaign!
That old yellow slicker! 'Twas big and 'twas roomy;
It sure kept me dry when the rain trickled down;
I wore it on night-herd with skies black and gloomy,
It covered me well from my feet to my crown.
No matter how sloppy or muddy or lowery;
No matter how cold or unpleasant the storm,
No matter how blusterin', gusty or showery,
That old yellow slicker I wore kept me warm!
That ill-fittin' slicker,
That fish-oil-soaked slicker,
Its mission it never yet failed to perform.
That old yellow slicker which I have defended
Hangs there in the bunkhouse agin the log wall;
Its mission's fulfilled, an' its range life is ended--
No more do the herds on the cattle-trail call.
But sometimes I dream in the dim summer gloamin',
An' there in the embers which flicker an' change,
I catch a faint glimpse of the herds that were roamin',
An' think of that slicker I wore on the range.
That battered old slicker,
That old yellow slicker,
A cattle-day relic I'll never exchange!
From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Unrest on the Range
This movin' pitcher bizness it has got to quit, by gum!
Cuz it's puttin' our cowpunchers and the cow game on the bum!
The boys are allus kickin' when we start to run our brands,
Cuz they say that rastlin' yearlin's kind o' dirties up their hands!But the cowboys like the movies, cuz it's diff'runt, fer a change,
And it's gittin' so no puncher will go out to ride the range;
Cuz he gits two bucks fer goin' through a lot o' Wild West whirls,
And the privilege of huggin' all the pretty actor girls!We're findin' that good ropers are all-fired hard to git,
And the high-class bronco busters all have saddled up and quit,
Cuz the movie-man corraled 'em and they draw a puncher's pay
Jest fer posin' in a pitcher fer an hour ev-ry day!Us o'-time cowmen hate it--hate this movin' pitcher fame
Which is spoilin' all our punchers who was in the cattle game;
We're weary of sich doin's, where they flash upon a screen
All them monkey shines no cow-ranch in the country ever seen!So we're prayin' that our punchers will git sick of faked-up strife,
And be yearnin' fer real danger of the ol'-time cowboy life.
These movin'-pitcher fellers make us tired--durn their souls!
And we'd like to jerk a six-gun and jest pump 'em full o' holes!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The Cowman Jubilates
A Cowboy's VersionThe sodden slopes are turnin' green
Where grassy shoots are peepin' out'
The purtiest site you ever seen--
It makes a cowman want to shout!
The cattle snuff the warm south air,
An' calves are friskin' ev'rywhere.Each dry arroyo tinkles now
With music of a singin' stream;
IT kind o' seems to me somehow
Like Nature wakin' from a dream,
An' rubbin of her eyes, an' then
A-donnin' her spring duds again,The dusty sagebrush sheds it stains
Of powdery, pungent alkali,
An' at the comin' of the rains
It seems to give a heartfelt sigh,
An' shake itself a time er two
An' then bloom out in garments new.The bunkhouse rings with joyous shouts!
There ain't a puncher feelin' sore,
Er even grouchy hereabouts,
Sence all the range waked up once more!
Jest hear 'em singin' as they ride
A-lopin' 'crost that big divide!An' ev'ry bronco's wide awake,
An' gingery as he kin be;
They'll liven up an' no mistake,
When they hev browsed on filaree!
There ain't a spot on earth, by jing,
Like this cow ranch in early spring!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
When I'm ridin' alone in the night-time way out on the desolate range,
With the moon shinin' down through the cloud-hills and the canyons and draws lookin' strange
And the shadowy buttes loomin' dimly, way out where the coyotes call,
I know that the hand of no human conceived it and fashioned it all.When I'm lopin' across the wide mesa where blossoms send out their perfume,
I know that an All-Wise Creator had somethin' to do with each bloom;
'Cuz no mortal hand on this planet could paint us them colors, I know,
Nor spangle the coulees and foothills with all the gay posies that grow.I know that the greem of the ranges don't come at the biddin' of man;
The landscape makes all of them changes because of the Creator's plan.
I know that the beauties about me--the sunshine, the blooms and the rest,
Wa'n't put there by man nor his helpers, but at the good Lord's own behest.And nights when I lie at the campfire and look at the stars in the sky,
I'm ready to own that no human made all of them planets on high'
But only the Boss of the Heavens reached down from the Home Ranch above,
And moulded and builded and fashioned the blossoms and ranges I love.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Frederic Remington
He knew the West as only few have known;
He knew the men; he knew the horses, too;
The swarthy, silent trapper, all alone,
The cowman--and he knew what they could do.
The range to him was an open book;
The peaks and crags and hills--he knew them well;
He knew the secrets in each canyon brook,
And what the great plains whispered he could tell.
At his deft touch the canvas sprang to life;
It glowed with all the colors of the West;
His paint-tubes told the horrors of the strife--
The charge, the savage warwhoop and the rest.
He showed the white-topped wagons, jolting on;
The grim and hardy plainsmen as they rode;
The campfire in the gray of early dawn;
The pack-train with its lashed and swaying load.
He knew the cattle and the brands they bore;
He drew them with a keen and master hand;
He saw and saved to us the West beofre
There passed the remnants of that valiant brand.
He gave to us the cowboy--carefree, brave;
The riders of the range he pictured true;
'Twas left for him their herds and them to save,
Ere they had passed forever from our view.
A monument to him who knew the West!
Whose brush so deftly told its every tale;
The horses and the men he loved best,
When he, too, rode the dusty cattle trail.
A shaft to him whose canvas gleams and glows
with colors of the life he loved so well;
And from whose painted pictures ever flows
A charm which weaves o'er us a magic spell!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Some good Remington links: The National Gallery, PBS/American Masters, Buffalo Bill Historical Center, The Sid Richardson Collection
The Range Cook's "Holler"
They sing of the puncher--that knight of the range who rounds up the bellerin' steer;
Who rides at the head of the midnight stampede with nary a symptom of fear.
They tell of his skill with the six-gun and rope, but nobody mentions the dub
Who trails the chuck-wagon through desert and plain and never yet failed with the grub!.The weather may find us in rain or in mud; may bake us or sizzle us down;
The treacherous quicksands may mire us deep, and the leaders and wheelers may drown;
The blizzards may howl and the hurricane blow, or injuns may camp on our trail,
But nary excuse will the foreman accept for havin' the chuck-wagon fail.For off on the range is the puncher who rides through the buck-brush and sage and mesquite,
With an appetite fierce for the bacon we fry, and the slapjacks we bake him to eat.
And we must be waitin' with grub smokin' hot when he comes a-clatterin' in,
No matter what troubles we've bucked up agin, or what our delays may have been.So in singin' yer songs of the men of the plains who trail it through desert and pine,
Who rough it from Idaho's borders clear down to the edge of the Mexican line,
Don't give all the due to the puncher of steers, but chip in some dope of the dub
Who trails the chuck-wagon in sun or in storm, and never yet failed with the grub!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Finale of the Puncher
When the last great herd has vanished,
And the open range is gone;
When the cattle are all banished,
And their numbers are withdrawn,
When the brandin' days are over,
And the ropin' is all through,
Then it is we'll sit and wonder
What's the cowpunch goin' to do?When the cowman comes to sever
What connections he had left'
When the trail-herds pass forever,
And there ain't a cayuse left;
When the ol' chuckwagon rumbles
O'er the ridges out of view,
And the cook quits yellin' "Grub pile!"
What's the puncher goin' to do?When the squealin', bruckin' bronco
Has become an ol' plow nag;
When the saddle and the poncho
Hand up in an ol' grain bag;
When his bits and spurs are rustin'.
And his gun is useless, too,
And there's no more round-ups startin'
What's the puncher goin' to do?When the last night-herdin's finished,
And he's seen his last stampede,
When the bunkhouse gang's diminished,
And of brand-irons there's no need'
When the ol' worn yellow slicker
Is put by for store-duds new,
And his chaps have been discarded,
What's the puncher goin' to do?When there ain't no wild west longer;
When the plains are seas of grain,
And the nesters crowd in stronger,
Till the cowman can't remain;
When ol' life's but a vision
To which he must bid adieu,
Tell me, oh, my ol' range pardners,
What's the puncher goin' to do?From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The West for Me
I love the peaks with their snow-bound caps; the stately mountains grand;
The pungent smell of the bending pines that tower on either hand;
The streams that leap through canyons deep and the wind's low melody--
I heed their call, for I love them all--'tis the West, the West for me!
I love the stretches of desert gray; the brown buttes grim and high;
I love the scent of the sagebrush flats; the blue of the vaulted sky;
The charm and spell of each new draw and swell, and the shifting sand-dunes free;
They grip and hold as their charms unfold--aye, the West, the West for me!
I love the trail through the lonely hills to the door of the old log shack,
And an insist strong is luring on, a it calls and beckons back.
I love the croon of the low, sweet tune that sighs through the scrub-oak tree,
And the bubbling note from the wild-bird's throat--ah, the West, the West for me!
I love the herds on the open range; the riders who guard them well,
Who ride like fiends in the night stampede through the ocean of chaparral.
I love to dream in the campfire's gleam of the days as they used to be,
And the stalwart men who were heroes then--so the West, the West for me!
Oh, the boundless West, and the wild, free life that is spent in the open air,
With the handiwork of the God of All in the plains and the mountains there!
I love the sweep of the streams that creep from the hills to the throbbing sea,
And I hear their call as the shadows fall--oh, the West, the West for me!
From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Back to the Range
I've played the movin' picter game,
An' worked it good an' hard,
But it is too all-fired tame
For real cowpunchers, pard.
Them actor-guys are tenderfeet
That never saw the range,
An' when they hit a saddle-seat,
Their ridin's fierce an' strange!They put us through a lot o' stunts
That punchers never do;
A feller feels jest like a dunce
Afore he gits half through.
It's al a lot o' honey-mush
About some gal, by gee!
'Twould make an honest puncher blush
Sich goin's on to see!Becuz out on the range, you know,
Around the chaparral,
We never had no time to go
Close-herdin' any gal.
They's too much rustlin' 'round for strays,
Or else a-buildin' fence,
Or brandin' calves on round-up days
For any sich nonsense!They ain't a cuss in all the bunch
Kin cinch a saddle right;
'Twould fetch a snort from a cowpunch'
Their togs is jest a fright!
The other day I most was floored
Whilst watchin' of the boss
For in the film he climbed aboard
The wrong side of his hawss!I'm sick of all sich sights as those,
I'll quit an' go back there
Among a bunkhouse bunch that knows
The cowboy fame for fair.
I'll strike for my ol' stompin' ground
Where range life is lived true,
Where there's no tenderfoot around
To show me what to do!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Passing of the Old West
The West ain't what it used to be before the wire bands
Was stretchin' out on every side and fencin' in the lands;
There ain't the elbow room there was before the nester came
And squatted on the virgin soil to cultivate the same.It used to be so big and wide, so boundless and so free,
As if a-stretchin' out its arms and sayin' "Come" to me;
And we who had our cattle herds, we let 'em roam at will;
There wasn't any grazin' zone on valley, swale or hill.The West was boundless; there was room for all and room to spare;
Each cattle man was free to say that he was treated fair.
Before the plow and reaper, why, we simply came and went,
And with our herds a-waxin' fat, the cowman was content.But now it's changed; they've hemmed us in and told us thus and so;
And they have fixed the boundaries where we may come and go;
We've got to hold our herds in hand, and fight for land to graze
Becuz they ain't a-runnin' things as in the good old days.The sunset of our day is gittin' dimmer in the skies.
They're forcin' us to leave the lands we won, and which we prize.
It won't be long till Cattle Land is just a memory--
A vision of the old frontier in days that used-to-be.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
The Cowgirl
She ain't inclined to'rds lots o' things
That eastern gals can do up brown;
She don't wear jewelry and rings,
Like them swell girls what lives in town;
Her cheeks are tanned an olive tint,
That shows the roses hidin' there;
Her eyes are brown, and there's a hint
Of midnight in her wavin' hair.She don't go in for fancy hats;
A wide-brimmed Stetson is her pet;
She has no use for puffs and rats;
A harem skirt would make her fret.
She wears a kerchief 'round her neck'
At breaking broncs she shows her sand,
And at a round-up she's on deck,
And twirls a rope with a practiced hand.She doesn't know a thing about
Them motor cards that buzz and whirr,
But when she goes a-ridin' out,
A tough cow-pony pleases her,
Her hands are tanned to match her cheeks;
Her smile will start your heart a-whirl,
And when she looks at you and speaks,
You love this rosy, wild cowgirl!She never saw a tennis court;
She don't belong to any club,
But she is keen to all range sport,
And she's a peach at cookin' grub!
She couldn't win at playin' whist'
She wouldn't think that bridge was fun,
But say, the hombre doesn't exist
That beats her handlin' a six-gun!I don't believe she'd make a hit
At them swell afternoon affairs;
She wouldn't feel at home a bit;
Them ain't the things for which she cares.
She ain't so keen as some gals is
At tryin' stunts that's new and strange,
But you can bet she knows her biz
When she's out on the cattle range!From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
A Range Rider's Appeal
Guard me, Lord, when I'm a -ridin'
'Crost the dusty range out there,
From the dangers that are hidin'
On the trails, so bleak and bare.
Keep my stumblin' feet from walkin'
In the quicksands of distress,
And my outlaw tongue from talkin'
Locoed words of foolishness.When around the herd I'm moggin'
In the darkness of the night,
Or 'crost lonely mesas joggin'
With no one but You in sight,
Won't you ride, dear Lord, beside me,
When I see the danger sign,
And through storm and stampede guide me,
With Your hand a-holdin' mine?May the rope of sin ne'er trip me
When to town for fun I go;
Let the devil's herders skip me
On their round-ups here below.
May my trails be decked in beauty
With the blossoms of Your love;
May I see and do my duty,
Ere I ride the range above.Let me treat my foes with kindness'
May my hands from blood be free;
May I never, through sheer blindness,
Git the brand o' Cain on me.
On the range o' glory feed me'
Guide me over draw and swell,
And at last to heaven lead me,
Up into the Home Corral.From Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Rainy Day in a Cow Camp
Gusty sheets o' rain a-fallin';
Yellow slickers our attire;
Wet, bedraggled longhorns bawlin';
Cook a-cussin' at the fire.
Grub all water-soaked and soggy;
Foreman's temper all a-flare;
Ev'ry puncher feelin' groggy'
'Dobe stickin' ev-rywhere!
Broncos standin' heads a-droppin'!
All their ginger plump soaked out;
Dumb to all the wrangler's whoopin';
An' to ev'ry puncher's shout.
Saddles sloppy an' a-slippin';
Cinches plastered full o' mud;
Ev'ry ol' sombrero drippin';
'Royos roarin' with the flood.
Ol' cow hawss a-slippin', slidin'
Up an' down the slushy hills;
Punchers all humped up a-ridin';
Ev'ry minnit has its thrills.
Wind a-whistlin'; skies a-weepin';
Slickers flappin' when we lope;
Rain inside our chaps a-creepin';
Kinks and' knots in ev'ry rope!
Ev'rybody blue and sour;
Not a sign o' sun in sight;
Jest a steady, soakin' shower
When we ride to camp at night.
Blankets sozzled, wet an' mussy;
Tarps all damp an' feelin' strange;
Ev'ry puncher mad an' cussy,
Hopin' mornin' brings a change!
Drear are the prairies; the ranges are silent;
Mournfully whispers each soft, passing breeze;
Down in the canyon and eddying murmur
Echoes the sigh through the giant pine trees.
Lone are the trails on the brown, dusty mesa,
Up where the gems of the star-world peep through;
Sadly the night-bird is plaintively calling --
'Nita, Juanita, I'm longing for you!Out where the herds dot the range in the Springtime;
Out where the flowers you loved nod and sway,
Memory brings me a vision of sadness,
Brings me a dream of a once-happy day.
Over the trails you are riding beside me,
Under the canopied heavens of blue;
Smiling the love that your lips have repeated --
'Nita, Juanita, I'm longing for you!When steals the night with its grim, dusky shadows,
As 'round the herd I am jogging along,
Your gentle face seem to lighten the darkness,
Each vagrant breeze seems to whisper a song;
Whispers a melody sweetly entrancing,
Telling me, dear, of your love ever true;
Whispers and echo which sets my heart dancing --
'Nita, Juanita, I'm longing for you!by E. A. Brininstool from Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Sence Slim Got "Piled"
Slim Bates ain't braggin' any more
About how he kin ride'
An' gosh, but he gets mighty sore
Whenever he is guyed.
He uster be so full o' vim,
So reckless an' so wild,
But there's change come over Slim
Sence he got piled.He uster tell of outlaw nags
He'd gentled like a cow,
But Slim ain't makin' any brags
Of tamin' outlaws now.
He's jest the humblest cuss, I swear,
As meek as any child;
Slim dassn't even take a dare
Sence he got piled!Accordin' to Slim's flossy talk
He was some cowpunch once;
The worst cayuse could pitch an' balk,
An' try his wildest stunts;
But now Slim hangs his head in shame,
For six weeks he ain't smiled;
Slim knows that he ain't in the game
Sence he got piled.Of course when he come driftin' in.
We thought he knowed his biz;
We swallered all them yarns he's spin
'Bout ridin' stunts o' his.
But now we pass him up with scorn,
He's all but plum exiled;
Slim ain't a-tootin' of his horn
Sence he got piled.He's bogged hisself down good an' deep'
He'd better drift along
An' git a job as herdin' sheep,
'Cuz here he's in plumb wrong.
Nobody herds with Slim a bit,
He's got this outfit r'iled;
He'll never hear the last of it
Sence he got piled!by E. A. Brininstool from Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
Cattle Land's Farewell
There ain't no Cattle Land no more
That isn't wire-fenced;
Things ain't the way they was before
The Western rush commenced.
The open range that once we had,
No more is grazin' grounds;
The cow game's goin' to the bad,
When we are kept in bounds.Our herds was free, in other days,
To wander where they would;
No lines was set for them to graze;
The got it where they could.
But now the onward march o' Time
Has brought about a change,
And Cattle Land brands it a crime
To grab another's range.We wasn't warned by bands o' wire
Which stretched their lengths ahead,
That we must herd our stock no nigher,
But turn 'em back instead.
We didn't grab the water-holes
And hold 'em for our own;
The old-time cattle-men had souls;
There wa'n't no grazin' zone.We neighbored in a friendly way,
Though we was far apart;
Nobody told us go or stay,
And we was big o' heart.
We loved the lands that held our herds,
As long as we was free,
And didn't have no war o' words
'Bout what our rights should be.But now across our hard-won lands,
They've stretched the wire through,
And put on us restrainin' hands,
And told us what to do.
We're marchin' down the Western slope,
'Tis Progress bids us go,
But in our breasts the fires o' Hope,
Are burnin' dim and low!by E. A. Brininstool from Trail Dust of a Maverick, 1914
On Night Herd
So-ho, longhorns! Quit yet callin!
Bed down, now, and be good steers!
Stop that blamed infernal bawlin',
Fer it's bedlam in my ears!
You're in fer a good ol' cussin'
If you don't stop rangin' 'round!
Go to sleep and quite yer fussin',
Pawin' up this well bed-ground!So-ho, longhorns! Stop yer proddin'!
Quiet down and mind yer boss,
An' I'll sing to you whilst ploddin'
'Round the herd on my ol' hoss.
I cain't bawl out like Caruso,
But I'll try my level best;
If you want to hear me do so,
Jest lie down an' go to rest!So-ho, longhorns! Stop that beller,
Or you'll start a blamed stampede!
You'd jest like to make a feller
Lead you on a bust o' speed!
Like to wake the boys a-lyin'
Back there by the fire tonight,
So they'd hafto ride a-flyin'
Fer to stop yer skeery flight!So-ho, longhorns! Stop that mooin'!
Darn them Diamon' Circle cows!
All they want to be a-doin'
Is a rangin' 'round to browse!
You ain't hungry; you've had water.
An' you've had a bully feed;
Lie down, longhorns, like you oughter—
Ain't a darned thing that you need!So-ho, longhorns! Now I wonder
What the devil is that noise?
Gosh! it sounds to me like thunder!
Reck'n I'd best wake the boys!
Hi, you punchers! In yer saddles!
Bunch 'em close an' hold 'em so!
Quick, afore the herd skeddadles!
(WOOF!) By hokey! There they go!
The Range Rider's Soliloquy
Sometimes when on night-herd I'm ridin', and the stars are a-gleam in the sky,
Like millions of wee, little candles that twinkle and sparkle on high,
I wonder, if up there above 'em, are streets that are shinin' with gold,
And if it's as purty a country, as all the sky-pilots hev told?I wonder if there are wide ranges, and rivers and streams that's as clear,
And plains that's as blossomed with beauty as them that I ride over here?
I wonder if summertime breezes up there are like zephyrs that blow
And croon in a cadence of sweetness and harmony down here below?I wonder if there, Over Yonder, it's true that they's never no night,
But all of the hours are sunny and balmy and pleasant and bright?
I wonder if birds are a-singin' as sweetly through all the long day
As them that I hear on the mesa as I go a-lopin' away?And sometimes I wonder and wonder if over that lone Great Divide
I'll meet with the boys who have journeyed across to the dim Farther Side?
If out on them great starry ranges some day in the future, I, too,
Shall ride on a heavenly bronco when earth's final roundup is through?They tell us no storms nor no blizzards blow over that bloom-spangled range;
That always and ever it's summer—a land where there's never a change;
And nights when I lie in my blankets, and the star-world casts o'er me a spell,
I seem to look through on the glories that lie in that great Home Corral.
The Library of Congress list these books among those written by or arranged or edited by E. A. Brininstool:
Crazy Horse, the invincible Ogalalla Sioux chief; the "inside stories," by actual observers, of a most treacherous deed against a great Indian leader. Photos from collection of E. A. Brininstool, Los Angeles, Wetzel Pub. Co., 1949
Fighting Red Cloud's warriors; true tales of Indian days when the West was young. New York, Cooper Square Publishers, 1975. (Reprint of the 1926 edition)
Trail Dust of a Maverick, by E. A. Brininstool; with an introduction by Robert J. Burdette. New York, Dodd, Mead and company, 1914.
Trail dust of a maverick; verses of cowboy life, the cattle range and desert, by E. A. Brininstool. Reprinted introduction to first edition by Robert J. Burdette, introduction to second edition by Prof. George Wharton James. Los Angeles, Calif., E. A. Brininstool, 1921.
A trooper with Custer and other historic incidents of the battle of the Little Big Horn. By E. A. Brininstool. Columbus, O., The Hunter-trader-trapper co., 1925. (New York, Cooper Square Publishers, 1975 is a reprint of the 1925 edition)
Troopers with Custer; historic incidents of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, revised and expanded, New York, Bonanza Books, c1952 (Reprinted Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989) (new introduction by Brian C. Pohanka, Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, (1994)
The Bozeman trail:historical accounts of the blazing of the overland routes into the Northwest and the fights with Red Cloud's warriors by Grace Raymond Hebard and E. A. Brininstool ; with introd. by Charles King., Cleveland, The Arthur H. Clark Company, 1922. (Reprinted New York: AMS Press, 1978) (Reprinted by Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990)
Hoofprints of a cowboy and U. S. ranger; pony trails in Wyoming, by John K. Rollinson, edited and arranged by E. A. Brininstool; illustrated with photographs, Caldwell, Id., The Caxton printers, ltd., 1941 (Reprinted: Lincoln : University of Nebraska Press, 1988)
Wyoming cattle trails, history of the migration of Oregon-raised herds to mid-western markets. Ed. and arr. by E. A. Brininstool, Caldwell, Idaho, Caxton Printers, 1948
Campaigning with Custer and the Nineteenth Kansas Volunteer Cavalry on the Washita Campaign, 1868-69 by David L. Spotts ; edited and arranged for publication by E.A. Brininstool, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1988.
Some of these books remain in print and most are available from used book sources.
Trail Dust of a Maverick by E. A. Brininstool, 1914
Includes:
Sunset on the Desert
The Country to the West
The Old Bunkhouse
The Stampede
The Trail-Herd
The Call from the West
The Desert
The Old Trapper Speaks
The Range Rider's Soliloquy
The Cowman's Loss
The Lure of the Desert
Silent Trails
The West for Me
The Mirage
The Last Drive
The Old Log Cabin
The Blizzard-Bound Herd
The Nester to the Cowman
A Range Rider's Appeal
Before the Rains
The Lure of the West
A Cattle Range at Night
Where the Sagebrush Billows Roll
The Old Line Shack
"Old Six-Gun"
Out in the Golden West
To an Old Branding Iron
My Desert Fastness
The Disappointed Tenderfoot
My Old Sombrero
Wyoming
The Old Yellow Slicker
Standing on His Merits
The Desert's Lure
The Homesick Cowboy
The Short-Grass County
His Trade-Marks
A Bunkhouse Revery
The Dying Cowboy
A Corral Soliloquy
The West
The Bunkhouse Boys
To a Bacon Rind
Frederic Remington
The Desert Prospector
Juanita
A Prairie Mother's Lullaby
Back to Arizona
A Voice from the Open
The Cowgirl
The Ol' Cow Hawss
The Range Dweller Talks
A "Bar-4" Bluffer
The Grub-Pile Call
The Return of a "Bud"
The Inevitable
A Roar from the Bunkhouse
Out of His Element
Remarks by "Bronco Bob"
Christmas Week in Sagebrush
On Night Herd
The Call of the Range
The Desert Serenader
My Bunkie
"Sheeped Out"
The Cowman Jubilates
The Cattle Rustlers
The Braggart
Desert Winds
Lure of the "Yellow Streak"
The Chisholm Trail
The Frontier Marshall
The Prodigal
Desert Dreams
A Cowboy's Version
Back to the Range
To His Cow Horse
Trouble for the Range Cook
Rainy Day in a Cow Camp
The Homesteader
The Old Cowman
To a "Triangle" Calf
The Man From Cherrycow
A Westerner
Cattle Land's Farewell
Sence Slim Got Piled
The Dead Pardner
The Coming of the Rain
The Land of the Sage
A Rebellious Cow Camp
Why "Zach" Feels Chesty
A Spoiled Outfit
The Old Trail Songs
Autumn on the Range
The "Finale" of the Puncher
A Change of Outfits
Only a Bronco
Passing of the Old West
A Cowpunch Courtship
The Range Cook's "Holler"
Cupid on a Cow Ranch
A Child of the Open
The Prospector
The Unknown Trail
"Off His Range"
The Range in Spring
Forest Conservation in Crimson Gulch
A Locoed Outfit
The Cabin on the Range
Riding the Range
The Trail to the Hills
Spring in Sagebrush Land
The New West
Suffrage in Sagebrush
Bad Man Jones
The Cowman's Saddle
His Cowgirl Sweetheart
Love on the "Bar X"
Unrest on the Range
A Few Links
Rob Temple of Omaha, Nebraska, is working on an interesting musical project that involves the poems of E. A. Brininstool. He provided some background and a description of his work:
I started reading some of E.A. Brinninstool's poems on www.cowboypoetry.com and somewhere during the process I began to smell the branding irons and hear the sizzle on the campfire and the windy rustle of the sage brush...
The TrailBlazers' Choral Series is a concept that grew out of a desire to integrate cowboy and western poetry with the choral arts especially targeted to the educational setting.
The first in the collection is scored for three part male chorus with piano and harmonica accompaniment.You can listen to the first composition here, which includes A Cattle Range at Night, The Bunkhouse Boys, and Juanita]
Rob Temple lives in Omaha, Nebraska with his wife and three children. Rob has taught at Shawnee Mission West High School and Kansas City Christian High School in the K.C. area. He studied with Dr. Eph Ehly at the University of Missouri at Kansas City and received a Masters of Music in Choral Conducting. Rob also studied at Hastings College in Hastings, Nebraska.
For more information about his project, contact Rob Temple by email: rtemple3@gmail.com
A great resource, Literary History of the American West (sponsored by the Western Literature Association and published by Texas Christian University Press) mentions Brininstool's collaboration on the classic American Indian history My People the Sioux (1928), in its piece on Western American Indian writers.
At his General George A. Custer site, Garry Owen includes a short bio (mostly Custer-related) for E. A. Brininstool
"Juanita" is recited by Dick Morton on his Cowboy Classics CD (2006)
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