DAVID J. DAGUE
Marengo, Illinois
About David J. Dague
 

One of

Recognized for his poem, Cattle Kingdom

 

 

About David J. Dague:

Friends who know me know that Cowboy Poetry consumes nearly all of my free time.  I first learned of the modern day Cowboy Poetry movement on March 5, 2001, by reading an article on the front page of The Wall Street Journal by Jim Carlton.  I've written metered rhyme most of my life but after I discovered CowboyPoetry.com life has never been the same.  My special friend and Webmaster, Christian Imhoff, offers me his most severe critiques or approval depending on my efforts.  It's nice to  have a truly honest friend.  Cowboy Poetry and Chris have directly led me into other new areas of interest.  The Worldwide Web has become a whole new experience as a publishing and research tool. Western history has always been an area of intense interest and with the web there's more of it; just beware of its accuracy.

My four sisters and I were blessed with parents that were true western pioneers.  Both of my parent's families were originally from Virginia and over a long period of years both families had migrated west in phases.  My father's family moved north to Pennsylvania, prior to the Civil War, then west to Kansas where he was born in Washington County in 1900.  They moved to the Horse Heaven Hills of Eastern Washington State when he was a young boy.

My mother was born in Virginia in 1904 and at the age of 4 she moved with her family to Scotland, Illinois, a small farming village in Central Illinois next to the Indiana border.  When my mother's family left Illinois they took an Illinois Central train from Danville to Chicago, where they changed trains to The Milwaukee Road railroad line to Minneapolis.  The rail fare rates of The Great Northern Railroad from Minneapolis to Billings, Montana were so disproportionately high, that my Grandfather bought some teams and wagons in Minneapolis.  Subsequently the family went by covered wagon from Minneapolis, to a ranch outside of Bridger, Montana in 1912.

David Parks, my maternal grandfather who I'm named for, was tried for murder (and acquitted) for shooting local Indians who were rustling his horses and cattle at his ranch in Bridger Montana.  As luck would have it, his grandson, Doug Jones is married to a beautiful full-blood Sioux. Eventually both families wound up in the Columbia River basin area of Eastern Washington State.  My father worked on my great uncle George Dague's ranch in the Horse Heaven Hills prior to World War I.  My favorite photo of my father is of him plowing a wheat field with a team of thirty-three (33) mules in a fan harness, today's equivalent of a Caterpillar D-8.  My parents met in Kennewick, Washington, married and being true western adventurers migrated to Central California in the 1920's.

My twin sister and I were born in Fresno, California, rounding out a family of five children.  Our three older sisters spoiled "their twins" and at that time, twins that jointly survived what usually was a premature birth were something of a rarity.  Every child should be blessed with a twin, a daily companion to progress and grow up with.

My parents both worked in town when we were kids, and we lived on a small but self-sufficient farm south of Fresno, California.  We farmed with horses and mules at a time when everyone else was using tractors. Then came World War II with gasoline rationing and my father's horses and mules were the salvation of most of the small farms in the area.

My mother was an aircraft worker during World War II making P-38 Fighters at Hammer Field, now Fresno International Airport.  My mother was a poet and writer all of her life and both she and my father were great storytellers. The stories they told stayed with me and are the basis of many of my poems. My earliest memories are of sitting on my mother or father's lap and being read to or listening to their oral histories or those of our ancestors. Dague was originally Daguerre and it is an Alsatian/Basque name.  Naturally, I'm curious about the Alsace-Lorraine and Basque cultures. Parks, my headstrong mother's name is of English/Scotch-Irish origin and that is my culture.

When I was still a kid my parents bought a ranch northeast of Clovis, California, which I named the D Diamond D Ranch.  I claim to be a "Once-upon-a-time Cowboy" as I really didn't stay on the ranch very long. The big city lured me from home, though my sisters and I visited my parents at the ranch for many years until my parent's deaths.

My mother and father visited our family in Chicago in 1961 and during their visit we toured Downstate Illinois areas where my mother had lived 49 years earlier.  My mother was an 8 year-old girl when she had left this area and began her trip west.  I had heard all my life of her "Best Friend Margaret" who had grown up with her in Scotland, Illinois.  We left the area and were twenty miles on our way back to Chicago, when my mother requested that I immediately stop the car and backup to a house we had just passed at 60 miles per hour.  I backed up to the house where a 57 year-old woman was sitting in a rocking chair stringing beans.  My mother said matter-of-factly "That's my friend Margaret."  I laughed, but got out of the car and went around to open her passenger side door. When my mother stepped out of the car, the woman sitting on the porch (eighty feet away) leapt up and immediately said loudly "Why it's Mellie Parks!  Mellie how is Montana?"  I always wondered how two 57 year olds who were completely out of touch for  nearly 50 years could so immediately recognize one another, and in a setting
totally out of context.

I learned to cook in a restaurant in Berkeley, California while I was going to college.  I went into the printing business in 1955 and except for a three year stint in US Army (1956-59) I've spent my entire career in the printing and advertising businesses.  Today, I'm employed as Director of Operations for a printing company based in Chicago that serves clients throughout the United States.  They say that a man who loves his job never works a day in his life.  That's me.

This background plus wanderlust and an insatiable curiosity contributes to my poetry.  I'm not well traveled in other hemispheres but I've been to and through all the 48 contiguous states, 5 provinces of Canada and 7 states in Mexico.

We asked David why he writes Cowboy Poetry and he replied:

I love the West  I've written Cowboy Poetry in one form or another most of my life probably for that reason and because I could.  My sons and daughters used to ask for a copy of some poem that I would orally relate to them so that's when I first began to actually write them down.  Up to that point I used to carry them around in my head, a repertoire of favorite lyrics.  Most of my poems were written for performances and were intended to be humorous, as I love laughter.  Poems and odd ball parodies to songs made up the majority of my show biz career.  My career was limited to three nights a week at "Joann," probably the single best entertainment saloon ever in Chicago.  Today I write some more serious material so that my children and grand children have something to relate to through me.  Most of the time when I begin to write a poem I haven't a clue where it's going to wind up. I put myself in a setting and let the poem happen.  Those types of poems, when they do turn out, are the best because they're a pleasant surprise even to the author.  In my mind I wander through the West a great deal.

We asked David about his inspiration for "Cattle Kingdom" and he replied:

Before "Cattle Kingdom" was written, I had a lot of first hand experience with Chicago's Stockyards.  Because of my earlier work there, I had an extreme curiosity about the true history of the yards.  When I began doing research to satisfy that curiosity I stumbled into a story that wouldn't leave me alone.  The XIT Ranch in Texas was unknown to me prior to that research.  The more I thought about it the more powerful the urge became to turn it into my chosen form of story telling, Cowboy Poetry.  I'll never forget the first time I drove through the intersection of 39th and Union. It was a hot summer's day and my car windows were completely rolled down until I caught the first whiff of Chicago's fragrant Stockyards.

You can email David. 

In April, 2003 David told us he relocated to the country, to Marengo, Illinois.

 

Cattle Kingdom

At one time Chicago's Stockyards were the biggest and the best.
Chicago played an important part in the taming of the West.
Chicago's fragrant stockyards were the largest in the states.
The only part of them still standing...is their limestone entrance gates.

Out on the plains millions of cows roamed free during the Civil War.
The folks in the East wanted beef; it's what they had a craving for.
All of the cattle were out in the West; the consumers were all in the East.
They had to be brought together; Chicago's Stockyards closed the breach.

They opened up the Union Stockyards on Christmas Day of 'sixty-five.
Chicago's Union Stockyards made "Cattle Kingdom" come alive.
The first leg of the trip was the "Long Drive" from Texas to our Great Plains.
Cowboys herded cows North for hundreds of miles, to railheads for the trains.

Cowpunchers loaded up the cattle, with long poles to prod and punch.
So began another word for Cowboys.  They were still a wild bunch.
To survive the "Long Haul" second leg, the cattle needed water.
Cowpunchers rode along to tend them, saved their lives for future slaughter.

Chicago on any given weekend, had more Cowpunchers on hand,
than in any other cow town, throughout the Western land.
The Stock Yard Inn was where they ate; Drover's Bank booked in their cash.
43rd Street Jail was their new bunk, when they did something rash.

The big drovers all sent herds here, Chisholm, Dodge and Blasingame.
There were also many others, they all made the stockyard's fame.
"Cattle Kingdom" lasted twenty years, from 'sixty-six to 'eighty-six.
Then along came bigger businessmen...becoming cattlemen in their mix.

John Farwell...started a giant spread where land was nearly free.
He ran the world's largest ranch, three-million-acre XIT.
Texas Panhandle was the ranch locale but Chicago was where he dwelt.
Single-handedly this big businessman, made his Western presence felt.

One hundred and twenty Cowboys, worked year-round on the XIT.
In eighteen eighty-seven...John fired them all for being thieves.
John Farwell wrote new "Ranch Rules," to be followed by all his men.
Card playing, drinking and gambling, were unallowable sins.

But the biggest sin was stealing, especially from the ranch.
If a Cowhand got caught rustling beef, there was no second chance.
There were twenty-three rules to be obeyed, or a Cowhand was let go.
Once hired...then fired from the XIT, every rancher around would know.

XIT Cowhands all were young and white, at other ranches not always the case.
Mexicans, Blacks and Indians (women as well), all got caught up in the chase.
Nearly half of all Western Cowhands, didn't fit the Hollywood mold.
But the Cowboys, who worked for the XIT, always did as they were told.

Fifteen hundred miles of four-strand fence, for Cowboys to ride and repair.
One thousand gates for ninety-four pastures, three hundred windmills fanning the air.
Four-strand fences used six thousand miles of wire, and that wire had better be tight.
When a Cowboy rode for the XIT, he worked hard and did everything right.

Those Cowboys earned thirty dollars per month, plus three meals and a company horse.
But their clothing, bedding, saddle and tack, they furnished themselves, of course.
The ranch was so big it was divided in eights, eight headquarters and foreman as well.
Abner Taylor was manager most of the time, but at the top was old John V. Farwell.

"Cattle Kingdom" lasted twenty years, from 'sixty-six to 'eighty-six.
Big business was to change all that, putting most ranchers in a terrible fix.
Change comes along to all things.  The only thing certain is change.
When change came to "Cattle Kingdom," it forever changed life on the range.

Chicago's fragrant stockyards were the largest in the states.
The only part of them still standing...is their limestone entrance gates.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Chicago Stockyard Gates
photo by David Dague

 

David shared some of his background and research information with us, and we'll likewise share it with you:

When I first moved to Chicago in 1957, the stockyards were still going strong.  In fact I did business with a number of firms in the "Yards" as they were referred to then.  I often ate at The Stock Yard Inn and it was always quite an experience.  I banked at The Drovers Bank (where else) but managed somehow to steer clear of the 43rd street jail, at least up to this point.  The stockyards closed in 1975.

XIT Ranch info I found at the Chicago Historical Society.  Interesting story how this ranch came into being.  It seems the State Capitol Building in Austin Texas, burned to the ground (1875 I think) and needed to be rebuilt. Course Texans being Texans only the very best would do.  The problem was the state of Texas was broke at the time.  The Texas State legislature passed a bill that would set aside 3,050.000 acres of state land to be paid to the successful bidder who would give Texas the biggest and best Capitol Building for their land.

John Farwell, a successful business man (Dry Goods Merchant) had a brother Charles who was a member of the US House of Representatives and Charles had as a friend a fellow member of the House from Texas.  One day, hopefully over lunch, Charles learned of the Bill passed by the Texas Legislature and what they planned.  Charles then informed his brother John of the opportunity and the rest is history.

John set in motion a plan to raise money for the project.  However, capital for a capitol was hard to come by in the US so John went to England and raised $5 million or so.  John and his consortium spent $3.5 million on the state capitol and the rest ($1.5 million) on starting the ranch.  This made ranch land cost about $1.17 per acre. This ranch was also known at times as the Capitol Ranch.

When John started the ranch (1885) there was a lot about ranching he didn't know especially about cowboys.  Turns out he hired a bunch of outlaws and he fired them in 1887.  Then he wrote (or had written) 23 rules governing the behavior of all employees of the ranch.

I was most curious about the origin of the brand XIT.  No one seems to know for certain, but the ranch was so big that it covered (or touched upon) ten different counties in Texas. Therefore XIT,  X (Roman numeral Ten) In Texas.

Personal tie in to this story is that a friend of mine was the live-in cook to the present day descendants of the Farwells who lived at the time (11 years ago) in a modern mansion on Astor Street.  I knew at the time that the Farwells were one of the wealthiest families in Chicago but not their history.  I used to fill in for their cook on some weekends and met the Farwells who were always quite gracious and gave me full use of their extensive library.

 

The Ode to Mike McGinty

Mike McGinty was blessed as a baby,
baptized with whiskey the day he was born.
From that day until his untimely,
tobacco and whiskey he scorned.

Mike never spoke a harsh word to another,
not even a "Christ" or a "Damn."
Treated everyone like his own brother,
was well liked by most every man.

Mike never missed mass in his parish,
he always did everything right.
His sisters and mother he cherished,
Mike read the Bible on Saturday night.

At twelve Mike became a young cowboy.
Rode 20 years for the Backward R Double Bar D.
But Mike always remained a good boy,
his worst sin was drinkin green tea.

Oh sweet Michael McGinty. McGinty,
yesterday he was oh so alive.
But in a stampede he met his untimely,
poor lad he was just thirty five.

Well, Saint Peter he greeted McGinty,
purest man on heaven or earth.
Told poor Mike why he called him,
and exactly what he was worth.

Mike was to spy on the Devil,
thirty days he'd stay down but no more.
Report back on all of the evil,
but be late he'd be damned evermore.

Thirty days had gone by plus one hour,
when McGinty came runnin the gate.
By the look on his face oh so dour,
you just knew he knew he was late!

But being skinny McGinty slid under,
for he had to get back inside.
But who appeared in a great clap of thunder,
Saint Peter with love that had died.

"YOU CAN'T RETURN LATE!" boomed Saint Peter,
"I'm a man of my word as God knows."
Said McGinty, "I'm not a cheater.
I've just come back for my clothes."

© 1973 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Breed

My Injun Mama was a Crow.
And my Dad I didn't know.
But...my eyes are blue,
so Daddy was a Swede.

Some say he was a trapper,
a whiskey drinkin scrapper.
So from Ma and him,
I was born a "Breed."

I was camped out on the mesa,
Starved plumb out of my cabeza,
wonderin if I'd live
or if I'd meet my doom.

I was pickin through peyote,
When I heard this damn coyote
A yowlin and a howlin
At the moon.

Then I saw him on the rimrock,
He was sittin in the burdock,
And what beats-a-blank
I've always understood.

It was at that point I shot him,
Then I climbed up and I got him.
Let me tell you pard,
He tasted mighty good.

Coyote stew with cactus,
takes very little practice.
Just add some root of burdock
And mesquite.

To you it may sound crazy,
but a "Breed" is never lazy,
when it comes to finding
somethin good to eat!

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Backward R Double Bar D

There is a rancho way out West,
that's where I want to be.
It's a spread that's like no other,
and it was made for you and me.

There the water's pure the grass is sweet,
and the hay always newly mown.
You'll never have to leave this ranch,
until you're fully grown.

Yep, that's what I tell all the dogies,
so they're happy while they're here.
Just drink the water, eat the grass,
and forget that you're a steer.

Just live your life in neutral,
because neutered is what you are.
And don't buy in to all that bull,
about someday being a star.

A bull has to fight for all he gets;
he has to always be the best.
He never can be off his guard,
nor can he ever rest.

A bull's life isn't all that grand,
though it's filled with matrimony.
When an old bull has to cash it in,
he winds up as baloney.

Steers always get to laze about,
eating grass and drinking water.
And a steer is never traumatized
by the behavior of his daughter.

If you were a bull, just think about
the things you'd have to do.
You'd be driven from the cows in section one,
to the cows in section twenty-two.

And when you've done your service there,
there's that bunch down by the creek.
When they're all taken care of,
you'd best not be feeling weak.

Cause there's still the heifers in section twelve,
and the matrons in section seven.
Then the 3-year olds in section eight,
and the 8-year olds in eleven.

Then start again in section four,
move on to section five.
Hey Bull you better shake a leg,
come on, let's look alive!

The cows in section twenty-six
are sure a muddy mess,
but you can't wait for them to shower,
nor for them to undress.

Now jump in the back of the truck,
get chauffeured to section two.
You better hurry up, Bull,
there's still a lot to do.

So many cows, so little time,
I always hear them say.
That old bull's resting on his knees;
he probably stopped to pray.

But as a steer you just stroll about,
your life is never hustle-bustle.
Your body's nice and tender,
no knots of sinew and of muscle.

I see you're growing up real nice,
I think you're in your prime.
If you'd like a long vacation,
try a French-Mediterranean clime.

I'll send you to an abattoir,
I'm sure you'll think it grand.
An abattoir?  Just wait and see,
then your life you'll understand.

Though the grass is always greener,
don't envy the old bull in the palace.
Cause the foreman told me yesterday,
he went to a slaughterhouse in Dallas.

© 2001 David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Shadow

Way back east in Colorado,
bought a pup that I call shadow,
best investment that I ever made.
She's the bravest and the boldest,
though her breed is not the oldest,
but my Sheltie is a cattle dog top grade.

Her legs are short, not good for runnin,
but when for the gate some steer is gunnin,
she cuts him off, he never makes the pass.
You see she rides her own Cayuse,
reins in her mouth she holds real loose,
her cuttin horse and her are sure first class.

She learned to ride while still a pup,
and just got better as she grew up,
has her own remuda that she's trained.
No other hand can ride her horses,
no other hand can steer her courses,
to be top dog round here was sure ingrained.

The cattle know when Shadow barks
      her order, she's the master.
The herd as one had best move out,
      she's transferring their pasture.
To some new section they might like,
      she doesn't really care.
They'd best obey her barking whip,
move out and quickly make the trip.
Cause she won't let them graze on
      grasses spare.

Late one year she let me know,
she was getting ready for Rodeo,
planned on bein top dog in the land.
Said she was shakin off the curse,
of always winnin when there's no purse,
hated leavin cause she knew she was top hand.

I had a lonely winter and a long cold spring,
then one day on the lane saw this limousine,
and you will never guess who was drivin at the wheel.
He was a uniformed chauffer, some guy named Mack,
Shadow and her groupies were in the back,
and I can't say how proud she made me feel.

Well, we're livin now in Tuscany,
and Shadow's sure good company,
we live the life of luxury at her estate.
And though I'm old and getting tired,
Shadow's young and still inspired,
everyday she ropes the wine man at the gate.

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Deformed, Reformed Cowboy

I always wanted to be a cowboy,
when I was just a kid.
The problem with that thinkin was,
when I grew up I did!

I guess I didn't understand,
what bein a cowboy was all about.
You worked your butt off all week long,
of that there was no doubt.

A cowboy never has a butt,
If he does, then he's not workin,
A cowboy with a butt you see,
is a man that's really hurtin.

Cowboy's all have real hard buns,
it's the nature of their work.
They've been at the job for hours,
fore most folks coffee's perked.

Other ways they get deformed
sides, having nothing to sit upon.
Their legs grow out real funny and
fit the horse when the horse is gone.

They start to dwell upon their parts,
and what they look like to the ladies.
They're thinkin they look mighty good.
The ladies think they look like Hades.

They pass them on the streets in town,
tip their hats as the ladies stroll by.
The ladies whisper in each other's ear,
"A workin cowboy"...then a sigh.

Once they're past, the cowboys look again,
cause .they could be mistaken.
But no, you sure can't miss that look,
that says "Cowboy I'm taken."

Then one day you wake up,
and your world has turned around.
It's happened without warnin,
snuck up without a sound.

You've fallen for some filly,
and she's fallen too, for you.
Your world has changed forever,
and there's nothin you can do.

If you are real lucky,
it happens while you're young.
Especially if your filly,
is one that's real high strung.

I've met my mate, we live in town
where most ex-cowboys live.
Best thing about my filly and me,
is we both know how to give.

She surely is a lovin girl,
when she runs me to ground.
She claims she loves my funny legs,
and how they fit around.

She likes my non-existent butt,
I like hers even better.
I especially like her lanky legs,
I think she'll keep me if I let her.

Now if you are a cowboy,
you can soon become deformed.
Always ridin on that headstrong horse,
out in those winter storms.

With squinty eyes and wrinkles,
from fightin off the sun.
A cowboy with sunglasses,
is just a drugstore bum.

Cowboys only dance the two-step,
they don't dance they do the scoots.
It's because their toes are so deformed,
from wearin cowboy boots.

But all that deformation,
can payoff in the end.
If the filly that's your beholder,
is your beauty and your friend.

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Belgians, Mules and Morgans

Dad and us, we used to farm,
with Belgians, Mules and Morgans.
Dad used to plow from dusk to dawn,
then go to his job at Borden's.

Working horses in the dark-of-night,
is something only a dude would do.
An experienced-hand like my ol' man,
would just harness up the Mules.

Mowing hay at night beat the daytime heat,
(One-hundred and thirteen in the shade.),
At midnight we ate our mid-day meal,
what a difference those meals made.

My sister Dora was the chef,
our cook and extra mother.
The food was mostly from our farm,
hand-picked by little brother.

Mom was never home to cook,
she worked for the Army-Air-Corps.
Built Fighters, Lightning P-38's,
she was away-a-lot, therefore.

Borden's paid Dad a little better,
than working on our farm.
Soon, plowin became our full-time job,
didn't do us any harm.

Singletrees and doubletrees,
collars, halters, bits and reins.
Working with those mules and horses,
sure made us use our brains.

We harnessed up the Belgians,
with their bridled-bits and collars.
Their enormous reins and doubletrees,
made us glad that we weren't smaller.

Belgians stand eleventeen feet tall,
with hairy hoofs the size of clouds,
and their smell, smelled so surprisingly,
like the fields that they just plowed.

When we hitched up the Belgians,
we always had to use a ladder.
And prayed to God they wouldn't move,
or empty out their bladder.

They're gentle giants and very tame,
just as long as they're well-trained,
and we got to know them personally,
combing out their tails and manes.

The Belgians mostly hauled the hay,
as they could tow that big hay-wagon.
If we had to pull a stubborn-stump,
they were also GREAT!...at draggin.

Mowed alfalfa with a Mule-drawn sickle,
row raked it with the Morgans.
The Belgians hauled the baler,
while snorting through their mighty organs.

All the other farmers used to laugh,
cause they worked their fields with tractors.
Then the "Japs" bombed Pearl Harbor,
gasoline became THE factor.

You say, I should say, "Japanese,"
but I don't really care.
Express yourself just as you please,
but mister, I was there.

Other farmers, then came hat-in hand,
to hire teams "that don't eat gas,"
I told my Dad, "they'd laughed at him."
he said, "Son, you let it pass."

"We work with mules and horses,
cause it makes their lives worthwhile.
Sides, they help raise nearly all their feed,
excepting salt, there's no denial."

"We have a self-sufficient farm,
we raise most all our needs.
So when you're done with plowing,
get in the garden and hoe those weeds."

In March of Nineteen-forty-two,
the government took away my buddy,
Turned out that he was Japanese,
so he went to Manzanar to study.

Bobby Inoye, was put in summer camp,
throughout all of World War II.
Their neighbors tried to help them out,
but there was nothing they could do.

Got my very first taste of bigotry,
...it didn't taste too good.
Cause if my buddy Bobby was a "Jap,"
then I must've misunderstood.

Like gasoline, other things got scarce,
silk stockings, rubber and steel.
Took money and a red-cent ration,
to buy your meat for any meal.

Even the copper penny,
went to war in Forty-three.
Zinc was its replacement,
those odd gray pennies that you'd see.

Then Lucky-Strike green went off to war
and never did come back.
Needed copper oxide was in the ink,
so it changed to a plain white pack.

We collected and smashed all of our tin cans,
and all the rubber we could spare,
my galoshes and bike tires went to war,
and Willa's rubber doll with its rubber hair.

Saved up all of our grease for making soap,
you couldn't go to the store and buy it.
Cooked lye with the grease to make lye soap,
powerful stuff, you ought to try it.

Food was scarce for the folks in town,
not for us, we grew our own.
Meat, milk, grain, fruits and vegetables,
we raised it all at home.

The cows we milked them twice a day,
extra milk always came in handy.
Left over milk as curds and whey,
we fed to the pig named "Brandy."

Dad cured our Hams and bacon,
with Morton's curing salt in tubs.
Raised pork, rabbits, beef and chicken,
we had the best of grub.

We gathered eggs, we raised our grain,
and ground it at the mill.
Wheat and barley, rye and oats,
for homemade bread, we ate our fill.

We rolled the barley and the oats,
as feed for the horses and mules.
I remember as a kid digging in the bin,
and grabbing out my own mouthfuls.

Pretending that I was a horse,
I'd gallop round the barn.
I was the Morgan stallion,
and I didn't give a darn.

Morgans were the all-round horse,
buggy, saddle, sledge or plow.
They were my mother's favorites,
they're my favorites even now.

My Dad, he loved Missouri Mules,
no question they were smart.
My sister Cat had her favorites too,
the Belgians stole her heart.

Dogs, cats, goats and one pet chicken,
were the animals of our youth.
But the Belgians Mules and Morgans,
Made all the difference, that's the truth.

Our farmers and our ranchers,
did their part in fighting that war.
Fed the nation's troops and allies,
and helped even-out the score.

We worked our teams all through the war,
...and the war?   Of course we won it!
Tell you one thing that we know for sure,
without our horses, we couldn't have done it.

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Dormants and Hibernationists

I live in the land of the six-month dormants,
hibernationists and non-conformants.
There's one thing strange about being here,
winter sees most life seem to disappear.
Yet, you know it's not quite what it seems,
cause they're simply caught-up in their dreams.
They're trapped beneath the blowing snow,
as deep as eighty feet below.

I live in the heights of the High-Sierra,
a protected land from another era.
Where in the wintertime nobody goes,
this frozen land of hundred foot snows.
My roads shut down before December,
and don't reopen till July...remember.
So stock up with grub...if you winter over,
You can bunk above my brawny drover.

When summer comes to this frozen land,
life springs forth to beat the band.
The cattle graze on her grassy slopes,
along with deer and pronghorn antelopes.
But when fall comes to this highland ranch,
we scour every gap and canyon branch,
for all the cows-and-calves that we can find,
but sometimes some get left behind.

The cattle are trucked to the valleys below,
to graze on green pastures where there's no snow.
Or fatten in feedlots standing shoulder-to-shoulder,
thank God those steers won't get too much older.
New feedlot floors have a twelve-degree slant,
so when steers try to walk, they find that they can't.
They simply lay down when they're not eating.
Steers gain weight faster; they claim it's not cheating.

The left behinds too, don't live too long,
can't stand the snow and the winds too strong.
They usually freeze right in their tracks,
then the cougars and bears are on their backs.
The bears can eat a steer a week,
it makes their bodies fat and sleek,
so they can winter neath the snow,
unlike the cougars, always on the go.

The cougars hunt the winter through,
frozen cattle, deer and antelope too.
Snowshoe rabbits, marmots and porcupines,
on anything moving it has designs.
A cougar with cubs too immature,
to hunt on their own and winter endure,
is hunting full-time round-the-clock,
and she always gets my straying stock.

But I love the fall and roundup best,
cause when we're done we get to rest.
Like the hibernationists, I go to sleep,
though I do go out about once a week.
More often if it's storming, and left to me,
to clear away snow from the chimney.
Please do not worry that I'm left behind,
for it's in the winter that I rest my mind.

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Cachet

The other day I heard a cowman say his cachet was his brand.
It caught my ear and bothered me, cause I didn't understand.
I thought a cachet was a woman's purse or something you put in it.
But this cowman said it was his brand; now hold up one danged minute.

"You just cachet over here and we will talk this out.
Cause I sure know that I need to know what this cachetin's all about."
Well he cacheted right on over and asked me what I meant,
by talkin 'bout his image mark, he had an angry bent.

He said his cachet was his brand, his logo and his mark,
his crest that said, "My beef's the best.  Like the ship on Cutty Sark."
   "Cachet, logo, mark and crest, why can't you just say brand?"
   "Cause then I'd be like you" he said, "A slow uncouth cowhand."

"Hey hold on pard, I drink uncouth, I put some in my gin,
and as for slow, I sure don't know, but I don't like your grin."
It was then he reached out and he slammed me with this here two-by-four,
but it broke in half and I just laughed and threw him out the door.

Well he picked himself up off the road and came right back inside,
you could smell his fumin anger and see his damaged pride.
But I never got his second blow though his approach was quite contrary.
He told me "...there's words you need to know." and gave me this dictionary.

I must say, I was surprised as he handed me his gift,
for the smoke was comin out his ears, still angry from our rift.
The dictionary book was heavy, and lots of pictures, all you'd need.
Well hey, there's lots of words here too, ...now if only I could read!

© 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

El Diablo Rojo

Big Red was a cow we had,
she was a Purebred Poll.
That meant that she was hornless,
as any cowboy'd know.

But Big Red was the boss cow,
the leader of the rest.
She bullied other cows around,
her non-existent horns were best.

When Big Red came in season,
I put her in the pen,
and sent for Randy Brandy,
a purebred bull owned by a friend.

Before Randy Brandy could arrive,
to service his new mate,
a Brahma bull least twice his size,
crashed through Big Red's pen gate.

That Brahma came from miles away,
'bout twenty ranches over.
He didn't make that nighttime jaunt,
to graze on my green clover.

When I woke up next morning,
Big Red and that bull were walking,
hand-in-hand and rubbing necks,
I could overhear them talking.

I cancelled Randy Brandy's trip,
and saved the breeding fee,
but cursed that crashing Brahma bull,
for his mixed-breed calf I'd see.

When Big Red's time had come around,
her calf had to be pulled.
It was rough on her and also me,
though I was highly schooled.

Well I never could have guessed the breed,
by looking at that calf.
All the ways that he looked different,
just had to make you laugh.

Big Red's calf was born with two red eyes,
though her's were chocolate brown,
high shoulders like a fighting bull,
his face a surly frown.

I never did de-horn him,
never thought there'd be a need.
The regret I had when he grew up,
was that he'd never breed.

When he was still a little calf,
I changed him to a steer.
Sometimes we all make big mistakes,
mine was the worst I fear.

Named him El Diablo Rojo,
the devil dressed in red.
To encounter him out on the range,
made you think you'd soon be dead.

His eyes were red, his horns snow white,
and those horns were four feet long,
with hulking shoulders like a Spanish bull,
you knew that he was strong.

He would look at you like Doctor Death,
then paw the ground to dust.
Then slowly he'd make his approach,
with a look of pure-blood-lust.

But he was a Baby Huey,
as gentle as could be.
But on one's first encounter,
he was a terrible sight to see.

He tipped the scales at over a ton,
stood seventeen hands high.
The neighbor's kids rode on his back.
so I thought that I would try.

I rode that steer for twenty years,
guided him with just my knees.
He looked untamed...and I did too,
the folks we met weren't pleased.

Until they got to know us,
then we always got along.
Whenever I rode that steer to town,
we attracted quite a throng.

I used him as my cutting horse.
No horse was ever faster.
He'd outmaneuver every cow,
on bare ground or on pasture.

I raced him as a quarter horse,
and never lost a race.
But after awhile we both got tired,
of always being in first place.

Well, Big Red died and the Brahma's gone,
or else I'd breed another.
El Diablo's also passed along,
but what an animal to discover.

If I had never gelded him,
the West would be different now.
Cause most every cowboy on the range,
would be riding on a cow.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

How to Write a Poem in Cowboy

I try to write my poems in Cowboy,
but I'm still learning half the words.
I try to rhyme, most of the thyme,
so groups of cattle now are herds.

When you are writing Cowboy,
you always drop the final g,
That turns moving...into movin,
sounds more Western don't you see.

You say yur in place of your or you're,
don't know the reason why.
Cuz instead of 'cause because,
cowboy poets are so wry.

Make sure your poem is family friendly,
privy humor has no place.
Don't throw a community loop on any group.
We're all members of the human race.

Remember some folks do take umbrage,
at the words that you might write.
So write with care, try not to swear,
if your readers laugh, you're writing right.

But I guess it would be easier,
if some words had other sounds.
Out in the West, words sound the best,
but is their meaning still in bounds?

Cowboy poets use antediluvian words,
archaic, obscure and obsolete.
The things they say, sound best that way,
with words they don't repeat.

Cowboy poets mess up proper names,
of this I hafta warn ya.
"West to Californy" to me sounds corny,
because we still call it California.

Then select your special meter,
one that you can use throughout.
Just write a poem, that doesn't roam,
and wander all about.

For me it really is a challenge,
to write a good cowboy poem.
Right from the start, write from your heart,
you may even write a tome.

My poems sometimes still revert to English,
It's the lingo, er, language that I know, er, knew.
And ya never let go of yur latago,
of course, I knew that, didn't you?

There's a formula to the Cowboy poem,
a rule you shouldn't bend.
The formula's fine, if in the closing line.
The west still roams free in the end.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

I'd Give My Right Arm to be ... Ambidexterous.

I'd give my right arm to be. ambidextrous,
I've always felt I'd be perfect that way.
I'd be faster than heck, as I shuffled the deck,
but would my gambling pals still want to play?

And when I'd try to win, roping dogies,
now think how darn quick I could be.
Hog-tying times low, I'd be rolling in dough.
Would other cowboy's compete against me?

If I wrote business letters, two at a time,
would I need an ambidextrous brain?
While writing two letters, or knitting two sweaters,
could I hemispherically track both domains?

If I were employed as a typist,
and able to use both my hands
equally well, could anyone tell,
would they meet all my payroll demands?

I wouldn't type faster than normal,
though my normal is now pretty slow.
Then again I might breeze, flying over the keys,
that's the thing that I really don't know.

Speaking of keys, I could play the piano,
Left hand or right, either part.
Playing in the saloon, I would start around noon,
and not quit until well after dark.

And then think how I'd be playing tennis,
my forehand and backhand the same.
I'd never let up, till I'd won every cup,
I'd be number one in the game.

Or if I were a double gunslinger,
wearing low-Colts, both left and right.
Avoiding disaster, I'd always draw faster,
and, of course, I would win every fight.

Even now when I'm out at the line shack,
riding fence with my left-handed man,
I remain very deft and stay to his left,
and make use of...my double-right hand.

How fast could I pound in the staples,
with hammers in both of my hands?
But what if I missed, and his fingers were kissed,
would he let go the barbed wire strands?

Would all of that barbed wire unravel,
leaving a cobbled up mess?
Or would he be strong, and keep hanging on.
He'd do the latter I'd guess!

I've always liked working with Lefty,
and Lefty's liked working with me.
We're both pretty bright and get wire tight,
our tight wire's something to see.

Ambidextrous, I'd only be better,
I wonder if Lefty agrees?
If I piled on the charm, would he donate his arm?
Would he listen to reasonable pleas?

If I had a doubled up left arm,
and he had a doubled up right,
our hands covered in leather and working together,
just think how we'd punch in a fight.

Tomorrow they've scheduled the surgery,
I get his left arm and he gets my right.
We're a dead perfect match, so no starting from scratch,
arms fit cause we're both the same height.

Today folks call me Double Lefty.
Lefty's now known as Dexterous Dan.
He's playing guitar in some western bar,
double picks from both ends. cause he can.

Now, if I had it all to do over,
I'd give up my left arm. I think.
The right had more heft than I get with the left,
my right-left hand sometimes gets a kink.

Dexterous Dan has gone farther than I have,
his career now is more than he dreamed.
Then again my right hand, plays in Dexterous Dan's Band,
that's the one thing that I never schemed.

My class ring is still on his finger.
Knuckles big so it wouldn't soap off.
When people say hey, Dan went to UCLA,
can't help it, I just have to scoff.

As for me, well I work in a car wash,
I rub down all the left sides you see.
I never cause trouble, and they pay me double,
cause I'm triple fast. They agree.

Well you know the grass always looks greener,
on the other man's side of the fence.
But I can't braid a quirt, or button my shirt.
does double-same-dexterous make sense?

Well, I woke up in the midst of tight wire.
As I mentioned our tight wire's something to see.
I still have my right hand, there's no Dexterous Dan's Band,
and no more dreams of ambidexterity.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Whistle

While wandering through Wyoming in Nineteen-fifty-four,
made a provisions stop in Whistle and walked into the store.
The general store was little, but my needs it would supply.
Picked up a quarter-pound of liverwurst and a loaf of Cowboy rye.

The clerk added up the total, came to eighty-seven cents.
When I pulled out a twenty, I could see the store clerk wince.
“I hope you’ve something smaller, we don’t carry a lot of change,
especially not here in Whistle, out on the open range.”

Reached into my Levi’s, checked my small change pocket,
pulled out two bits, four pennies, and a tiny golden locket.
“M’am, please accept this twenty, it’s the smallest thing I’ve got.”
Pard was I surprised when she winked, “I’ll bet you that it’s not!”

Went through all my pockets and my wallet once again,
but I found nothing smaller, not a one, or five, or ten.
“Do you only carry paper?  Silver money’s what we like.
If I have to break that twenty, it’ll be checked out first by Ike.”

She slipped through a curtained opening, which led behind the store,
Then she simply disappeared… for fifteen minutes, maybe more.
Out stepped a man, who looked like Ike, of that there’s no denying,
He said, “Hey big spender, what’s this I hear ‘bout all the grub that
   you’re a’buying.”

“Just a quarter-pound of liverwurst and a loaf of Cowboy rye,
I’ll drink from the springs along the way in case my throat gets dry.
The problem is, I guess you know, that all I’ve got is this here twenty,
and I’m just about to starve to death in your storehouse of plenty.”

“You must have something smaller!”  I swore I heard him say.
I said, “I’m leaving Whistle, I’ll simply drive away.”
Ike said, “Hold on Pard, you’re hungry.  I can see it in your eyes.”
He saw my special look of hunger, a look you can’t disguise.

He snapped and checked my twenty, and he held it to the light,
then he snapped and checked it ten times more, all to the clerks delight.
He deeply sighed and muttered some and opened up his drawer,
gave me back three pennies and a dime…and nineteen dollars more.

The nineteen dollars all were silver, knew them well by reputation,
but up to that point, I didn’t know they were still in circulation.
“Cowboys don’t cotton to paper-money Pard, it can blow off in the wind.
Silver’s got a special sound and feel…weight on which you can depend”

I became a little wiser… about driving through Wyoming’s range.
Every trip I drove through Whistle… and I always stopped for change.

Copyright 2001 by David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Desert Spread

While riding through the arid West,
came upon an oasis, quite picturesque.
Gentle rolling hills with tall shade trees,
grassy green meadows and a mild breeze.

Water ponds fed by a rippling brook,
I knew it was home with my first look.
How was it this place had come to be,
in the midst of this desert?  A mystery.

Started thinking of what I'd call this spread,
knew it would graze at least two hundred head.
Came upon four wide-of-the-mark buckaroos,
and they all were wearing curious shoes.

We talked of this spread and what it's about,
and I sure felt stupid there's no doubt.
But one thing I did come to understand.
A golf course is a waste of good pastureland!

Copyright 2001 David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Dogtown

Dogtown was a world-famous gold strike!
The first strike on the Sierra's east side.
Found by a miner, an old forty-niner,
Cord Norst .and Mary his Indian bride.
For a living they panned placer nuggets and dust,
from their dugout touching Dog Creek.
California's second gold rush, was started in sagebrush. 
They worked from their home so-to-speak.

The year was Eighteen fifty-seven;
they were out on Dog Creek all alone.
Their honeymoon vacation, spent in pure isolation:
high desert, bleak and windblown.
As their "Poke" began to grow heavy,
rumors of their GOLD STRIKE boomed near and far.
Nevada Mormons soon joined them, and never purloined them,
a new town bustled on their gravelly bar.

In the wintertime most miners quit Dogtown. 
Winter's brutal there that's for sure.                            
But Cord and Mary very deft, always stayed -- never left. 
Had each other and knew they'd endure.
All-year-'round Dogtown was their place. 
They moved there to labor together.
Challenges always were met; they were not going to fret,
about forty-below-zero weather.

During an annual Dogtown celebration,
...July 4th, Eighteen fifty-nine,
a miner named "Chris," in celebratory bliss,
wandered nearby hills; stumbling into a find.
As "Chris" rested he idly picked up some dirt,
dirt that turned out to be gold.
"Gold easily found, picked up right off the ground,"
was a story soon widely told.

Dogtown started California's second gold rush,
then wild Monoville came into play.
Of the first thirty-one houses, built in a town that carouses,
twenty-two dealt in whiskey they say.
Aurora was the next strike discovered. 
It was touted as the "New Comstock Lode."
Then came Bodie's turn, a town never to earn,
a reputation of any good moral code.

The year William Bodey founded Bodie,
he died in a blizzard at the edge of his town.
His partner Taylor wandered, in Hot Springs his life squandered,
when in an uprising he was shot down.
Dogtown's fourth winter was ghastly,
hundreds perished in Bodie ten miles away.
But Cord and Mary huddled, together they cuddled,
and vowed that in Dogtown they'd stay.

I mentioned the winters are brutal. 
But do you really know what I mean.
Twenty foot snows and when the wind blows,
it sounds like a wild banshee's scream.
Winds of one hundred miles an hour,
blowing drifts that get eighty feet deep.
Without food and fuel, miners lost nature's duel,
slowly froze and died in their sleep.

Those miners were in the middle-of-nowhere,
long journeys from anywhere else.
Every single thing, which they ate or used came,
by the mule trains to get to their shelf.
The teamsters outnumbered the miners, 
'cause all things were hauled in or out.
Cattle came up from Sally, in the San Joaquin Valley. 
When the snows came most folks did without.

Bodie grew to a town of twelve thousand,
fifteen thousand some people say.
This mining town was rough, when the miners had enough,
they hung outlaws most everyday.
Bodie's ghost town today is still standing. 
You get there by a primitive road.
But in Dogtown nearby, all that catches one's eye:
a pile of rocks from Cord and Mary's abode.

First impression of Dogtown is pint-sized. 
Scarcely there, a small bend in the stream.
From those banks so it's told, came two million in gold. 
Whoever in the world would dream?
You have to wonder what they initially saw there. 
What made them linger at all?
For all that transpired, Mary must have inspired,
Cord to make one heck of a call.

Cord and Mary never left Dogtown. 
They stayed there through boom and through bust.
They later homesteaded, all the land that abetted,
their gold home in Dogtown with trust.
Driving through there I never pass Dogtown. 
I always visit their pile of rocks.
There on that stream, they found their Western dream,
and a life that was filled...with hard knocks.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Last Cattle Drive to Bodie

My last cattle drive to Bodie   
was the worst drive of my career.
On the prod you're bold, or you soon grow old.
Drovers can't share a trail with fear.
We hit the trail in summertime
so how were we to know,
October winds, would be killing our friends,
driving cattle to destruction in the snow.

Things went fine when we first started
…from the corral in "Fresno Flats".
Some local clown, then renamed that town,
to "Oakhurst" …before we got back.
The trail boss planned on Walker Pass
to the Sierra's Eastern slope.
What that trail boss man, didn't have in his plan,
was a storm to make us lose all hope.

The herds we drove seemed small to most
…but we were in the rugged plenty.
Sixty head would do, for a three-cowhand-crew,
total drive was us times twenty.
The three of us were quite a team,
Lefty Pruitt, Charlie Tioga and me.
Through similar weather, we'd ridden together,
on drives for the Backward R Double Bar D.

We were handsomely paid for every head
…that we drove into Bodie's mines.
We were never afraid, but then we didn't get paid,
for any steers that became left-behinds.
So we tattooed our cattle so-to-speak
and we each watched over our score.
Painted their humps, painted their rumps,
different colors and blues I guarded more.

'Course Tioga watched over his yellows
and Pruitt was observing his greens,
We really did fuss, 'cause the three of us,
were accountable for sixty head to our team.
No other team tattooed their cows,
others laughed when they saw our paint.
They laughed at our scheme, but then no other team,
delivered more cows sans any complaint.

The three of us all worked together
and we were always recounting our cows.
You could tell by their bellows, Charlie was counting his yellows
…and in Shoshone though he didn't know how.
Lefty's greens were harder to keep track of
…cause in the trees they could sometimes blend in.
At night when we'd camp…Lefty would get out the lamp,
and add up his two groups of ten.

'Course at night we would hobble the cattle
or else they might fall off a cliff.
Progress was slow, but what we didn't know,
was winter's coming till we caught a whiff.
As number one team of the twenty,
we were lucky to lead most of the way.
The trail boss would ride by, and give us the eye,
then ride back on his Lennington Gray.

'Sixty-one was a terrible winter;
'Sixty-two would see it only get worse.
Started snowing too soon, we damn near got marooned,
and the three of us got very terse.
We got lost in the very first snow squall.  
Toll trail signs told how bad we were lost.
We were tighter than cinches, for that toll trail was French's.  
On his toll trail all profit was cost.

With sixty cows, our nine horses and five pack mules,
French's toll fees could add up real fast.
So rather than fail, we had to find a new trail,
and that's how we discovered…Tioga Pass.
To this day I'm still hating Toll Roads.  
They're a scourge to-a-man's-roaming-free.
They're worse than barbed wire; it sets me on fire,
when I see a Toll Gate with a menu of fees.

Lucky, the bad snow held off till after
…we crossed the Sierra's high divide.
Now all we had to do, was to try something new,
we made sledges for the long downhill ride.
Built twenty sledges for my blues to ride down on.  
Charlie's yellows brought up the rear.
And we understood, Lefty felt really good,
when his greens could not disappear.

We rode through Lee Vining and turned left,
though Lefty tried to turn right.  
Halfway to Bodie, we dined on Coyote,
and by Dogtown all sixty head were in tight.
The last-ten-miles-to-Bodie is easy,
through a cut where you couldn't get lost.
But we'd had no sleep, drifts were twenty feet deep,
and for weeks we'd been breathing our frost.

Took us three days to go those ten miles.  
Bodie's bad men then rustled our beeves.
Though they didn't buy 'em, we could sure identify 'em,
our painted tattoos convicted those thieves.
Although we were professional drovers,
most of our cows didn't have any brands.
But the Law could see paint, though by then it was faint,
on our chaps, on our jeans and our hands.

All sixty head of our "painted" cattle,
were quickly sold right there on the spot.
Reduced to eating "concoction," miners bought them at auction,
and believe me those cows brought a lot.
Not many cattle got to Bodie that winter.  
Later on I heard lots of folks died.
We were not all that smart, but cowboys we did our part,
as for everyone else…well, they tried.

Grizzly bears really ate well that winter.  
The rest of our trail herd was gone.
Fifty-nine men, were not seen again;
was two years 'fore that snowfall was thawn.
The three of us wintered-over in Bishop.  
Finally got home by way of L.A.
Lucky we're still alive, it was our last cattle drive,
and we never ride in the snow to this day.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

D. J. (Darling Jennie)

During our Great Civil War,
women fought both North and South.
Only one woman known as Albert
though. fought the war throughout.

She enlisted in the Infantry,
Company G, the 95th Illinois.
Enlisted when she was nineteen,
passed for a fair-haired boy.

Jennie fought in all the Western Campaigns,
Tennessee, Louisiana then Mississip.
Fought and marched ten thousand miles
in the Infantry that's quite a trip.

Taken prisoner by the rebels,
(she was on a foraging foray.)
Jennie overpowered her captor
and quietly slipped away.

Slipped away as she was a slip of a girl,
stood all of five foot three.
Lieutenant Ives said of her later,
"...best man in my Infantry."

One of the first to enter Vicksburg,
when that Southern fortress fell.
Her commanders called her dependable,
they knew she fought like hell.

Jennie enlisted as Albert D.J. Cashier,
Jennie Hodgers was her real name.
Honorably discharged after serving three years,
Albert came home to a warrior's acclaim.

Returning to work in civilian life,
Albert herded cattle in Illinois.
His life was filled with the out-of-doors,
he was a real Mid-West Cowboy.

Jennie lived the balance of her life
As Albert the Cowboy/handyman.
A heroine though not a hero,
...we all do the best we can.

Albert was buried in full-dress uniform
Nineteen fifteen was the year.
Died all alone except for friends,
to mourn and shed a tear.

Born Jennie Hodgers in Ireland,
...in Eighteen forty four,
Died Albert D.J. Cashier in Illinois,
...one who served throughout the war.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

David Dague sent along this quote about Jennie Hodgers, the subject of this poem: 

"Historians estimate several hundred women may have fought in the Civil War on both sides, but most were discovered and discharged when they received medical attention for wounds or rampant illness. Hodgers is the only one to be fully documented for a complete tour of duty and kept her pension until she died."  
                                                                      Mike Conklin, Chicago Tribune, September 5, 2001

There's an interesting photo and article about Jennie Hodgers at the Illinois Alive! site here.

 

The "Basque"

One night at the Cloven Hoof Saloon,
while playin' poker with my pards.
I overheard an argument that
dang near made me drop my cards.

Two hands were discussin' gunfights,
and who was quicker on the draw.
To overhear foolhardy cowboys,
somehow stuck right in my craw.

Two-Gun Tex and Lefty Clayton,
were the names of those two kids.
They'd both been drinkin' whiskey,
both were filled up to their lids.

Two-Gun Tex was never known as bright,
most folks thought of him as numb.
Lefty Clayton had had enough to drink,
he was half-a-bubble...out-of-plumb.

The swingin' doors then swung apart,
the "Basque" strode through the door.
Stuck in the left side of his belt,
was his well-worn forty-four.

The "Basque" was an old sheepherder,
from the Nevada mountainsides.
When we saw those two kids size him up,
knew they'd both just lost their hides.

Two-Gun Tex said, "Lefty I smell sheep!"
Lefty said, "I smell sheep as well."
The "Basque" strode right on past them,
went up the stairs to Belle's Hotel.

The "Basque" checked in and got a room.
There he bathed, and then he shaved,
splashed on a trace of frou-frou juice,
appeared on the landing looking grave.

Tex then said, "I smell a Frenchy!"
Lefty said, "I smell one too!"
The "Basque" walked grimly down the stairs,
again strode past them walkin' through.

Folks later claimed they'd heard the clicks,
as Tex's single-actions were pulled to cock.
Before Tex could ever fire a round,
he'd been shot...and shot...and shot.

It was at that point that Lefty,
thought he'd join into the fray.
He barely had cleared leather when,
the old "Basque" blew his gun away.

Lefty Clayton's now right-handed,
he no longer has a left .that's useful.
He still likes to rant about "The Fight",
when he gets himself a snoot-full.

A tombstone marks where Tex lies buried.
Reads:  "Here lies Tex with his Two-Guns.
He never shaved. He never married.
He never fathered any sons"

The "Basque" still stops by once a year,
stays upstairs at Belle's Hotel.
If he comes in from the trail .or bath,
no one comments on his smell.

© 2001, David J. Dague 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

The Cloven Hoof Saloon

The Civic Center of our town
is The Cloven Hoof Saloon.
You can find our whole Town
Council there on any afternoon.

It's where they make decisions,
where they settle all disputes.
It's nestled midst the stock pens,
next to the loadin' chutes.

The location is appropriate,
'cause they're full of you know what.
If they run low, they go next door,
get a shovel full while it's hot.

They make all their decisions,
behind doors closed-shut to us.
If we knew of their discussions,
we would probably raise a fuss.

No drinks are sold across the bar,
while Council Members take a turn,
to determine our town's future.
...Once an hour they adjourn.

While they're adjourned,
we can come in and offer them a drink.
The thing that we can't offer them
is our opinion, or what we think.

They're our Selected Politicians,
well schooled in our affairs
and able to dispense with all
our worries and our cares.

They've been selected by the Marshal
and the Federal Territory.
They've been selected, not elected,
which is the basis of this story.

They adjourn to gain refreshment
and to clear their heads and ponder
...just what slot...to bet upon,
on the roulette wheel over yonder.

We've got them to protect us,
and to tell us what to do.
They have our best welfare in mind,
they have a special plannin' crew.

Our Town Council is quite pious
when it comes to passin' laws.
The Cloven Hoof is closed on Sundays,
and the reason is because.

Our Town Council is in session,
bonin' up on all of the facts.
Figurin' ways to raise new revenues,
place more taxes on our backs.

It's also closed on Sundays
so it becomes their social hall.
Special friends they will let in,
their opposition not at all.

Every ranch around needs water
so Council's plannin' a new ditch,
to run right down the edge of town,
make every Council Member rich!

They oversee the station rights
to the only railroad in the valley.
Next thing...they'll build a Toll Road,
it would be right up their alley.

They ponder puttin' on a head-tax,
on every cow that comes around.
Ponder givin' ranchers jail time
for shippin' cows from other towns.

With all of these improvements,
every rancher's goin' broke.
Can't afford to pay their cowhands,
there's no money in the poke.

Politicians say, "Become a State,
we'll all be much better off.
Council Members could be Senators,
we'll feed from a bigger trough."

"We could soon attract more immigrants,
sell them all some worthless land.
Real Estate could be our future.
What's so hard to understand?"

Well it took them dang near twenty years
but we've become a state.
We get to hold elections now,
Council's selected their own slate.

The votes have all been counted
and the Council Members lost.
Put an end to all their plannin',
...no matter what the cost.

Would be nice to say good government
was the spur that urged the vote.
The reason was more personal,
one those politicos should note.

Cowboys come to town on Saturday,
stay through Sunday afternoon.
Only place now open Sundays
is...the Cloven Hoof Saloon.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Hardscrabble Road

I often passed the turnoff sign
that reads "Hardscrabble Road."
Never thought I'd take that turnoff,
never thought that I'd grow old.

Now every time I go wherever,
...it's the only road I take.
First time that I went up that road,
thought I'd made a big mistake.

I stopped and asked a rancher,
one who ranched out on that road,
if he could please direct me,
...as I was totin' quite a load.

He said, "You're on the right track,
that's why you've lived this long.
You just keep goin' up this road,
if you do...you can't go wrong."

So I started up "Hardscrabble Road"
and yes...it's uphill all the way.
Though I ride and walk it daily now,
it takes longer every day.

Your age is only relative,
I hear younger people say.
Age and me are sure related,
my hair that's left is turnin' gray.

I'm turnin' gray inside...as well as out,
'cept for the gray cells that I'm losin'.
To live long enough to take this road,
wasn't totally my choosin'.

I've broken my neck more than once,
while doin' something foolish.
Folks said, "Keep it up kid and you'll kill yourself."
dismissed them all as bein' ghoulish.

Bustin' broncs was just my way-of-life,
bustin' bones...my way as well.
But when I started ridin' bulls,
they gave me a glimpse of Hell.

Bulls helped me break near every bone.
Well.they may have missed a couple.
Torn ligaments, tendons, muscles too,
...there's not a part of me still supple.

Thank you Lord...for plastic hips.
Thanks again for Nylon knees.
Titanium pins and "Stainless" steel,
ample winnin's for surgeon's fees.

I can no longer enjoy a drink,
booze goes straight up to my head.
Spend all my time apologizin' for
stuff I don't remember that I said.

I think my drinkin' is affected
by the many pills I take.
I take pills at night to go to sleep,
pills after lunch to stay awake.

Pills to help me keep it up.
I don't remember...up for what.
Keep takin' artificial hormones,
'cause they're the only ones I've got.

I used to eat a balanced diet,
steaks and taters and some greens,
pot of coffee, black, with eggshells,
dessert...a plate of chili beans.

Now, I do "Juice" in place of breakfast,
parsley, carrots, apples, beets.
And for lunch a plate of yogurt,
keeps up my strength for "Checkers" meets.

Once again I'd like to shoot some pool,
but my lungs can't take the smoke.
Doc' says, "Keep hangin' round that hall,
You'll learn a different kind of stroke."

Twice a month, I still play poker,
just to keep my fingers loose.
And so I can still keep track of
all my old pards at the Moose.

My old pards are mostly gone now.
They rode on-up "Hardscrabble Road."
I never did hear one admit,
that he or she was growing old.

Then again they mostly did die young,
as their lives back then were rougher.
Artificially rebuilt I keep on goin',
Medicare has made me tougher.

"Hardscrabble Road" has hooked me now,
in truth...the only road I ever traveled.
Now I look forward to those daily treks,
thinkin' how wonderfully life unraveled.

I'll keep goin' on up that challengin' road
'till at last I reach the crest.
But when I cross over to the other side,
Lord.let me finally stop to rest.

© 2001, David J. Dague 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Bourbonnais -- Heinrich Kluerman's Town

One hundred towns have been my base,
give or take a few.
Best were the days, spent in Bourbonnais
with my favorite cowboy crew.

Out in the breaks, roundin' up mavericks,
layin' on our brands.
Cowboy, it sure pays, to build a herd of strays
with nothin' but your hands.

Those mavericks were crazy, mean and wild,
hard to rope and brand.
Crew never thought twice, considerin' the price,
they were quick to understand.

First trip out we got near two hundred head,
took them to our pen.
We were workin' in pairs, workin' on shares
so we went right out again.

Backward R Double Bar D was our ranch.
A ranch we moved a lot.
Pressure from the law, could make us withdraw,
moved on when things got hot.

By the tenth trip out we finished the job.
We had built-up our new herd.
Bunch of young fools, we had too many old bulls,
then a crazy thing occurred.

Met a fast talkin' German from Hamburg, who cheaply
bought some of those bulls.
The crew took my advice, any money was nice,
as payment for those culls.

Over time that German took ninety head.
Guess what he was doin?
Poundin' that beef, puttin' it through grief,
'till it was easy chewin'.

Never would of caught on to this battered meat,
if it hadn't been for Willie.
Found the German's place down, at the edge of town.
price he was chargin' was silly.

Willie learned he called them "Hamburger" steaks.
We called it hammered beef.
But it weren't no time, 'till there were endless lines,
queues of folks beyond belief.

Penny more he would give you some onions,
in your pan of hammered meat.
If you said please, he'd add German cheese,
made quite a tasty treat.

Now they sell those old bulls with cutters and poors.
"Luncheon Meats" my friends.
But it was Heinrich Kluerman, a wily old German,
made hamburger from old bull rends.

Today giant plants make hamburger patties,
the only thing they do.
Forty billion patties a year, from one plant I hear,
they swear on the Bible it's true.

Huge grinders doin' two hundred tons and some,
usin' lots of electricity power.
"Am I all alone or did I bite some chipped bone?"
They check for bones perhaps once every hour.

Bet that old Heinrich is laughin' out loud, if he's
Lookin' down from above.
He's probably surrounded, by meat he has pounded.
Hamburger made with hard-hittin' love.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David adds:

Origin of the word: If you've eaten as many hamburgers as I have, you also may have wondered how this word came to be. 

Seems that in the early 1800's folks in Hamburg, Germany liked to eat beef steak that had been pounded to make it more tender. Pounded beef was brought to America with the waves of German immigrants in the early and mid 1800's.  Hamburger steak, it's surmised, began to appear on American menus in the mid 1830's.  The first recorded use of Hamburg steak is found in 1884 in the Boston Journal.  Hamburger steak was first printed in a Walla Walla, Washington newspaper in 1889.  The hamburger had come into being as did the Americanism hamburger.  Ground beef later replaced pounded beef in hamburger steak, probably introduced in the 1890's and was widely known by the early 1900's.

Jim Bridger's Rendezvous with History

Jim Bridger was a famous Mountain Man,
I learned as a very young child.
On my Mother's knee...she would read to me,
of his adventures out in the wild.

Jim Bridger was born in Richmond, Virginia,
St. Patrick's Day, eighteen o' four.
In St. Louis by eight...at his new Western gate,
this portal was History's door.

Jim lost both his parents when he was fourteen,
apprenticed to a blacksmith then.
Worked hard at the trade...but he wasn't well-paid,
still he didn't quit wearin' his grin.

Jim went West trappin' fur as a teenage boy,
three years before the first Rendezvous.
'twenty-five to 'forty-one...'till they were done,
He made them all, maybe missed one or two.

Rendezvous were Tradin' Fairs held out in the wild,
where trappers traded furs for supplies.
They'd blow off steam...by the edge of a stream,
once a year, then say their good-byes.

William Henry Ashley hauled supplies West in wagons,
very first wagon trains to the West.
His teamsters seldom got lost...but think of his cost,
trappers griped at the price none-the-less.

Bridger's sham nemeses were the Blackfoot Indians,
fiercest warriors of the Northwest.
Though they always tried...to capture his hide,
he was cunnin' when he was pressed.

He got along with most of those Indian Tribes,
in fact he was the Big Chief of five.
His cleverest deed...breathed air through a reed,
hid under water to escape and survive.

He opened a Tradin' Post called Fort Bridger,
a main stop on the Oregon Trail.
Traded with Indian men...and immigrant kin,
traded buffalo robes by the bale.

Fellow trapper Louis Vasquez was his partner,
together they ran the Fort.
A small fortune was made, in endeavors of trade,
wasn't often their side was short.

Rumor was they sold rifles and whiskey,
to trappers and Red Men as well.
Vasquez was the foreman...of trade with the Mormons,
Bridger had Red Men under his spell.

Had reputations as fair, honest traders,
both were known as charlatans too.
Some said they had the looks...of fraudulent crooks,
depends on your point-of-view.

Books say Bridger discovered the Great Salt Lake,
Etienne Provost other books say.
Which books are true...depends on your point-of-view,
I still don't know to this day.

No wonder Bridger's past is controversial,
tall tales he told by the fire.
Not much was the truth...no one asked him for proof,
only foolish men called him a liar.

"While trappin' hides along the Yellowstone River,"
(Jim told this tale with pure glee.)
"Treed by an attack...from a vicious wolf pack,
wolves recruited a beaver to chew down the tree."

"Hopelessly cornered in a box canyon by Hostiles,"
...to a tenderfoot he solemnly lied.
Heard the tenderfoot shout... "How did you get out?"
Jim said, "I didn't!  That time I died."

Bridger always had a problem with tellin' pure truth,
leg pullin' was his special charm.
To folks who made trouble...he'd give them back double,
pulled both their leg and their arm.

A reputation for truth's hard to come by,
Yellowstone Valley seemed another tall tale.
Told of a huge geyser...his doubters felt wiser,
forty years 'till they lifted that veil.

Blacksmith, trapper, explorer, trader, storyteller, guide,
Jim Bridger lived all those lives.
One thing for certain...he wasn't lonely or hurtin',
his companions, three Indian wives.

Jim Bridger discovered a pass through the Rockies,
the route of Interstate 80 today.
'Cause of his hedgin'...some folks doubt he's a legend,
his endeavors persevere anyway.

To-tell-the-truth I still read about Jim Bridger.
No longer do I know what's true.
He provided an infusion...of lots that's confusion,
still I venerate him, how about you?

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David adds:

My relationship with Jim Bridger:  One of the earliest memories of my childhood is sitting on my Mother's lap while she read to me the exploits of her favorite hero -- Jim Bridger, Mountain Man.  My Mother and Jim Bridger were both born in Virginia.  She related an oral history of his many adventures that was far better than anything she read to me from books.

Mother lived in Bridger, Montana from the age of eight on and told me of going West by covered wagon from Minneapolis to Bridger in 1912.  These discombobulated details assembled in my juvenile mind produced a distorted picture of my Mother and Jim Bridger trapping beaver shoulder-to-shoulder along the many rivers and streams of Western Montana.

Although they were born almost exactly 100 years apart from one another, in my mind they were not only contemporaries but peers as well.  Mother related their stories as though she was by his side as events unfolded.  What young child would believe that Jim Bridger would live anywhere else but in the town that was named for him?

Jim Bridger answered a notice which appeared March 20, 1822 in the Missouri Republican in St. Louis.  Jim Bridger was 18 years and three days old on the date of publication of this notice.  I've read in various books that he was 17, 19, and 22.  The notice follows:

To Enterprising Young Men:  The subscriber wishes to engage one hundred young men to ascend the Missouri River to its Source, there to be employed for one, two or three years.  For particulars, inquire of Major Andrew Henry near the lead mines in County of  Washington, who will ascend with and command the party of the subscribed near St Louis.  signed William H. Ashley

Jim Bridger was in excellent company.  Other members of the expedition were three future frontier giants - Jedediah Smith, Thomas Fitzpatrick and Hugh Glass.

Jim Bridger, in my mind, was the consummate frontiersman.  Following the demise of the fur trade (1841) he remained in the Rockies, unlike the majority of his fellow trappers.  He founded two different Fort Bridger's, which seems to create a great deal of confusion for his modern day biographers.  The First  Fort Bridger he founded in 1841 along with his partner Henry Frab.  This first Fort Bridger was on the Green River between the Big Sandy and Black's Fork.  It consisted of a few log cabins and before these were finished, hostile Indians killed Henry Frab.  The second Fort Bridger was founded the following year with his partner Louis Vasquez. The location of this Famous Fort Bridger was also on the Green River but at Black's Fork.  It was described as a lush, well watered, oasis of 700 to 800 acres covered with knee-high grasslands which were intersected by many streams alive with mountain trout.

Jim Bridger was renowned as a cartographer and had a photographic memory for terrain.  He probably guided more wagon trains West than all other scouts and guides combined.  He spoke English, French, Spanish, various Indian dialects and was known to mesmerize large gatherings of mixed Indian tribes for hours speaking only in sign language.

His relationships with most Indian tribes were legendary and he was Chief of five Indian tribes. In his many years as a fur trapper, his reputation for avoiding confrontations with the Indians and for always turning a healthy profit brought him the great admiration of his partners and fellow trappers.

Jim Bridger was the first white man to discover the Great Salt Lake in 1824. However, some Utah based authors claim the same discovery for Etienne Provost.  About the same time he described the Yellowstone Valley with its hot water geysers and pools of boiling mud.  His reputation for tall tales prevented anyone from believing this obvious fabrication.  However, there's
evidence that John Colter was the first of the mountain men to discover Yellowstone. He described the same geysers and boiling mud in 1808, but no one believed him either.

Jim Bridger's most important discovery was revealed in 1850 to Captain Howard Stanbury. Stanbury stopped at Fort Bridger and asked about a shorter route across the Rockies than the South Pass.  Bridger guided him through a pass that ran south from the Great Basin.  This pass would come to be known as Bridger's Pass and would be the route for the Overland Stage, The Union Pacific Railroad line and later Interstate 80.

As a teller of tall tales, he had no equal.  His favorite targets for these ruses were tenderfoot easterners who were taken in by his serious manner. When he had solemnly convinced his greatest skeptics of the veracity of some wild tale, he would laugh all the louder when his hoax was finally discovered.  He often told of Glass Mountains and reminisce about the days when Pikes Peak was just a hole in the ground.

From 1853 until his death on July 17, 1881, his life was mostly taken up with legal battles, turmoil and controversy.  Jim Bridger probably enjoyed every minute of these activities.  It still seems remarkable that one man carried out what he accomplished and most often...he was alone. 

David J. Dague, October 2001

Advertisin' for The Cloven Hoof Saloon

There's a sign out front of the Cloven Hoof,
a sign that's worth repeatin'.
"Bad Booze, Bum Food, Rotten Service,
but we offer immediate Seatin'."

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Fort Dearborn
(333 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60601)

As I rush to my office each morning,
I slow down on the sidewalk outside.
Bronze plates are embedded in the sidewalk's cement,
acting as silent historical guides.
Fort Dearborn, long ago, was constructed right here,
to guard Chicago's original port.
Bronze markers placed in the front sidewalk,
depict the confines of the old fort.

Chekagou first appeared on area maps
used in Sixteen-eighty-four.
The Red Man's word for smelly wild onions,
became Chicago, in the new White Man's lore.
Jean Baptist Point du Sable, the first "White Settler",
here in Seventeen-seventy-nine.
This first White Man...in truth was a Black Man.
Chekagou...suited du Sable just fine.

Jean du Sable was born in Haiti.
His French father later sent him to France.
Next came a desk job in New Orleans,
but to explore the "New West" was his chance.
Jean Baptist traveled north to Peoria,
where he married a Potawatomi maid.
Though they lived among Kittihawa's wild kinfolk,
Jean flourished and was never afraid.

du Sable trapped furs on the Illinois River,
until he heard of vast seas to the North.
Overwhelmed by the tales of the tribesmen,
to the Great Lakes the couple set forth.
They settled down on the Chekagou River,
at its junction with Michigan's Lake.
This former trapper transformed into a trader,
his location choice...the best he would make.

He candidly traded with the regional Red Men
and in buckskins like theirs...he now dressed.
du Sable was the only Non-Red-Man here,
his trading post...the outermost West.
Jean Baptist remained here for twenty-one years,
in Eighteen-hundred he thought it was time,
to move away from civilization's encroachment.
Sold the trading post to one Jean Lalime.

Three years after du Sable's migration,
Americans started building their Palisade Fort.
du Sable had used only fair and free trade,
.his successors used Army support.
Fort construction began in Eighteen-o-three,
completed in Eighteen-o-eight.
War with the British in Eighteen-twelve,
.decisively sealed Fort Dearborn's fate.

John Kinzie had come west to Chicago,
later bought the trading post from Lalime.
Kinzie sold the Red Men whiskey and guns.
Avarice was his special crime.
Hostile Red Men took sides with the British,
for the Americans were stealing their land.
They decided to burn-down this hated fort
and its total-destruction was planned.

Washington's Army offered . no practical aid
to this outpost, so far to the West.
From Detroit, General William Hull ordered .
"Abandon The Fort!...retreat for a while is best."
Captain Nathan Heald, who commanded The Fort,
delayed their leaving...just a little too long.
By the time they were packed and ready to go,
the Red Men's forces were simply too strong.

Before departure...Kinzie's warehouse of whiskey
was surreptitiously dumped in the lake.
But the Red Men were onto their actions,
they got angry...make no mistake.
Soldiers destroyed all the muskets and powder,
they had to leave behind at The Fort.
Most Red Men took note of these measures,
planned a reprisal as their retort.

Potawatomi, Wyandotte, Fox and Sauk.
Notable warriors...all did their share.
Later, Potawatomis blamed the Winnebago,
though these Wisconsinites never were there.
The battle was fought outside of the fort
as the soldiers began their retreat.
They got as far away...as a mile-and-a-half,
to Eighteenth and Prairie Street.

There's another bronze plaque that marks the spot,
you can see it there to this day.
The battle those Red Men and Soldiers fought,
was bizarre...in how scores...got away.
Local Red Men thought of their White's as friends,
but strangers on both sides were lost.
Red Men were angry and some were confused,
when this war meant their friendships were cost.

The warrior, Black Partridge, saved White Settler's lives.
Meanwhile...Chief Blackbird led the attack.
This odd battle was fought while sorting out friends,
giving strangers no quarter or slack.
Fort Dearborn was burned to the ground the next day.
Four years passed...then it was rebuilt.
John Kinzie had returned inside of a year,
quickly bounced-back in spite of his guilt.

Course all of the Red Men lost in the end,
the friendlies and hostiles as well.
When Chief Black Hawk, a Sauk, lost the Black Hawk War,
Red Men were deported...to Iowa's Hell.
With the Red Men's departure no one needed The Fort,
so they sold it and moved it away.
An Art Deco skyscraper now stands on the site.
Yet one can conjure up the old fort...any day.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Sunup, High Noon or Sundown

Whether it was Sunup, High Noon or Sundown,
in the Old West three times-of-the-day...to avoid.
But not for the town's overworked undertaker,
those gun fights kept him...fully employed.

You'd never hear a gun fightin' challenger say,
"I'll meet you promptly at Ten-seventeen."
or  "We'll face each other at tea time."
or  "Pick some suitable time in between."

Bad reputations were built on tradition.
Traditions upheld are permitted to thrive.
Though that meant that those hard-case gunslingers,
had a much slimmer chance to survive.

Who in his right mind wouldn't want to draw first?
Traditionally, it's somethin' that they'd never do.
Always gave their opponent first chance at the draw.
Why that made sense...I haven't a clue.

They could've kept their six-gun in its holster.
Couldn't draw first...why bother at all?
If they always gave somebody else a head start,
weren't their chances of winnin' quite small?

Most gun fighters probably didn't own a good watch,
so they chose those three times of the day.
Sunup and Sundown could've been quite exact,
as for High Noon...with no watch who could say?

Could've told time by the crowds of folks goin' to lunch,
or asked some Dude who owned a Big Ben.
Who's to say that his watch really kept the right time?
High Noon fighters weren't too common back then.

Gun fighters always liked the Sun at their back,
shinnin' full in the other guy's eyes.
So even if they let their opponent draw first,
they might give him a hot-lead surprise.

So fair tradition evolved to "Meet me at High Noon."
A gun fighter was soon known by his watch.
If his opponent drew early but couldn't shoot straight,
the gun fighter would add...a new notch.

© 2001, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Town of Wonder

The town recklessly exploded from nowhere,
on an outcrop of high-grade ore.
Suddenly there was a bustling town,
where naught but desert had been seen before.

Raw canvass tents sprang up as shelter,
for the rowdy new dirt-floor saloons.
The best ones had upright pianos,
playing all the old 'forty-niner tunes.

Next a wooden-framed shed for a general store,
then a "Certified" Office of Assay.
Promoter's spanking-new Land Offices,
searched back East for prime greenhorn prey.

Streets erupted in a rash of beige tents,
near the Irish... "Kettle of Stew."
Bosses hired their muckers from only this tent,
when taking on a deep-mining crew.

Mine owners soon built a small arrastra,
to process the mined hard-rock ore.
As more claims proved-out, a steam ten-stamp mill
began to process many tons more.

Dynamite blasts tore gold ore seams apart,
beneath the town's dusty main street.
Wonder was built on a reef of gold ore,
that deeply lay under their feet.

Muffled explosions from subterranean shafts,
sporadically trembled the ground.
Huge hoisting engines clattered and banged,
hauling up gold ore miners had found.

A deafening uproar grated on visitor's ears,
as the boomtown continued to grow.
Hee-haws of burros and rough raspy saws,
loud mining noises no stranger would know.

The true measure of any new boomtown,
was the length of its main thoroughfare.
Town lots platted and sold by a swindler,
exampled the old term "Buyer Beware."

Sagebrush lots with frontage on Main Street,
sold for up to eight thousand in dust.
Yet required quick payback of the outlay as,
booms in-the-blink-of-an-eye could go bust.

First located in May, by the middle of June,
this boomtown had by then taken root.
A new church?  Undeniably planned for,
but first...a new house of easy repute.

The stagecoach pulled in daily at noontime,
loaded with passengers, cargo and mail.
This stage carried out Wonder's gold bullion,
bound for Fallon...on down the trail.

Stage men armed with sawed-off shotguns,
guarded strongboxes filled with gold.
If you rode "Shotgun" for the Fallon stage,
you had slim chance or none to grow old.

There were plenty of bad desperados,
in the high-desert hills around Wonder.
The Fallon stagecoach was a tempting source,
of gold dust they would eagerly plunder.

When the Fallon stage became overdue,
a posse would backtrack its run.
Posse likely would find the gold bullion gone,
one more time the darn outlaws had won.

Wonder wouldn't pay for a decent size jail,
so most often offenders were hung.
'Twarn't no nary to most of the miners,
thought all were guilty, the old or the young.

Old-timers bragged how they were so rich,
untapped wealth still out in the wilds.
Greenhorns bought into their contrary lies,
with belief like that of a child's.

These prospectors drank on a stranger's cash,
as greenhorns bellied up to the bar.
When queried why they weren't out digging,
claimed their claims were out a little too far.

A vastly rich claim, a-bottle-and-a-half-out-of-town,
was just too far out don't you see.
Greenhorns though...could cheaply buy their claim,
go back East as rich as can be.

The town grew to have wooden buildings,
and a smooth-graded main thoroughfare.
Gold was mined in Wonder until 1919,
town was perched on a great golden lair.

For years Wonder lured dudes and drifters,
miners, blasters and crooks by the score.
Then one day came wonder of all wonders,
Wonder...ran flat out of ore.

No more reckless explosions from nowhere,
no more Dynamite jarring the floor.
Suddenly there was naught but desert again,
where Wonder had been seen before.

© 2001, David J. Dague 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

We know David Does a lot of research for his poetry, so we asked him about the background for Town of Wonder and he replied:

Although "Town of Wonder" is a whimsical poem, it does have some basis in fact.  There was indeed a town named Wonder, Nevada, which came into existence in 1906 and (appropriately) lasted 13 years.

Some years ago I began exploring the Ghost Towns of eastern California and western Nevada and my Guidebook was (and still is) "Nevada Ghost Towns and Mining Camps" by Stanley W. Paher.  My copy is a second printing, published in 1970, but this important book on Nevada's history is now in its 13th printing.

There was indeed a Fallon Stagecoach.  It was a stage line that ran six- horse coaches between Wonder, Fairview and Fallon, Nevada.  The following is a photo caption in Mr. Paher's book beneath an old photo of the Nevada Wonder Mine.

"The above view shows over-all facilities at the mine and mill.  To run this 200-ton cyanide plant, electric power was brought in from Bishop, California; the transmission line was said to have been the nation's largest at the time.  Piped water came from Dead Horse Creek, ten miles away."

By the way a sagebrush lot on Main Street did sell for as much as $8,000.00 and The Wonder Boosters circulated a series of cartoon post cards to help boost investment dollars from eastern greenhorns' wallets.

 

Out Stringin' Fence

Darkness tumbled from the shoulders of the storm clouds movin' in,
our little outfit was a two-man fencin' crew.
We pitched a hasty, early camp, with a campfire for the damp,
we were yearnin' for the coffee we'd soon brew.

Lightnin' flashin' off the rimrocks high above us in the night,
sleet was icin' up our campfire and our tack.
Though the ground we chose was high, didn't mean that it was dry,
in the open with no shelter at our back.

Lightnin' fired nearby conifers givin' us a campfire after all,
now if we could find the coffee and the pot.
Our poor horses spooked by thunder, sent our hitchin' line asunder,
an icy horse chase in the darkness, was our lot.

Lefty whistled up his filly; she galloped back through icy rain,
he trained that horse with love and currycomb.
Whistled for the other steeds, but they just kept up their speeds,
in the stormy night they headed straight for home.

The wire-wagon team was crucial if we were gonna finish stringin' fence,
it's hard to haul fence-posts and wire on a horse.
So my pard rode off alone, to fetch those horses back from home.
It became my job to set-up camp of course.

I worked close-up to the fire for its warmth and for the light,
'cause the night was 'bout the darkest I had seen.
Then the wind began to blow, the sleety-rain changed into snow.
more lightnin' flashes chased the darkness from the scene.

Lightnin' let me see to drape a lean-to off the wire-wagon's side,
but the wind raised Cain with all the work I'd done.
Though the storm was quite extreme, through it all I heard the scream,
of the stalking cat...and me without a gun.

When I first saw that painter...she was by the fire eatin' stew,
looked at me just like she knew I was unarmed.
Never saw a cougar any thinner, she scarfed down the double dinner,
when she licked her lips at me I was alarmed.

The fire didn't seem to bother that big cat the slightest bit.
think that she was only tryin' to get warm.
When she joined me in the shelter, my heartbeat went helter-skelter,
bedded down beside me safe out of the storm.

When my pard came back next evenin' both the cat and storm were gone,
believe me when I say, I never told a soul.
That big cat still comes to visit, and she really looks exquisite,
scarfin' down my stew from her own special bowl.

© 2002, David J. Dague 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David Dague adds:  When my mother died in 1991, I returned to California to live on her ranch outside of Clovis.  The next six years were spent in sorting through all of the "stuff" my mother had accumulated in her eighty-seven years here on earth.  I hadn't really lived on the ranch, with the exception of short visits, for more than thirty-five years.  During my absence, a large number of people had moved into the hills above her ranch, putting a lot of people-pressure on the local mountain lion population.

Returning to the place of my youth gave me the rare opportunity of reliving my childhood.  This former "Cattle Ranch" was now a huge "Almond Grove." The thing that was missing was livestock.  Soon I had chickens and ducks, a thirty-pound pigmy goat and a nine hundred and thirty pound pet purebred Yorkshire pig named "Bounce."  Unknown to me, before the investment in livestock, I also had numerous coyotes, foxes (both the red and the rare and endangered bat-eared varieties) and nearly every dark and stormy night a visiting puma.

This cat had a fascination with the bags of pelletized pig feed that I kept in the pig's shed.  I think the cat was attracted by the smell of the feed but for whatever reason, this cat would raid the shed and carry off the seventy-five pound bags into the Almond Grove and tear them open.  By sign one could tell these bags were carried, not dragged, into the grove, quite a feat for a cat that we estimated to weigh about one hundred and seventy-five pounds.  As near as I could tell by sign, the cat never really consumed any of the feed, but it was never just-left-to-be.  Once the bag or bags had been carried into the grove and ripped open, the cat would turn to more serious matters.  Like every ranch in the area, we had numerous feral house cats for rodent control.  This cat would invariably chase down two or three of these feral house cats, kill them with one bite through the spine and then leave them where they'd met their demise.  The cat no doubt consumed the missing chickens and ducks and stupidly the cat attacked "Bounce" on its initial visit.  "Bounce" had only one claw scratch on the side of her neck but by the tracks left at the scene it was a scary encounter for the cat.  During my stay at the ranch the cat went through nearly forty feral house cats and more than one hundred chickens and ducks.

I saw this cat by luck on only two occasions but over a period of three years she (we guessed the cat was female) made more than fifty raids on the ranch. A professional tracker from Prather, California came to visit her "Crime Scene" following her first four raids and taught me a lot about reading the signs she left in the soft, wet ground.  He explained that cats love stormy rainy nights because even if there's a full moon the night is dark and there's little chance of encountering some Cowboy out for a stroll.  When I was writing this poem I went out stringin' fence in my mind, it started into stormin' and the next thing I saw once again was my cat.

 

Grandpa's Champion

My grandpa said to me, as I was sitting on his knee,
"Let me tell you 'bout Nate Champion's Johnson County War."
I said, "It was April ninth of '92 and let me tell it back to you.
You see we've ridden down this well-worn trail before."

Gramps said, "Giddyap!"  So I began to recite his favorite...

Johnson County was my home,
where the buffalo once roamed,
open range where grass and water went for free.
Though the County was quite large,
wealthy ranchers soon took charge.
They wouldn't leave a little spread like mine...for me.

I was an over-worked cowhand,
ropin' mavericks for the brand,
of some British rancher this cowhand never saw.
Then one day the thought occurred,
I could build-up my own herd,
'ceptin' rustlin' mavericks...was agin the law.

Us poor cowhands were out classed,
cuz big ranchers had laws passed,
makin' wild mavericks their exclusive claim.
But I was saddle-tired, sore and stiff,
and gettin' tired of what-if,
workin' hard for someone else was not my game.

Legislatourist's then took note,
even poor cowhands could vote,
they changed the law to give us all...an even break.
Wealthy ranchers didn't care,
thought that their old laws were fair,
told each other they would remedy this mistake.

Wealthy ranchers' war anticipation,
started "The Wyoming Stock Growers' Association,"
large numbers gives more strength to fight the battle.
Then small ranchers like me and you,
started "The Northern Wyoming Farmers and Stock Grower's Association Too,"
larger numbers gives more men for rustlin' cattle.

Their Association put out a call,
for one roundup a year each Fall,
with a three thousand dollar "Bond" to put up a bid.
Our Association a call did bring,
for one roundup a year each Spring,
with a two-bit "Bond" as our members' Bondin' lid.

Wealthy ranchers then got sore,
hired an army to start the war,
they vowed to wipe out all us "rustlers" for good.
Tired of all our "rustlers" vexes,
they hired gunmen straight from Texas,
their "duty" these regulators understood.

Wealthy ranchers added a new twist,
they wrote out a got-to-get "Black List."
Mine was one of more than seventy names included.
In the wealthy man's tradition,
they listed all their competition,
the Texans though said squatters weren't precluded.

April fifth without explanation,
an ominous train left Cheyenne's station.
transportin' their army out upon our "rustlers" trail.
Their well-armed army train,
hard to legitimately explain,
rumor had it Texans never feared our jail.

The plan of the absentee cowhustlers,
was to kill all squatters and us "rustlers",
attack our town of Buffalo and the sheriff there as well.
Confiscate all our militia's arms,
before our town could raise alarms,
cut telegraph lines so there'd be no one we could tell.

Nate Champion was our leader;
he was a local cattle feeder,
feedin' 'bout two hundred head that he had "found."
KC was his small-ranch brand;
he was a Texan, a Top Cowhand,
but hired guns would run Nate Champion to ground.

Near KC Cabin the night train unloaded,
regulators on mounts exploded,
from what had become a well-armed, six-car train.
Surroundin' KC cabin they silently crept,
as Champion's cowhands snored and slept.
Killin' Champion would signal a victorious campaign.

Cattlemen knew they must kill this leader,
this local "rustlin" cattle feeder,
first step...if their war was to be won.
Texas regulators knew,
only a "trained" army would do.
The final odds were fifty-two-to-one!

Two out-of-work visitin' hands rose early,
stumbled to the creek feelin' sorta knurly,
weren't "Black Listed" so they both were soon let go.
Nate Champion's pardner was Nick Ray,
he was the next man underway,
ambushed at the doorway while movin' kinda slow.

Champion was strong, real tall and slender,
and now the cabin's lone defender,
his pardner Ray crawled back and died there on the floor.
Champion kept the hired guns at bay,
throughout his last and longest day.
Texas regulators never fought a Champion before.

Oscar Flagg then chanced by in his wagon,
while listenin' to his stepson's braggin'.
Came under fire, but cut the team free and they fled.
Sheriff of Buffalo was warned,
and a local posse formed,
Flagg's wagon though meant Champion was dead!

Worried how this daylong battle was draggin',
Texans fueled Flagg's vacant wagon,
planned to roll it on the cabin from above.
Once the wagon was fueled and fired,
one thing further was required,
downhill speed...gave it a big West Texas shove.

Dodgin' through fire, smoke and haze,
they shot Nate as he fled the blaze,
that Cowboy got forty feet outside the door.
His death had cost 'em an entire day,
which proved a truly-bad timin' delay,
their plannin' turned out to be West Texas poor.

The "rustlers" were warned by the attack,
at the Champion's mountain shack,
though they rode to Champion's rescue much too late.
Their gunned-down, handsome leader died,
while the law was on his side,
"rustlers" pent-up anger then turned to pure hate.

At the TA ranch...hired guns holed-in,
waitin' for the battle to begin,
foreman Charley Ford gave regulators harbor.
The on-hold battle and standoff delays,
dragged along for four-long-days,
till big ranchers got aholt of Governor Barber.

Regulators picked battles one-sided and grifty,
but odds were now three hundred-to-fifty,
not a fight that Texas regulators choose.
Though not their strong desire,
they withheld their witherin' fire,
if they started into shootin' they might lose.

Governor pleaded with President Harrison,
to call out soldiers from his Garrison,
halt the "insurrection" with U.S. Federal Troops.
When the cavalry prevailed,
Texas hired guns were jailed,
crooked Judges started jumpin' through their hoops.

Temporarily to the hoosegow they were evicted,
but none of the gunmen were convicted.
However, wild Wyoming was never quite the same.
Champion had drawn-in his last breath,
but 'cause of his untimely death,
Johnson County was Wyoming's lastin' shame.

The estate he left was pret near zero;
Nate Champion's legacy is as a hero,
while probably a small-ranch "rustler" like the rest.
That fateful day spent in KC cabin,
not knowin' historically he was grabbin',
his special place of fame in the Old Wild West.

"When I finished, Gramps was sleeping, but his history I'm keeping,
because when I get old I'll still remember Gramps.
His stories are the best, about the True Life Wild West,
because he lived it with his fellow saddle tramps."

© 2002, David J. Dague 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David adds: The main area of interest throughout my history...is History!  When I initially got hooked on writing Cowboy Poetry, I very quickly ran out of familiar topics about which to write.  I began searching for new subjects to make the theme or focus of a poem.  "The Johnson County Cattle Wars" was presented in a series called "Vendettas" on "The History Channel" and it immediately rang my bell.  As I said, I love history, not "Hollywood History," just plain and simple factual history.  The History Channel's presentations that concern events familiar to me are amazingly accurate. The information available on the Internet is so contradictory; one has to be extremely careful.  There's an old cowhand's caution that applies to the Internet, "Watch where you step!"

The two "Hands" that were in KC Cabin with Nick Ray and Nate Champion were Bill Walker and Ben Jones or at least that's what I've read.  I've also read that these two men were out-of-work cowhands, out-of-work freighters and out-of-work trappers.  This information indicated to me that these two men were probably out-of-work and nothing else, so attempting to be accurate; they were described in the poem only as out-of-work hands.  They weren't included in the History Channel's presentation as I recall.  Their omission no doubt had more to do with limitations on airtime than their importance to the story.  They were both "Run-Off" into the hills and hid out for years in fear of their lives because of events they had witnessed.

I trust that "Grandpa's Champion" accurately represents a one-sided view of the events that took place in and around the town of Buffalo, Wyoming in the spring of 1892.  I tried to be as accurate as possible with the information that's used to portray these events and would welcome receiving e-mails from anyone with contradictory views or any information on this interesting part of our western history.

 

Outlaw in Black in The Badlands

Back in '56 while ridin' with Lefty,
for The Backward-R-double-Bar-D,
we drove a herd west,
towards the Bakersfield Crest,
to the railhead at Tehachapi.

Found an old poster offerin' a big reward,
on the edge of a town called Weed.
We were both known as trackers
also witless dim slackers
'cause neither of us could read.

Starin' at us was an Outlaw's face,
an Outlaw all dressed in black.
We made our eyes trace,
His hard-lookin' face,
Then started out on his track.

Next day ridin' south out of Dead Horse Creek,
we passed through Sick Buzzard Gulch,
beyond Coyote's Perch
and The Devil's Lurch,
met a prospector named Snaggletooth Schultz.

Schultz was returnin' from Black Wolf Pass,
over yonder from Poisoned Arapaho Wells.
He had just found a mine;
he named The Sweet Strychnine,
on the banks of Boiling Whiskey Dells.

He told us particulars of the trail up ahead,
and described the travelers he had met.
Saw a man dressed in black,
with his hair combed back,
an encounter he would never forget.

We rode out of our way to Rattlesnake Ridge,
then Witches Wart to see what it was worth.
We in truth couldn't avoid,
the town of White Alkaloid,
filled with outlaws and scum of the Earth.

On through Purgatory, Hell and Furnace Creek Ford,
the coldest places we had both ever been.
Then continued on south,
through Old Cottonmouth,
we'll never pass through that town again.

We took a short peek at Cyanide Creek,
Bramble Bush and then Bad Water Basin.
Though he was sure hard to find,
we had to keep him in mind,
the man in black that we were still chasin'.

Ran into a gully washer down in Death Valley,
put on slickers with our wide-brimmed hats.
A wet twenty-mile ride,
to Sidewinder Slide,
then we checked out Ugly Rock Flats.

We traveled on to Doom and Gloom,
and yes Pard, that's the name of that town.
Doom and Gloom's not much fun,
if you're packin' a gun,
'cause their marshal will hunt you down.

Well, the man in black led us through Hell and back,
returned near home to Sick Buzzard Gulch.
Wearin' dusty trail grime,
we arrived just in time,
to rescue the miner Snaggletooth Schultz.

Schultz was about to lose his gold mine,
the Sweet Strychnine claim he'd recently filed.
In town drinkin' wine,
Schultz had bragged of his mine,
to a man Lefty and me both reviled.

This worthless dude you see was a scalper,
he had Snaggletooth ready to trade his claim.
For four tickets in a pack,
to see a man wearin' black,
a singin' guitar picker of some local fame.

Shultz told us when he'd read our old poster,
that promised a big reward.
The reward promised was leisure
and musical pleasure,
something he could now clearly afford.

Lefty didn't think it would take a gold mine,
to hear a gent play guitar in some saloon.
Shultz said, the man in black only played,
in big thee-aters, top-grade,
sometimes with a young girl named June.

Though Johnny Cash looked like a Most-Wanted Outlaw,
up on stage he could sure sing and play.
The bunkhouse hands, along with us,
had jumped an old grey dog bus,
caught his show just outside of L.A.

The only music played in the ranch bunkhouse since,
are songs sung by "The Man in Black"
Our 45's, tapes and CD's,
are all by Cash, I concede,
of each type we own quite a stack.

Johnny Cash autographed that old poster of ours,
it hangs framed on the ranch bunkhouse wall.
He still stares at me in my mind,
that "Outlaw" face deeply lined,
and that hard face always makes my skin crawl.

© 2002, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

David writes: I was introduced to the music of Johnny Cash as a teenager in California's San Joaquin Valley - "Cash Country".  As much as we all enjoyed his music, we also enjoyed his hard "Outlaw" look, which I'm certain he carefully refined.  When I was young it was cool to look like "Cash."

Over the years he only got better.  and his face got more interesting as we both aged together.

While I was writing this poem I went out ridin' with Lefty (in my mind) and as we reached the Bakersfield Crest near Tehachapi, I began to look forward to seeing Johnny Cash once again at that smoke-filled Saloon on Bakersfield's West side.

 

 

Dealing with “Mirrored Sunglasses”

Cowboys never wear drugstore sunglasses,

they cut the sun with the brim of their hat.

‘Sides any dude who’s hidin’ part of his face,

no doubt’s a low down, cussin’-n-rustlin’ rat.

 

A cowboy always looks you straight in the eyes

and he talks to you face-to-face.

Seein’ your reflection in his sunglasses,

shows that he’s holdin’ you in disgrace.

 

His nose and mouth can be under a bandana,

to stave off the dried prairie dust.

But when he covers his eyes with sunglasses,

he only curtains his windows of trust.

 

You can tell a real cowboy by the squint of his eyes,

like Roy Rogers, Hoppy, or Gene.

When you spot a man with an unwrinkled face,

Ya can reckon he’s sneaky, thievin’ and mean.

 

When “Sunglasses” returns your handshake,

most often, it’s limp and it’s damp.

Just look him straight in the eye (as if you could see),

with a firm grip, he cannot unclamp.

 

Draw him closer to you with your handshake,

sayin’ you admire the whites of his eyes.

He’ll soon flee to the nearest men’s room,

to quickly recheck his disguise.

 

He wears sunglasses to keep you guessing,

but just start turnin’ the tables on him.

Keep looking him straight in the eyes and steady,

and he will start thinkin’ you can see in.

 

Introduce him to others as “Old Bloodshot,”

Or as “Pink Eye” or as “Cross-Eyed Pete.”

Embarrass him so that he’s likely to know,

you’ll unmask him by never bein’ discreet.

 

When at last he takes off his sunglasses,

and you can see inside to look at his soul.

Apologize …and then admire his eyes,

and ask how long he’s been out on parole. 

© 2005, David J. Dague
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

David comments:

While in the Missouri Ozarks with my wife Niki looking at potential new home sites for the Backward-R-Double-Bar-D ranch we encountered Smilin’ Sam the Flim Flam Man (not his real name obviously). Sam was the local real estate agent who dealt exclusively with farm & ranch properties in the vicinity of Mountain View, Missouri.

 

Sam seemed like a nice-enough hombre but you couldn’t see his eyes.  You guessed it; he wore mirrored sunglasses that didn’t come off.  At least not while Sam was doing his business. Trouble dealing with Sam was you could NEVER see his eyes.  We didn’t do any business with Sam and the main reason was those mirrored sunglasses he never took off.  That and the fact we didn’t like and couldn’t afford the ranches he insisted were just what we (he) had in mind.

 

My father, Wilbur Totten Dague (Bill to his friends or Double-Ya-Tee to his ranch hands who saw his official signature, W.T. Dague, on their paychecks) was my devoted teacher as a young boy and he taught me to constantly look directly into the eyes of anyone you were involved with conversationally.  “Man’s eyes are the window to his soul,” was how my dad put it.  “You look into his eyes and you’ll see what he’s got going on.  If he won’t look you in the eye, watch out,” he said.  That advice has always stood me in good stead.  Kenny Rogers also sang the sentiment in The Gambler with the phrase “Always knowing what the cards were by the way they held their eyes.”

  

Growing up in Clovis, California surrounded by cowboys and bright sunlight, I never met a cowboy who wore sunglasses.  Double-Ya-Tee, Floyd Brown, Don Blasingame and Victor McLaughlin were all ranchers who conducted their dealings with only a handshake agreement as they looked the other party in the eye and your word was your bond in those days.  Most lawyers in the Clovis area pretty much went hungry or even starved-to-death back then.

 

After our meeting with Sam, during our drive back north to Illinois, Niki began hearing me utter some strange phrases and Dealing with "Mirrored Sunglasses" was completed by the time we got home. This poem is always fun to perform to an audience with some drug-store-types sporting sunglasses, ‘cause by the time it’s over the sunglasses are usually gone.

 

 

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