J. L. HILL
Tucson, Arizona
About J. L. Hill
Activists
Activists showed up at my ranch today
To protest my way of life.
A bearded little man in his sandals
And his little bespectacled wife.
They both held up big cardboard signs
Spellin' out all of my wrongs.
They marched back and forth as they chanted
And warbled their protestin' songs.
They claimed that I was pure evil
For raisin' poor cattle for profit.
They had come in the name of the righteous:
They wanted the land and they wanted me off it.
They had somehow concocted the notion
In the Devil's red cloak I was caped....
They were just tryin' to save the enviornment
While I just pillaged and plundered and raped.
Their sour little faces were screwed up so tight,
And the hate burned bright in their eyes.
The look on my face was quite different,
I was amused and amazed and surprised.
Where in the world do they come from?
Don't any of them have a job?
Do they have to work at it real hard
Or are they just born a natural snob?
How come they're all from the city?
How come they all look alike?
How come they all sing 'bout tolerance
But want everyone's head on a pike?
Red squirrels, snail darters and small pigmy owls
Are the gods they have placed in their shrines.
And TV news crews have instructions
To cover'em close when they whine.
If everyone treated them likewise,
We'd legislate that they own a gun.
That they all had to wear big fur coats
And that they chop down a tree just for fun.
But none of us really would do that,
We respect their God-given rights.
Where do they get all their danged goofy ideas?
It must keep them all up at night.
When I gazed 'cross the yard at my empire
And I pictured it all in my mind,
I don't know quite what they expected
But I know what they surely did find.
The old wooden house leans a bit to the left
And a grown dog kin squeeze through the cracks.
But it don't bother me no more when I see my breath
At night when the North wind attacks.
The screen door's come offen its hinges,
Two steps on the front porch are busted.
The roof would still be a leakin'
But it blew off when the bailin' wire rusted.
One scraggly and spindly old elm
That I planted a decade ago
Stands in front of my manor
Just darin' the cold wind to blow.
It's sort of a symbol to me
And it sure has earned my respect
'Cause it ain't never asked nature for quarter
Or died off like you might expect.
Feed grass has been non-existent.
The range is dusty and dry.
The cows are all skinny and thirsty
And my prospects ain't half an inch high.
I got buzzards a circlin' ole Trigger
Expectin' soon to be fed.
Although that old horse he don't look it,
I keep remind'em that he ain't dead.
The stove ain't got but one burner,
The pump at the kitchen sink broke.
I'd sweep out the dust in the rest of the house
But if I did I believe I would choke.
The birds in the garden last month
Ate purt-near all of the seeds.
So there ain't much a growing there now
'Cept for them big tumbleweeds.
The telephone works when it wants to,
TV ain't worked in a year.
Chickens won't lay and the pigs run away
Tractor's tranny is missing a gear.
Thermometer musta quit and gave up the ghost
'Cause its stuck at a hunnert'n ten.
And I ain't seen a real green-back dollar
Or a neighbor since I don't know when.
Both of my ropes have been mended
And my saddle has cracked and gone dry.
I'd like to get me a new one
But I guess that'll be when pigs fly.
The windmill won't pump
Cause the well has gone dry,
The cooler won't cool
So most summers I fry.
The vet has declared
He won't tend to my stock
Until he gets paid
And I'm outta hock.
Bank has hired them a hit-man,
Credit card company has, too.
The Feds say I owe them for taxes
And pay up or old Trigger is glue.
The vittles is getting much skeercer,
I have snapped all the blades on my knife.
And that sorry, low-down brand-new ranch hand
Done run off with my second wife.
Cattle inspector don't come round no more,
I think it embarrasses him
To see so many head of fine cattle
Lookin' so thirsty and thin.
Now, I feel real bad about that
'Cause I ain't got no credit in town
Meanin' I can't replace all the hay that I lost
When the barn burned down to the ground.
The fences are down and need mending,
I think coyotes have done et the cat.
Loco weed done in my old milk cow
And two tires on the truck have gone flat.
But that don't bother me too much,
It's not something that I think about.
'Cause I don't hardly drive that rust-bucket
Since the road to the ranch was washed out.
The tub in the bathroom is cracked
So the only good thing I can say
Is I ain't had a bath since last Friday
And that keeps the durned skeeters at bay.
Up before dawn and back after dark
I guess I'm losin' my sight.
For the life of me I just can't remember
What this place looks like during daylight.
As I stood and surveryed my kingdom
Over-flowin' with cold milk and honey,
I thought "Ranchin's a pretty good life
If you ain't overly fond of much money."
Still, I figure I'm doing all right,
I'm still young and cocky and bold.
But I couldn't help but to notice
That my mirror is sure lookin' old.
Well, my belt had run outta notches,
There was a hole in the sole of my boot.
And the onlyest reason I still got my ranch
Is them activists ain't heard an owl hoot.
The protesters were gettin' real angry
And demanded I give'em attention,
So I made up my mind right there on the spot....
"The ranch is for sale did I mention?"
"I heard what ya'll have been sayin',
And I guess most of it is true.
So just gimme a pen and some paper,
And I'll sign the ranch over to you."
You'da thought I had given them candy,
The looks on their faces pure bliss.
And the bearded little man in his sandals,
Gave his bespectacled wife a big kiss.
"We did it!" they both were a shoutin'.
Won't the whole chapter be proud of me?
We've saved it all for the children.
Quick, let's go hug our tree!"
As I walked away from the signin',
I couldn't control all the guilt.
I'd heard that hard times were a comin'
And I had shafted them plumb to the hilt!
So I think I'll drop by in a coupla years
To see how them jaybirds is doing
See if a little hard work has broken'em down
After I gave'em what they said was due'em.
Ole Red
Ol' Red was a sorry old milk cow
We had when we was just kids.
Her bony old hips stood up real high,
An' you could count ever' one of her ribs.
She didn't say much, far as I know
And she looked kinda dumb just to boot.
But behind those big bovine eyes
There lurked a vindictive, mean old owlhoot.
Always the first cow in line
When feedin' time come around.
But don't figger she could'a been hungry
Since she'd scatter her hay on the ground.
She never had calves 'cept at midnight
And then just in cold, drivin' rain.
And she always had trouble deliverin'
So we'd be helpin' 'til the rooster's refrain.
If the fence had a hole, Red would find it
And lead the others to stray.
Usually to the closest green hayfield
Where near half'em would bloat on the hay.
Always the last in from pasture
Always a' visitin' the vet,
And all of the time actin' simple,
But was the meanest cow I have seen yet.
And, Lord, that cow she could kick!
You didn't turn your back on Ol' Red.
Less'en, of course, you was stupid
Or didn't mind a week lyin' in bed.
Usually the pasture was muddy
With cockleburrs thicker than fleas.
So she allus had mud an' manure
Up past all four of her knees.
My dad said that milkin' a cow
Was a fine old American tradition
But after ever' go 'round with Ol' Red
My thoughts would turn to sedition.
"Can't we get shut of that cow?"
It's not like that she's worth a damn!"
But my dad would just smile and say "No"
I just couldn't figger that man
Then I'd launch into my tale of woe
What that cow was a'foistin' on me.
But the sorrier my tale would become
The more he would just slap his knee.
"We had an old cow 'zactly like 'er
When I was no more'n a kid.
Those tricks she's been pulling ain't new.
Why'dya think I named her Ol' Red?"
One of her favorite tricks
Was to get her long tail good and muddy
Then meander down through the cockleburr patch
'Til that tail was all heavy and clubby.
Then come strollin' in from the pasture
Right along 'bout feedin' time.
Actin' all peaceful and gentle
Like she had nothin' at all on her mind.
But once't you got her to milkin',
She'd give ya her little surprise.
She'd wait until you wasn't lookin'
Then tail-club you right 'tween the eyes.
The first dozen times that she done it
It didn't even get a good rise.
But I eventual grew some suspicious
When I looked and thar weren't any flies.
She would look back at me kinda peaceful
Like there was nothin' at all out of place.
But I knew what that hussy was thinkin'
'Bout the blood and the mud on my face.
And she had other tricks in her arsenal
She was thinking all day in that mud.
How much she was gonna torment me
While slowly chewin' her cud.
Well, I ain't so stupid myself
So I'd tie her tail up to the wall.
But that were a war bugle blowin'
An' she dutifully answered its call.
She figgerd I guess, since by face weren't a mess
She'd just plant a hoof on my boot
Then watch as I hopped 'round the barn........
She's the first cow I've wanted to shoot.
So my next countermeasure was taken.
I hobbled up both her back legs.
Then waited out her next move,
Real careful, like walkin' on eggs.
Well it warn't too long 'fore she made it
'Cause of them hobbles just 'bove her knees,
She'd pretended that she'd lost her balance
Then 'tween Ole Red and the wall there was me.
And she warn't in no hurry to stand up
I could see that plain in her eye.
But what really did tend to enrage me
Was that long contented cow-sigh.
So the hobbles came off like she wanted.
It was a cross I was willing to bear.
To my eternal cow-milkin' damnation
I admitted she'd won fair and square.
But that din't mean it was over.
I mean, I still had a bit of my pride.
I surely was gonna get even
By takin' it outta her hide.
So the next few tricks she come up with
In her evil, schemin' cow mind
I resolved I was gonna put up with
While I planned and I bided my time.
I'm ain't gonna say it was easy
'Cause it never is with her ilk.
Like when she lifted her tail high to pee
A splatterin' it into the milk.
Or she'd wait 'til I was near finished
An' was reachin' for the milk pail.
Then she'd casually kick her back leg
An' through the air that bucket would sail.
She din't know that the last time she done it
She'd planted the seeds of her doom.
She'd give me the idea that I needed
An' I planned it all out in my room.
For the next coupla months as we skirmished,
I milked'er until she was poor.
Then I'd take half the milk in the bucket
And I'd pour it out on the floor.
Near's I could tell that was just fine with her
She really din't care what I done.
'Cause she knowed I'd be there back tomorrow
An' she would be havin' more fun.
One day I when brung in the bucket
And Dad asked me "Where's all the rest?"
I said "Dad, I know what you're thinkin'
But Ol' Red is doing her best!"
He'd say "Boy, I know that you like 'er
But Ol' Red is just gettin' old."
An' I smiled to myself when he said it
'Cause my plan was about to unfold.
"We cain't stand her up an' just feed her,"
He said with kind of a frown.
"We ain't got the money to do that
So I guess that I'll just put'er down."
When Dad brought'er back from the butcher's,
I thought "This is as good as gets."
But when Ole Red was placed on the table,
It was the best steak that I never et.
She had been such a worthy opponent
An' I missed her now she was gone.
I missed her competitive nature
But not those tail lashin's at dawn.
Because They Thought They Were Fast
High noon. West Texas. Dusty main street.
In the hey day of El Paso town.
Fella gets him a big reputation
And they gotta try takin' him down.
I'm Billly Badd the gunfighter,
A "shootist" they call us today.
Ya don't wanta get crossways of me,
Men who have has all had'ta pay.
You can never out-run a big name,
Wouldn't if even I could....
Ever' man jack I've notched on my gun
Died because he thought he was good.
The durned fools don't know if they beat me
There'll always be hungry, fast men
Wearin' Mexican spurs and short-barrelled guns
Who's gonna come gunnin' for them.
Now, it surely is not a good life,
Never trustin' nobody a'tall.
Always keepin' your eye on the crowd,
Always keepin' your back to the wall.
But that somehow don't seem to stop'em,
It's pretty much always the same:
Ever' one of 'ems got their own reason
To buy a gun and go lookin' for fame.
Young men with hands quick as vipers,
Steady nerves and an eagle keen eye.
Blood running' cold like ice water,
Just a lookin' for someone to die.
Lately there's been more than ever.
Don't know where they're all coming from.
They gotta know which one is faster
With a short-barrelled .44 gun.
Someday there'll be a man quicker,
A gunman I cannot kill.
Waitin' for me is a cold, lonely plot
In the corner at the back of Boothill.
The school-marm has done quit her beggin'
To put my damned pistols away.
She knows that my pride just won't let me
And that I'll die from a bullet someday....
So today when Black Jack called me out,
I nodded and stepped out in the street.
Judgin' the sun as I checked my gun
Then looked at the man I would meet.
He is a handsome but small little man
With gray eyes and a cocky, wide stance.
His pistol and holster hang low....
I can tell that he's fast at a glance.
I wonder if this is the one?
Then remember the men in the past
Who died on a street in the dust
Because they thought they were fast.
I look at this young banty rooster
With a sad little smile on my lips.
I wonder how old he had been
When he first strapped a gun to his hips?
Would there be a young woman to weep?
Would his sainted old momma cry
For this careless young man in the street
Never believin' that he could soon die?
He said, "Billy, it's been good to know ya,
This ain't a personal thing, don't'cha know?"
I said "Dyin' ain't much of a livin'
You can still fork your horse and just go."
"Can't do that Billy, that just ain't my way.
I'da thought you'da knowed that by now.
Ain't leavin' El Paso 'til we settle,
All I got waitin' at home's an old plow."
I can feel the calm comin' on me,
Concentration is now on my gun
Where death lies quietly waitin'
In the embrace of cold chamber one.
My blue eyes now are unblinkin',
If the cowboy twitches I'll take him.
And around us the air's sudden still.....
"Billleeeee! Jaaaackeeee!
Dinner's ready! You boys come in and get washed up.
Hurry now. It's getting cold.......
Our hands never stray from our guns,
Neither one of us trustin' the other.
"This ain't over yet, Billy." "I know it ain't, Jack,
But next time you won't be saved by our mother."
The Ghosts of ArizonaSilent old sentinels carved by the wind
Are all that remain here to find.
Deserted adobe foundations
Over-grown by the passage of time.
That, and a crumbling old chimney,
Are the reminders of violent times.
When men struggled and killed, lived fast and died
And seldom paid for their crimes.
I grew up in this country, knew all the names,
But of them I took little note.
They were simply a part of the scenery,
Not the places of which history wrote.
But as I grow older, the past gains respect
And my curiosity grows.
I have recently started to wonder
What this foundation and old chimney knows?
Gazing across the low desert
At the saguaros, the sagebrush and sand,
I quietly reflect on the secrets
Untold by this arid, hot land.
Standing alone in this desolate place,
Surrounded by history itself,
The past comes alive from the stories
Found in dusty, dry books on a shelf.
As the shadows creep out from the foothills,
I hear the voices long dead in the past
Which whisper to those who will listen,
Who wonder but dare not to ask:
What was this old place and why did it die?
What passed on it's overgrown streets?
Who knows what the old ghosts could tell us
Of cowboys, outlaws and bar keeps?
I have followed by now most of the trail
I outlined on the map on my wall.
I started out fresh in the springtime
And have now passed well into fall.
Over two hundred and fifty dry ghost towns,
Arizona can offer to show.
The stories I've heard and the things I have learned
Are just a portion of what one could know.
Chloride, Big Bug, Pick-em-up and Cyclopia
Are but a few of the fanciful names.
Most of them are now merely footnotes
Having never gained Tombstone's wide fame.
Christmas, Fort Misery, Two Guns, Total Wreck.
They all have a story to tell.
But to the passing and casual observer,
They're just another old place and dry well.
Crook City and Planet, Copperopolis, Fool's Gulch.
Names like these dot the desert landscape.
From the glaring, bright lights of historians
Have these places made their escape.
Vulture and Courtland, Azurite and Why
Are just forgotten names on a map.
They all got their names for a reason,
But can I pry them from history's grasp?
Paradise boasted an "open air jail"
To go with its thirteen saloons.
Miners and gamblers, whiskey and guns,
Rough wooden-planked bars and spittoons.
Around Brunkow's Cabin, the graves do lie thick,
The bloodiest homestead in the west.
Where twenty-one lives were surrendered
And their ghosts are said never to rest.
The petroglyphs found around Emory
Are fourteen hundred and fifty years old.
The remnants of a long-vanished culture
Which died before miners found gold.
The Butterfield Overland Stage,
Crossed into the land of Cochise.
And in Apache Pass built a small stage stop:
The beginning of the end of the peace.
Fort Bowie lies finally deserted
But its ghosts are still guarding the pass.
It was established to protect the white settlers
From Apache raids cruel, deadly and fast.
Perhaps it is apt that it be called a pass
For from here were unwary souls hurled;
"Passed" to the relative coolness of Hell,
From this glaring, sun-baked and parched world.
Scattered among the rocks on its slopes
I found tombstones engraved with the words:
"Tortured to death by Apaches",
From which echoes of screams can be heard.
Young Lieutenant Rucker from Bowie
Took the battle between red and white
Deep into steep Rucker Canyon
Where he bravely gave up his life.
No, it wasn't a sharp, stone-tipped arrow
Which spilled his life's blood on the ground...
Rather, he plunged into a sudden flash flood
Where, to save one of his men, he was drowned.
Fort Huachuca was home to the buffalo soldier
Who did honor to the blue that they wore.
Fighting the desert, Apaches and Villa,
These brave soldiers were tough to the core.
Behold the vast beauty of Middlemarch Pass
Where tired soldiers would stop for a while
Halfway between Huachuca and Bowie,
Having marched mile after miserable mile.
The folks who lived there called the place Cascabel
For the preponderance of its rattlesnakes.
Named with typical wry western humor,
Before sensibly pulling up stakes.
Dos Cabesas was a stop for the Pony Express,
Named for the range's two towering peaks.
Riders changed horses and wolfed down cold beans,
Sun-burned faces marked by sweat streaks.
Twenty-seven were killed by Apaches
Between the towns of El Paso and Tucson
Before Tom Jeffords struck a deal for his men
Allowing lone riders and their mail to pass on.
If ever a town was to tough to live
It was the comet they called Galeyville.
Brightly it burned for just two fiery years,
Claiming Johnny Ringo and Curley Bill.
Now Ringo's cold body lies up Turkey Creek
Marked by a small, white rock with his name.
Murdered body discovered in the crotch of a tree...
So much for the gunfighter's fame.
Gleeson, they say, was the toughest of all,
It put shame to Tombstone's hey day.
It served as the setting for the old western book,
"The Mysterious Rider" penned by Zane Grey.
It was also a little bit famous
For its gnarled and stout old "jail tree".
Where drunken miners and rustlers and thieves
Were securely shackled after a spree.
It will always remain my favorite ghost town,
With its mine tailings scarring the hills.
We grew up exploring the mine shafts
Where we were warned curiosity kills.
We had many hair-raising adventures
Armed with a rope and trusty flashlights.
Crawling and squeezing through holes,
Wary of javelina and random snake bites.
Pearce was the home of the Commonwealth mine,
Arizona's richest, most dazzling gold strike.
To frustrate the thieves, gold bars were made big!
A man couldn't lift them, try as he might.
In Skeleton Canyon, you'll find Devil's Kitchen
Where Old Man Clanton was finally killed.
Seems he ambushed some vaqueros and stole all their cows,
A bloody vocation at which he was skilled.
But the Mexican vaqueros took their revenge
And in Hell Clanton's twisted soul burns.
The vaqueros ambushed and killed him right back
As the rustlers made their return.
Of all the long shadows cast over this land,
The Apache was feared most of all.
And above all of them, the fierce Chiricahua,
Who's stories old-timers recall.
The word apache itself means "an enemy"
And they were certainly properly named.
White treachery and lies forced the hand
Of a people who could not be tamed.
.
Cochise may have been the best general
That this country will ever produce.
Ten years and several armies
Failed to put his neck in a noose.
A warrior was born in old Clifton
Who would turn the desert to flame....
He was named Goyathlay (One Who Yawns),
And the Southwest would soon fear his name.
He was born a Bedonkohe Chiricahua
The smallest of the Chiricahua bands.
When Mexican soldiers murdered his family,
They loosed the dogs of war on the land.
He had a sweet tooth for our sugar,
It is a true but little known fact.
He'd go to The Commercial in Willcox
Always buying a big one-pound sack.
There was a simple reason he'd do this:
He knew exactly what a pound should feel like.
Even before he set out on the warpath
He didn't trust a man who was white.
For twenty five years, he carried the fight,
And his name will be feared evermore.....
At the last, giving chase, eighty-five hundred men,
And Geronimo's band? Thirty-four.
Finally cornered, exhausted and hungry,
16 braves, 12 women, six children,
The last fighting Native Americans
Would surrender in Skeleton Canyon.
Gazing across the low desert,
At the sagebrush, the saguaros and sand,
I quietly reflect on the secrets
I have learned in this arid, hot land.
These things, and much more, are easy to find
By one willing to look very hard.
I had no idea of the colorful history
Buried right in my very backyard.
So if you come to the desert to learn,
Give to the past its proper respect.
If you keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground,
You may learn more than you would expect.
The Bear Facts
When we was just ten, my brother and me
Got our first real look at a bear.
He'd skinnied up the side of and electrical pole
And we wondered how long he'd been there?
My dad, being an electrical lineman,
Was elected to get'im offa the pole.
When you're ten and you dad's fooling with bears,
He's surely cast in the big hero's role.
I don't exactly remember how he done it,
But the impression he made is still there.
From that time I've wanted to be like him
So I decided I'd go huntin' for bear.
Last summer me an' my best friend
Got us a bear huntin' tag.
But the season was the middle of August
And the heat caused enthusiasm to flag.
So we spent a little more time in the shade
And 'round the campfire than we usually do.
Neither of us had ever hunted a bear
So we was tryin' to decide what to do.
We'd discussed the big old boar's tracks,
We'd seen with claws as long as my arm.
And droppin's the size of small logs
Which were uncomfortably fresh and still warm.
The discussion came around to the stories
We'd heard about man-eatin' bears.
By the time the campfire had burned low,
We decided if we didn't see a bear, who cares?
It finally come time to crawl into our tent
To rest for the hunt the next day.
But, later that night, I had to answer the call,
'Bout what happened next, this is all I will say:
I was standing there doing my business,
Just staring' off into the dark
When an actual bear came strollin' by
And I'm afraid I come offa my mark.
The bear didn't pay no attention
But I was payin' enough for us two.
'Cause with just one swipe of his big savage claws
Me and my little buddy both could be through.
Then he locked his beady little eyes onto mine
For about twenty years the way that they can.
I swear the look on his face was amused
At the sight of this 'semi-armed' man.
It was like he was sayin' "I know who you are
And I've come to give you fair warnin'.
I'll be comin' this was a little bit later
And you better be gone in the morning."
Then he turned and lumbered into the dark
And, since my eyelids wouldn't fit over my eyes,
I did me and my partner a favor
By actin' as sentry until the sunrise.
When my partner got up the next mornin'
He asked me if I'd heard the rain?
He sure hoped the weather weren't nasty
And that the stormclouds were on the wane.
Then he mumbled 'bout how something was strange
As he looked the tent up and down.
"It looks like it rained in just one little spot.
Look here. It goes up the side of the tent from the ground."
I said "Yep, that is kinda weird.
Tell you what, it's too hot to hunt bear.
An' they ain't done nothin' to us.
After all, they say fair is fair."
When we got back to the house and my wife,
Had I seen a bear? I knew she would ask.
So I had my answer prepared:
"Yes I did. I had one shot but I passed."© 2001, J. L. Hill
The Buck on the WallI settled the scope on the brush
Knowing he's hidden in there.
All I would need now to take him
Is a glimpse of a patch of gray hair...
Three full days I have tracked him
Through these rough and steep, rocky hills,
Knowing I'd eventually find him
And hopefully make a clean kill.
THERE! I see movement! Yes, it's him!
Then he steps carefully out of the trees.
I carefully judge the short distance.
Check the safety, the sun, and the breeze.
As I settle the crosshairs on his shoulder,
A boundary post comes into plain view.
I know now that he's out of my area...
And that wouldn't be legal to shoot.
But would you just take a look at that rack!
Those symmetrical, pointed, high beams.
No living deer can be big as this!
No shot is as easy as this seems.
I return the crosshairs to his shoulder,
Hold my breath, and begin slowly to squeeze...
Many hunters from ages long past
Have known many moments like these.
He suddenly senses something is wrong,
Looks past his shoulder at me...
For an eternity we look at each other,
The moment is mine just to seize.
Then I slowly lower the rifle
And push the safety back on.
For a moment, he could have been mine,
But now that moment is gone.
I slowly picked up my camera,
And center him in its lens.
I'll still have the buck on the wall
To be admired by all my friends.
"I was wondering what you would do."
I heard a man's voice softly say.
"I'm glad you made the right choice.
So many others wouldn't these days."
I turned slowly and looked over my shoulder
And saw a big man wearing a vest
With a big, gleaming game warden's badge
Securely pinned to his chest.
"What are you doing way back in here?"
It couldn't be just by luck.
"Sometimes I come here just to watch him.
Boy, he's a beautiful buck.
I've watched him out-smart them all,
Now for eight years in a row.
And the closest he's come to falling
Was just a few minutes ago."
In silence we watch the old buck
By sundown's fading red rays,
Then nod to each other politely
And quietly go separate ways.
© 2001, J. L. Hill
Across the top rail of the fence
I see his truck through all the dents.
A rangy youth in leather chaps
With a smile which has a few new gaps.
Freckles hide the sunburned cheeks
Don’t look like he’s ate that much in weeks.
His eyes are bright and see it all
From loading chute to splintered stall.
His shirt hangs loose and patches show
A needle’s something he don’t know.
His boots are beat, his hatband dark
With sweat he’s lost to make his mark.
Jeans hanging loose around thin hips,
Show a snuff can circle from his dip.
His leather gloves are old and torn
No doubt his socks are just as worn.
His gait ain’t steady as it could be,
There’s still some swellin’ in the knee.
A cast signed by a rodeo queen
And a buckle big as I’ve ever seen.
He drags a saddle from the truck
To ride the horse he hopes will buck.
And a canvas bag which holds his bed
Reads Wrangler on the side in red.
He gazes at the judges booth
From which he soon will learn the truth.
Then at the chutes where he’ll nod his head
When he’s aboard and his name’s been read.
I’ve seen’em come and seen’em go
Always lookin’ for a rodeo.
They draw the meanest stock to buck
Then trust themselves to God and luck.
Last week was Denver in the snow
Where he rode’em hard but didn’t show.
Out of the money for nigh eight weeks
But knowin’ these things run in streaks.
.
Shoot, money ain’t what pushes him
It ain’t no dream and it ain’t a whim.
Truth to tell he don’t know why
He risks life and limb beneath the sky.
“Say mister," he calls across to me
Where do I sign and pay my fee?
Gee, you look like you been here awhile.”
And I see the cowboy’s cocky smile.
“Yeah, son,” says I, “Near twenty years…
You might as well leave me your gear.
The line starts at that farthest shed,
I’ll watch saddle and your bed.”
He dumps his gear and as he walks away,
I hope a sawbuck’s all he’ll pay.
Sometimes it is and sometimes it ain’t
Sometimes it’s stitches or iodine paint.
Busted homes and busted bones,
Busted axles and busted phones
Can often be the price they pay
But pride won’t let them walk away.
Later on that night, in number eight,
I watch him climb aboard Hell’s Gate.
The rankest bronc around these parts,
He’s stomped more men than the queen of hearts.
Eight seconds later in the dust
The cowboys blood looks dark like rust.
They pick him up and lead him away
To the sawbones tent where now he’ll pay.
While watchin’ in the medics tent
I wonder where the his smile has went?
“Just Cowboy Up” I say to him
And see again the cocky grin.
“Heck, old timer,” he says to me
“I rode him down right to his knees.
But he stomped me good there at the end.”
I Say “He surely did my lucky friend.
Too bad the judges didn’t like your ride
And won’t count the stitches in your hide.
I got your gear stacked by the tent,
Least I could do before you went.”
“Hey Doc,” he calls, “ya’ll been great
But I gotta go now, I can’t wait.”
To me he says “I got lots of luck….”
And throws his saddle in the truck.
How far to Deming he wants to know
Two days from now’s their rodeo.
He fires up that old bucket of rust
And leaves me in a cloud of dust.
After Deming then comes old Cheyenne
Where horses wait to thrill the fans.
Somehow he’ll pay for his next ride
With cinches tight and smiling’ wide.
I know the circuit still by heart
For once I played my own small part.
I danced the gals, I drank’em dry,
Unrolled my bedroll ‘neath the sky.
For twenty years I rode’em all
I made some rides and took some falls.
Now too old to ride the stock
I watch the time fall off the clock.
I’ve seen’em come and seen’em go
Chasin down their rodeo.
I sure as hell can’t blame’em much
I think while reaching for my crutch.
His time will come and all to soon
‘Cause Father Time still calls the tune.
Busted, broke but ever game,
Though old and grey, cowboy’s my name.© 2003, J. L. Hill
About J. L. Hill:
J. L. tells us: I grew up in Elfrida, Arizona which is in the southeastern part of the state. Mostly a very small farming and ranching community. Two gas
stations, two dogs and two people. Main street is paved, though. I live in Tucson now (for the last twenty years) and make my living as an optometrist. We ran a few head of cattle and lots of the kids in school did, too."Ol' Red" actually did exist and pretty much everything in the poem actually happened except planning to do her in...not that it didn't cross my mind regularly. Our brand was the spear bar...A small arrow pointing up with a small bar pointing sideways coming off the shaft of the arrow. It is still registered to our family. Always swore when I grew up, I'd never own another cow. Still have friends who do, though. Poor b*****. Happy to say, I don't. Started writing a few years ago just for fun. First poem was for my mom at Christmas and was never meant to be shown to anyone else. She liked it and started showing it around and people we knew started commenting on it and asked for more. It's become kind of a tradition now for me to write someone for someone in the family at Christmas time as a Christmas gift.
"Activists" was my first attempt at cowboy poetry. It came from a discussion I had one day over a beer or three with a rancher friend who was expounding at great length about "long-haired hippie radical tree hugging animal rights activists" and their firm belief that ranching was animal cruelty and ruining the land. Fact that the bottom had dropped of the cattle market recently didn't help his mood any...
Actually I hated poetry in English class, mostly because Mrs. Bennett was a sour old disciplinarian who thought that good poetry had to be written by someone who was dead and must have written it in tongues during the fever that killed them. But found after the first poem I wrote that it relaxes me and has been a little hobby I spend a few hours on every couple of months. Now that I've found your site, much to my surprise (and would be to Mrs. Bennetts, I'm sure) I find that I do like reading poetry...long as there aren't too many wherefore art thou's in it."
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