Honored Guest


Photo by Jeri L. Dobrowski
Used with permission

Featured in "The Big Roundup," an anthology of the best of CowboyPoetry.com.

About Linda Kirkpatrick
Poems
Books and Recording
Linda Kirkpatrick's Somewhere in the West column at Texas Escapes
Linda Kirkpatrick's Somewhere in the West blog
Contact Information

 

 

About Linda Kirkpatrick:

My first home was on a ranch sixty miles from the nearest town in South Central Texas. There was no phone, no running water, no electricity and no radio or television. That was how my life and my imagination began. I would listen to the stories told by my dad and uncles. A dog named Prince and a mare named Paint became my best friends. A few years later we moved to another ranch near the town of Leakey, Texas. 

Attending school for this ranch kid was quite the experience. I lacked social skills; my skills were in ranching and I saw no use for any others, but my parents sent me to school anyway.

The ranch in Leakey consisted of twenty-six sections of the most rugged canyons in the Texas Hill Country. The horses we rode were mostly big ugly rock horses, horses that could stand up in rocks. We ran cattle, Angora goats and sheep. So by the time I attended my first cowboy poetry gathering twelve years ago, I had a wealth of knowledge that would be of great benefit to the writing of my poetry and stories.

After marriage and then the kids, I got a job managing a 2000 acre cow/calf and white tail deer operation. I worked there for 13 years and most of my poetry found its place on paper from the tail gate of the pick-up. I had to quit this job to help care for my dad. I really miss both him and those cows!

I have been the Silver Buckle winner and Best of the Best winner at the Western Legends Roundup and Cowboy Poetry Rodeo in Kanab, Utah and Hot Springs, South Dakota between 2004 and 2007. I have been in the top five for Female Cowboy Poet with the Academy of Western Artists in 2005 and 2006. In the Team Penning writing contest at the AWA Convention in 2005, my partner Woody Woodruff and I took first place honors. I was in the top five for Female Cowboy Poet with the Western Music Association in 2006.

I have performed as an invited poet in 2008 at the National Cowboy Gathering in Elko, Nevada; the Monterey Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Monterey, California; the National Cowboy Symposium in Lubbock, Texas; the Texas Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Alpine, Texas; Chama Cowboy Days, Chama, New Mexico; the Colorado Cowboy Gathering in Arvada, Colorado; the Western Music Association in Albuquerque, New Mexico; the Arizona Cowboy Poets Gathering in Prescott, Arizona; Camp Wood Cowboy Symposium, Camp Wood, Texas; plus schools, house concerts and smaller venues in between

I am a part of a group called "The Cowboy Sunset Serenade," along with Frank Roberts and Joe Wells. Our programs are about the history of the cowboy, the west, and women of the west. We perform at schools, state parks and retirement centers. Frank Roberts sings cowboy songs while Joe and I recite cowboy poetry.

Stories and poems that I have written can be found in my book, Somewhere in the West (Cowboy Miner Publications, 2001). I was a contributor to The Big Roundup (New West Library, 2001) anthology, an Academy of Western Artists’ Buck Ramsey Best Poetry Book award winner. My poetry has been featured on the radio and in other publications. Beneath a Western Sky, my first CD, released in 2005, was nominated for Poetry CD of the year with the Academy of Western Artists. I have been included in CowboyPoetry.com's The Bar D Roundup compilation CD Volume 1 (2006), Volume 3 (2008), and Volume 4 (2009).

 


Cowboy Sunset Serenade
Joe Wells, Linda Kirkpatrick, and Frank Roberts 

We asked Linda why she writes cowboy poetry and she replied:

I guess I do this in honor of my family, just a bunch of old cowboys. I have watched them give their time, sweat and blood to be stewards of the land and guardians of the livestock. I was, unknowingly, brought up  with a healthy respect for livestock and the environment and this was all thanks to my dad, my uncles and my granddad. As any person who has lived this life knows it is hard work with little pay but the rewards are greater than anything imaginable.  So this is why I write about this life, with an emphasis on the women who lived in this era.

 

Linda Kirkpatrick writes a monthly column, Somewhere in the West, in Texas Escapes. The column concentrates on the rich history of the Texas Hill Country.

Texas Escapes is an on-line magazine, filled with travel and history columns and features, articles about more than 1500 Texas towns and ghost towns, historical photos, and more. 

Linda Kirkpatrick has submitted a number of interesting stories and photos to our Picture the West feature:


Horses and horsewomen in her family

 
Raising goats in Texas


Photos and stories about generations of family dolls

 
Photos and a story about the wild hogs of Frio Canyon in Texas Hill Country


Sheep and goat ranching photos from the 1950s and later


1930s photos from her Texas hometown's history

lkFLEMINGfinal.JPG (40636 bytes)
A 1905 family photo, Texas Ranger family history and contemporary photos

lkwatsonsmj.JPG (24370 bytes)
A 1930s-era photo of cowboy polo team

Linda Kirkpatrick and Surprise
Linda Kirkpatrick and Surprise

"His daddy wasn't supposed to be able to breed.....so said the vet.  But one fine spring day I went to get my mare up from winter pasture and trotting along beside her was this little paint colt!!"

 

 

Poems

My Cowgirl Life
Cathay Williams 
The Vaquero's Goodbye
McLaurin Massacre
The Saga of Lucy Murdock
Mary Ann's Legacy
Miss Anna's Tea
Teresita
For My Dad
A Cup Full of Mem'rys
When Round Up Time Comes Around
Dead Man's Cave

On other pages:
The Christmas Story
Outlaw
(for T. R. Stephenson)
One Less Chair at the Table  
Santa Claus' Sidekick
Tribute to Larry (for Larry McWhorter)

The Cuttin' Chute

My Cowgirl Life

This poem is written about my early life.  The first horse that I began riding, at the ripe old age of three, was an old paint mare affectionately named “Ole Paint.”  And even though I had a small child’s saddle, my legs were still too short to reach the stirrups.  So Daddy took a piece of and old girth and attached a pair of wooden stirrups to it, ran a leather string through a couple of holes and then tied this contraption to the saddle horn. A single roping rein was unheard of on the ranch, so in order to keep me from dropping the reins he tied a knot in then which served that purpose and also taught me how much slack to give the mare ‘cause I got into trouble if I didn’t hold the knot.

And of course these horses like Paint were the original baby sitters on a ranch.  It made no difference how hard I kicked or how many times I swung my quirt (course all I ever hit was the skirt of the saddle), Paint would only walk.  These horses seem to have an uncanny sense of knowing that a child was on them because I have seen these same horses become a top ranch horse when a cowboy was aboard.

Many cowgirls got their start in much the same way, tagging along after their dad on an ole babysitter horse.

My Cowgirl Life

 
I was just a little cowgirl of maybe two or three
And tired of riding horses upon my Daddy’s knee,
So I was given this old stick horse and for hours I would ride
Chasing imaginary dogies with my collie dog by my side.

I toddled out behind my Dad ‘cause I thought I was a hand
Just a regular ‘ole cowpuncher riding for his brand.
But Dad was awful excited, he had something for me to see,
There saddled up beside the barn was this good paint mare for me.

The saddle we had was way too big, for I was pretty small,
But Daddy told me not to fret, this was no problem a’tall.
He took two old worn stirrups and laced them to a girt,
Then tied them to the saddle horn and I sat there pretty pert.

He then tied the old split reins into a hard fast knot,
Just so I wouldn’t lose them when we began to trot.
I began that day to tag along where ever Dad would go
I was finally a cowgirl and my heart was all a’glow.

Well I grew to fit that saddle and to rein without the knot,
I even got a faster horse, ‘cause Paint would only trot.
We’d ride up in the mountains rounding up the goats and sheep
We’d ride all day from dawn to dusk, then unsaddle, feed and sleep.

And now I am much older and I still run the ranch
My Dad will come and help me out when he has the chance.
I gather the cows in a pickup truck, with modern pens at hand
And sometimes my love of ranching is hard to understand.

Then I gaze at my very first stirrups hanging on the living room wall
And they remind me of that time when I was very, very small.
The life of a cowgirl in Texas is what I chose to lead
And all cowgirls in Texas are of a very special breed.

We are everywhere in the state from the Red to Rio Grande.
So please, when ever you see us, come over and shake our hand.
You’ll find a very tender lady underneath our skin of brown,
And on our heads a well worn hat that we wear just like a crown.

We are the real heart of Texas with a will you can’t deny
Our hearts and souls belong to God until the day we die.
So when you speak of Texas do not leave this thought unsaid.
And remember all us cowgirls we’re Texas born and bred.

© Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Linda Kirkpatrick and her paint mare, not that long ago

 

Cathay Williams

I first heard the story of Cathay Williams in 1998.  I realized at that time that I would have to tell the story of this remarkable woman.  But like a lot of other stories that float around in my brain, it got to sit there for awhile.  Then out of the blue the group that I am with, The Cowboy Sunset Serenade, was invited to perform at a program on the steps of the Texas state capitol in Austin honoring the Buffalo Soldiers.  There are few known facts about Cathay Williams.  However out of desperation and the need to make her own way she disguised herself as a man and joined the 38th Infantry.  The 38th was one of the all black units formed after the War Between the States to give the black men who served with the Union an opportunity to further their careers in the military.  So with the invitation to help celebrate the Buffalo Soldier I got busy and wrote this poem about her.  Cathay Williams remained a strong woman until her death in New Mexico at the age of 82.

Cathay Williams

In a tiny shotgun cabin
Martha’s baby girl was born.
A baby born to slavery
That no one could forewarn.

Cathay Williams was determined
And never was deterred
As she began her life as a house girl
Being seen but never heard.

Then the Civil War broke out
And the Union soldiers came
And taking Cathay with them
Her life would never be the same.

Cathay learned the ways of military life
And became an accomplished cook.
She was sent to General Sheridan
A job she proudly undertook.

Then the Civil War was ended
And Cathay was finally free
And in seeking out her freedom,
She found her place in history.

Her own way she needed to make
And a burden to no one be
So as a Buffalo Soldier she joined up
In the 38th U. S. Infantry.

Cathay Williams became William Cathay
And no one was to know
The secret of her identity
As a soldier she did grow.

The troops moved west to Ft. Cummings
To keep the Apache at bay.
There were one hundred and one enlisted men
And among them was William Cathay.

After two years as a soldier
In the 38th Company A
William went to see the doctor
And her secret came out that day

Discharged as a Buffalo Soldier
Cathay did her very best
As she continued to make her way
In this land they called the West.

Because of her illegal enlistment
Her pension passed her by
But she picked herself up and moved on
And never questioned why.

Life ended for Cathay Williams
At the age of eighty-two
She lived a long independent life
A life that was tried but true.

A salute to Cathay Williams
The hero of this rhyme
A special woman of the west
A legend in her time.

© July 1999, Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Read more about Cathay Williams and Buffalo Soliders, where Linda Kirkpatrick's 
poem is also posted, here.

This poem is also posted on another Buffalo Soldier site here.

The poem has appeared in numerous publications throughout the United States and in China and Iraq, and it prompted an invitation to Linda to speak at the Eason Museum Civil Rights Convention in Tallahassee, Florida in January, 2006.

The poem was featured at BP America by the BPAAN (BP African American Network) in celebration of Black History Month in February,  2006: 

  

and will be included in the Florida state high school Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test (FCAT) preparation software.

 

The Vaquero's Goodbye

The air was hot and humid on that clear south Texas day
When we gathered at the churchyard, our last respects to pay.
And there beneath an old mesquite, far removed from all the rest,
Stood an old vaquero, quiet and stately, dressed up in his Sunday best.

He silently stood there, reminiscing of all the days gone by;
So many compadres had passed on ahead, sadness showed in his weathered eyes.
As we walked on into the chapel at a slow and weary pace,
The back of my mind was still haunted by the look on the vaquero's face.

When we were seated I saw him standing alone at the rear,
And then slowly he moved forward to pay his respects at the bier.
His shirt was of homespun cotton, his chapaderos had a well worn hue,
His gnarled old hands held his sombrero, and his boots were not quite new.

The moment of silence was broken by a heavenly sound we heard,
Twas the jingle from the rowl of his silver spurs,
That could silence the unspoken word.
The fringe on his brown chapaderos rustling with a softening sigh
The tapping of his boots giving answer, to the unanswered question of,"Why?"

But then in our awe-struck moment, we suddenly came back to life
As the sun through the stained glass window ended our feelings of strife.
The vaquero was bathed in colors that filtered softly through the pane,
And as he approached the casket we knew, her death had not been in vain.

Slowly he knelt before her in salute of her life and her death,
And then he began to speak as all of us held our breath.
"Adiós y vio con Dios," the old vaquero sighed,
"El le dia la bendicion." He blessed the day she died.

He then placed a rose on her coffin as a final salute to her,
But before he left he gave her, a gift of his silver spurs.
With the sign of the cross he bid her farewell, then turned and walked away
He knew in his heart, his mind and his soul they’d meet on another day.

Her grave, all covered in bluebonnets, is shaded by an old cottonwood
And in the tree a mourning dove coos, just like he knew it would.
And sometimes you can hear him as the breeze blows gently through the trees,
In a tired old voice he whispers, "Mire las palomas, son como los ángeles."   

© Linda Kirkpatrick
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Adiós y vio con Dios: Goodbye, and go with God
El le dia la bendicion: He blessed the day she died.
Mire las palomas, son como los ángeles: Look at the doves, they are like the angels

 

 

McLaurin Massacre 

Last Indian Raid In the Frio Canyon also known as the McLaurin Indian Massacre

I was first told the story of the raid when I was just a little girl of only 6 years old and the story has become one of my favorites to tell and I guess that is because I have spent my life in the Frio Canyon.  The heroine is Maude McLaurin who was only 6 years old on the day of the attack. Indian attacks had lessened to almost none so it was a shock to all the settlers in the canyon when news of the attack by a small band of Lipan Apache reached the settlements.

Since one story tells that the Indians camped on the mountain for a day or two and did not come to the home until John McLaurin had left and Kate had taken the children to the garden spot, it is believed by some that the raid was a result of a robbery gone bad.   But for what ever reason it is all now lost to history.

A local posse trailed the Lipans as far at Ft. Clark, Texas where they turned the job over to Captain Bullis and the Seminole Scouts.  The Seminoles were noted for their great tracking ability.  The Scouts eventually caught up with the Lipans in the mountains of Mexico.  John McLaurin later identified clothing retrieved from the Lipans as articles belonging to his family.  All of the Lipans were killed except for a woman, who claimed to have saved Maude from being killed, and a young boy.

So whether a planned raid or a robbery gone bad, many lives were lost as a result.  This story is one of great historical value as it encompassed so many different cultures:  The McLaurin and Lease families who came to the Frio Canyon to settle; the Lipan Apache tribe who were slowly being pushed from their homeland by the settlers and the Comanche; and the soldiers of Ft. Clark, which included the Buffalo Soldiers and the Seminole Scouts. Four different layers of society were affected by the events of that fateful day.

McLaurin Massacre

At night ‘neath the stillness of the towering bluff
You can hear her saddened cry,
As a mist engulfs your body
In a shroud that will mystify.

As you walk through the quiet stillness
You can feel her presence there
And now I'll tell you her story
So listen, if you dare.

Shh! Listen, listen and you will hear.
"Mother, mother," young Maude cried.
"Go, Maude run," says her mother,
"Run south by the mountainside."

John had left them early that morning,
Kate, Maude, Alonzo, and Baby Frank,
And a hired hand, young Allen Lease
All alone on the river bank.

They had worked hard all that morning
Carrying water for washing their clothes,
While high atop the rocky cliff
Danger perched in a menacing pose.

When all of their chores were finished
They took to the garden plot.
It was a lovely, cool April day
And the sun was not quite hot.

The savages watched them all morning
As they quietly stalked their prey,
Then they descended down the mountain side
At an hour past midday.

The Indians started to ransack the house,
They pillaged and plundered the place.
They had no mercy in their eyes
Only murder, malice, and disgrace.

Mrs. McLaurin heard the noise from the garden below,
And said "Allen, go check and see,
It sounds like hogs are in the house.
Go chase them out, would you please?"

So Allen knowingly went to the house
But unknowingly went to his death.
He died from the shot of a savage's gun
And cried in his dying breath.

"Run, children run, over the fence!"
Kate cried even though she'd been shot.
She tried to give Maude the baby
And cried as she weakened somewhat.

Four times more Kate would be shot
As she tried to scale the fence.
She fell to the ground with the babe in her arms
As his body, her blood did drench.

Kate lay there dying, covered with blood,
Maude wanted to ease her pain
And what she did defied all fate
As she ran to the house with disdain.

She left her mother all covered with blood
She ran, as the blood did spread
She ran to the house, where the Indians were
To retrieve a pillow for her mothers head.

The Indians saluted her bravery,
They stood awe of her diligent run,
They left, but they would always remember
The girl and the deed she had done.

Maude tenderly placed the pillow
And comforted as best she could
While her mother whispered to her
"Go Maude run, take the trail through the wood.

Maude hated to leave her mother,
But she feared what the Indians had done,
She cried as she stood and looked about,
Then turned South and began to run.

She ran to the home of the Fisher's,
They were shocked at the story she told.
A posse gathered to trail the Indians,
Before their trail could grow dim and cold.

John McLauren rode hard to get home
He had a premonition that all was not well.
It was John Leakey gave him the sorrowful news,
Then they rode to the massacred hell.

On their arrival they found the carnage
That was revealed from brave Maude's run.
The Indians were gone but left their deeds
To be viewed in the setting sun.

They found Kate's life flickering
A few sighs were all that was left
But she knew that all her children were safe now
And with pain she drew her last breath.

The Indians are gone along with Kate's life
But the story is alive to this day
So listen again, listen once more
And listen to what she must say.

Shh! You can hear her now.
Hear the words from her dying breath
"Go Maude, Run!" She cries
These many years since her death.

So as you listen to the night birds calling,
And as you listen to the cypress trees sigh
As you listen you can hear her voice now,
As she says her last, "Goodbye."

© June 1997, Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

The Saga of Lucy Murdock

I had read a story about a wagon runaway and had read a story about a lady named Lucy Murdock. The name Lucy Murdock just had such a special ring to it that I decided to use it in this poem. I then added excerpts from my life and my mother's and came up with this little story. I always got my "spending money" by selling eggs and I have always had this fear of scorpions. And one time my mother opened a dresser drawer and there coiled up was this little snake. But such is life in Texas!!! When, and I said when, it did rain we always had to run with buckets to put under the leaks!!! I edited this poem several times. The original poem had Lucy being rescued by a hero and I performed it that way a few times and then decided that Lucy needed to save herself!!! So the hero was just deleted!! Anyway I am satisfied with this version and hope you all enjoy it!!

 

The Saga of Lucy Murdock

Once upon a time in Texas, where the sage and cactus grow,
Where it's hot as heck in daytime, but at night the breezes blow.
Comes the story of a lady and her perilous life on the plain,
Where rattlesnakes and mesquites are more common than the rain.

Lucy and Alex Murdock came here to settle and make their home.
They tilled the soil and milked the cow, vowing never more to roam.
Alex and Lucy worked from dawn to dusk, improving their little spread,
They built a house and fenced the place and put up a lean-to shed.

The house they built was pretty plain, a dog trot with a roof of tin,
And when it rained, you wouldn't believe, how much water did come in!
But Lucy did her very best to make this house a home,
Amid the rattlesnakes and scorpions, but towards disaster she was prone.

Now Lucy raised a brood of chickens and milked a Jersey cow,
She planted a kitchen garden and sometimes she'd even plow.
She always sold her extra eggs and sold her Jersey cream.
She contributed to their coffer, or though it so did seem.

Now every Saturday Lucy went to town as was her social call.
She dressed up in her very best and donned her tatted shawl.
So with five gallons of Jersey cream and at a very early hour,
Lucy Murdock would set out for town, before the cream could sour.

Now the buggy mare, named Katy, was in a family way,
So Lucy's trip by that was doomed, since she couldn't take the bay.
Alex hitched up the younger mare, with instructions to hold her tight,
He assured the reluctant Lucy that the young mare would be all right.

So Lucy and her ample figure got up in the wagon seat
And then she set the can of cream between her tiny feet.
Alex gave a word of caution as Lucy started on her way
But he didn't have much confidence in that prancing little gray.

The gray was a little nervous, but so far behaved quite well,
So when Lucy let her guard down, the trip went all to--well
They’d almost made the second mile when a strange noise they did hear
The sound of a horseless carriage coming right on from the rear.

The gray mare tensed, laid back her ears at this unfamiliar noise.
Lucy held the skittish mare and tried to keep her poise.
The horseless carriage came right on, Lucy tried to control the mare,
But I must tell you here and now, this was a panicked pair.

The auto car did clatter by as the gray did snort and rear.
Lucy tried to prepare herself, and tried to contain her fear.
The mare's trot became a gallop, Lucy reined with no avail!
And as they tore over rutted roads, the cream sloshed in the pail!

Lucy's hat blew off her head, the cream sloshed all about.
Building pressure inside that can, that would soon some way come out!
The pressure caused the lid to pop and where her hat had been,
A dollop of cream ran through her hair and the young mare reared again!

The banging lid was held by wire to the handle of the can
The noise it made scarred them more as down the road they ran.
Over the hill and around the bend, went Lucy, the mare and the cream
Over bumps, the rocks and the ruts and did she ever scream!

But slowly she got the wagon stopped, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The mare cooled down and behaved herself way beyond belief.
Lucy was not surprised to find, as a result of her wild run,
In the can, instead of Jersey cream, she found the butter had come.

All the people stopped and starred as Lucy arrived in town.
The grocer bid her "Morning mam," and carefully helped her down.
She was so embarrassed but she held her head up high.
She got her butter and her eggs and hoped that he would buy.

Well, the grocer bought the butter, and the eggs that did survive
And Lucy was quite thankful to be going home alive.
Alex could not believe her tale, except for her disheveled state,
But this is not the end of the story, or the end of Lucy's fate.

Alex took Lucy to the barn and much to her surprise,
There in the corner of Katy's stall was a wonder for her eyes.
You see Katy had a dun filly, as yellow as they came,
There was no doubt in Lucy's mind, Butter would be her name.

© June 1997, Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Mary Ann's Legacy

I first heard the story of Mary Ann Goodnight from Vicki Sybert, Wildlife Interpretive Specialist whose project is the Texas State Bison herd located at Caprock Canyon State Park.  Vickie and I share a great love of history and the little known facts that make for great stories.  Vickie told me that Mary Ann, or Molly as she was more commonly known, wrote in her diary of how she could hear the ringing of the rifles during the day and the crying at night of the buffalo calves whose mothers' had been shot by the hunters.  Now unless one has been on a ranch and heard this mournful bawl of mama cows whose calves had been weaned and hauled off to a feed lot you really can’t imagine the full impact of Molly’s entry into her diary.  Having heard these cows, growing up on a ranch, I could only imagine Molly’s reaction.

Mary Ann Dyer married Charles Goodnight on July 26, 1870 in Hickman, Kentucky.  They set up ranching near Pueblo, Colorado.  The Panic of 1873 and the drought brought the Goodnights back to Texas.  It was in the Palo Duro Canyon of Texas that the Goodnights entered into a partnership with John George and Cornelia Adair and the formation of the JA Ranch began.

However, the buffalo that inhabited the canyon became fierce competitors with the cattle that the JA Ranch was producing.  In order to eliminate the competition for the precious grass necessary for the herd of cattle, buffalo hunts were organized and the buffalo would soon reach near extinction.

Molly’s life in the canyon was lonely but she always claimed to be happy. From her husband, to the cowhands, to the chickens and the buffalo calves, Molly happily gave of herself.

Mary Ann's Legacy

I rode to the edge of the caprock
And gazed at the canyon below.
I thought of a time and a lady,
And of her life of so long ago.

I watched the remains of her legacy
Thundering within the canyon walls,
While the red tailed hawk soared peacefully
Beckoning with its lonely call.

The preservation of the buffalo
Was the center of her dreams,
And because of this honored lady
The hunters were not supreme.

She had returned in desperation
To a Texas she’d once known.
Vowing to never leave the canyon
And to forever call this land home.

She saw to the needs of her husband
And to the cowhands on the old JA.
She was wife, mother, sister, doctor
And preacher when they’d lost their way.

Life in the canyon was lonely
Her chickens her closest friends
And her love for the land and the buffalo
Stayed with her until life’s end.

Mary Ann Goodnight grieved and watched
As progress raised its vicious head
As the way was cleared for progress
They shot the buffalo dead.

In the day she heard the rifles ringing
And at night the orphan calves bawl,
As these sounds echoed the canyon
With their haunting lonely call.

She pained for the orphan babies
And her feelings she did convey
So Charlie went out and roped two for her
The ancestors of these today.

The Bison herd was swallowed up
As if it had never been
While the canyon walls loomed in silence
Mary Ann’s buffalo lived within.

Millions once roamed the canyons
But now there are only a few.
But thanks to Mary Ann Goodnight
Hers are here for me and you


© Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Afterword:

Mary Ann’s legacy is located at Caprock Canyons State Park, 100 miles southeast of Amarillo, Texas.  Known as the official Texas State Bison Herd, these animals had ranged freely in the Palo Duro Canyon system until 1997 when they were donated by the current owners of the JA Ranch to the State of Texas. Through DNA testing, genetics indicate that this herd is of pure bison strain.  These bison are the last of the Great Southern Herd and descendents of the two roped by Charles Goodnight and given to Mary Ann to raise.

Mary Ann’s headstone reads:

Mary Ann Dyer Goodnight
One who spent her whole life in the service of others.

 

Teresita

There was an uneasy tremor in the ground
She knew something was not right.
Then she heard the pounding of the horses' hooves
And slowly she stood in fright.

The troops topped the ridge at the break of dawn
They arrived in a cloud of dust.
She turned and looked for her father
The chief, a man she knew she could trust.

Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds
Her hair was like a raven's wing,
And as she stood amid the chaos
She could hear the Shaman sing.

Their homes were torched and set ablaze
Through the clouds of smoke she could hear
The sounds of the cries of the wounded
And again she gazed in fear.

Costelietos was roped and drug by a horse
She ran to assist the old man
Where is the respect she wanted to know,
He is leader of the Lipan.

They seemed not to care and they fired more shots.
But soon not another sound
With a silence so deadly and a calm so serene
The tribe was soon gathered around.

Those that could walk were made to march
The others would die alone.
They crossed the river then another moon more
'Twas the last time she would see her home.

Teresita and her father marched like the rest,
At Ft. Clark they were entombed.
They would live the life as captives
While their life as a Lipan was doomed.

Teresita would become the bride of a scout,
She would ride with him each day.
For freedom she did this, relinquished her dream
Oh what a price to pay.

No longer to run as free as the breeze
No longer her soul to soar
No longer to live as a dove on the wing
No longer a life as before.

But to her new life she adjusted.
Her new freedom she did behold.
She loved her family and worked as a scout
But still longed for her life of old.

© 2001, Linda Kirkpatrick, from Somewhere in the West
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

I discovered the story of this woman while researching "The Conflict in the Rio Canyon." In the stories that I would read, I kept coming across stories that would mention an Indian woman who rode with the troops that trailed the Lipan Apache that killed Kate McLaurin and Allen Lease. After much "digging" I found that her name was Teresita and that she was also a Lipan Apache.

When Ranald S. McKenzie, the Calvary, and the Black Seminole Scouts made their historic raid into Mexico to eliminate the Indians they captured Teresita and her father Chief Costelitos. Teresita, Costelitos and the members of the tribe that could walk were taken to Ft. Clark, Texas. Teresita would later marry Seminole Scout, James Perryman. Her ability to ride and track gave her a freedom that was desired by many captives.

In April of 1881, Teresita found herself trailing members of her own tribe that so far had eluded capture. Little did she know that this small band had killed Kate McLaurin and Allen Lease. Teresita, in hopes to preserve the freedom of this small band, tried to lead the troops astray. The troops soon became wise to her trick and refused to follow her lead. It was then that she tried to escape. In order to subdue her and keep her from warning the band of Lipan, Teresita was tied to her horse and led by a member of the troops.

To her dismay the small band of Lipan were found. All were shot but one Indian woman and a small boy. The Indian woman related the story of the raid at the McLaurin homestead and the killing of Kate and Allen. This Indian woman and the boy were sent to the reservation in Oklahoma. It is said that Teresita died soon after this incident. But for now that is another area to research.

 

For My Dad

He sits and watches the sun sink low
Behind the shadowed hills of life.

His thoughts are scattered and his mem'rys
Are shattered and torn apart in strife.

Once he remembered his favorite mare,
The roan with a smooth easy gait.
And as quick as it came it's gone,
Why oh why can't it wait?

He is pretty sure that this is his hat,
However it may not be.
He sits in a chair and tries to remember
The time when he was young and free.

Yes, there once was a time not like this
When he was a different soul.
One who would rise before the dawn
Just to check out a new- born foal.

A man who has cowboyed all his life,
Who rode for only one brand.
Who did what he could but still had time
To hold a little girl's hand.

But now the tables have greatly changed
And I am at such a great loss.
A disease has consumed my right hand man
And left me the only boss.

Now no one answers my questions,
And no one to help me feed.
There's no one to help fix the windmill.
And no one to take the lead.
 

We reminisce 'bout the old days
And the things that we did together.
We can talk of cattle, horses, dogs
Rain and the hot summer weather.


We talk and maybe a  mem'ry
Will stay with him in his heart
A mem'ry of times shared together
And how we never will part.

© 2002, Linda Kirkpatrick
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Linda told us:  This photo is my dad, Alton Kirkpatrick, me and a longhorn. I was very upset when this photo was made and remember every bit of it.  You see my dad made me sit in that saddle, on that longhorn, in a DRESS!!  Now what cowgirl do you know would ride a longhorn in a DRESS!?  I was highly offended that my dad expected me to sit in that saddle in a dress. That nasty little look that I have on my face is not out of fear of that big ole steer it is because I had to sit up there in a dress!!! Daddy was standing there to keep me from bailing off!!  He carried that photo in his wallet until a few years ago when I talked him out of it!!


The above poem is also included in our collection of 
poems about Cowboy Dads and Granddads.

 

A Cup Full of Mem'rys

The town where I live is a very small rural community.  Even today it is not unusual to see someone riding down the street horseback but one of my dearest memories is of three cowboys who used to live in this community.  No longer able to ride the range, like they did in their younger days, they would still ride their horses into town, tie them to a tree then get their groceries and stop by the local drug store for a cup of coffee.  During my high school days I would work in that drug store during the summer and I was always delighted with these three cowboys and their art of saucering coffee. Each one had a special cup and saucer that their coffee was served in each day.  And heaven help the person who made a mistake and gave the chipped cup to the wrong cowboy.  Those three cowboys ride herd now in heaven and I would like to dedicate this poem to them, Mr. Willingham, Mr. Pullen and Mr. Crowell.


Circa 1970



A Cup Full of Mem'rys

He saucered up his coffee, a slight smile crossed his face,

As he remembered younger times and a different place,

Places with buckaroos, longhorn steers, broncy Cayuses

And women, the fancy kind, the ones they call chanteuses.

 

“Oh yea, those days were great, I’d like to go back there today.”

As he relived over coffee his ruff and rowdy ways,

So I sat down across from him and ask him if he would,

Tell me of that time back then and the life that he withstood.

 

Again he lifted his saucer and sipped his coffee black.

He raised his eyes up to me and opened his cotton sack.

His entire life was in that sack, as I found out that day.

Beginning with his childhood in a place so far away.

 

First, a photo of a woman, a babe upon her knee

A young child stood beside them and he said, “That youngun’s me.

 It was just a few years later, I left my childhood home,

For a distant place called Texas, my heart was on the roam.

 

Cowboyed in the Palo Duro, Charlie Goodnight’s place,

It was there I found this point, left from an Indian chase.

But then, “I just moved on,” he said staring into his cup.

“Would you please help me out here and warm this here coffee up?”

 

Well I got up and got the pot and brought it back to him

As he starred away in silence and thought of trails grown dim.

That cup steamed with hot coffee and he soon came back to life,

Then he began to talk about his young child and his wife.

 

He took a locket from his sack opening it to see,

A young woman and a little child staring back at me.

“I lost my Maggie and the child one cold and chilly night,

I buried them on that ridge when the ground was snowy white.

 

I found a piece of limestone then I carved in it a cross,

I said a prayer and cried a tear then left on my ole hoss.

I rode away, up and left, I couldn’t bear to go back.”

I sat there, wiped a tear as he again looked in his sack.

 

He took a parcel from the sack, pride swept across his face.

I watched with tearful eyes as he opened that leather case.

A Ranger badge for his shirt, a forty-four for his hip,

He set them on the table, swished his saucer, took a sip.

 

He then told Ranger stories and how he had lived his life

Since that day he’d buried his small child and his lovely wife.

He rode across Texas, chasing Indians and outlaws.

Why he talked for most an hour and never once did pause.

 

He then picked up his saucer, but he set it down again.

You see his eyes were kinda misty from talkin’ ‘bout back then.

He put the things in his sack and looked up at me and said,

“Live each day like there’s no tomorrow.” Then he bowed his head.

 

The years had caught up with him and he knew that he’d soon find

That the land across the Jordan was not a state of mind.

I watched as he mounted his horse and slowly rode away

If I live a hundred years I’ll never forget that day.

 

We found him the next morning in an everlasting sleep,

On his cot, in his cabin but I found it hard to weep.

For now he’ll sip his coffee from a saucer made of gold,

That coffee will be hot, black and never again be cold. 

© 2002, Linda Kirkpatrick
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Miss Anna's Tea

Reality TV shows are taking up a lot of the air space.  I saw a commercial
for one a few months ago and did some thinking about the star.  The star is
a blonde Texas girl and I swear she should have lived back in the old west
so in the poem that is where I put her.


Miss Anna's Tea


Just another day in Texas as the stage rolled into town.
It was awful hot'n dust enough to make one frown.
The women folk were excited as they prepared the Welcome Tea
To honor this lady Miss Anna, the trouble they could not foresee.

Anna was a young, widowed lady who had inherited the old hotel.
They'd all go to meet her and certainly wish her well.
So they gathered at the depot, Lucy Murdock was to speak.
As the driver stopped the horses they all got closer for a peek.

Most of the men of this fair town were at the local blacksmith shop.
No out'a the ordinary occasion to them, just a regular stage coach stop.
The coach door flung open wide and a pink parasol came out.
Underneath it, a sassy woman, blonde, with lips in a perfect pout!

They saw too much of her ankle! They even saw her knee!
"Harlot!!! Outta the way! The new lady we want to see!"
This Jezebel did debark in a not too graceful way!
There was no one else on the coach much to their dismay.

Those men began to drift around to see what was happening there.
The women raised their brows in scorn while some just stood and starred.
"Hey ya'll! My name's Miss Anna! Would you fellas get my trunk?"
The ladies stood back, all aghast surprised at all her spunk.

Miss Lucy, in her kindest way, invited Miss Anna to tea.
"Could you please join us? Especially is you're free."
"Why I shore will be there," she said as she adjusted her chapeau.
The men froze dead in their tracks as they swooned to be her beau.

Miss Lucy's table was set with cup, saucer and spoon,
Then Miss Anna broke the news. "Ya'll come to my new saloon!"
Miss Gertie, the preacher's wife, fell from her chair in a faint.
Miss Lucy gasped, held her breath, the others sighed, "No you can't"

"Oh yea I can!" Miss Anna said while applying rough to her cheek.
"I must go I have things to do, you see I'll open in a week.
Sure nuff, come the next Saturday the saloon doors opened wide.
And every feller in that town was there by Miss Anna's side.

They googled and they goggled at the ribbons in her hair.
They sipped of her refreshments while the women set the snare!
They'd invite the blond vixen to their Saturday evening tea,
They'd be very kind to her on this they all did agree.

So they polished up the silver then in the sugar bowl,
They added something special swearing not to tell a soul.
Miss Anna she arrived on time and flopped down in her chair.
She hiked her skirt, fanned her face, this was more than they could bear!

They watched with anxious eyes as the sugar she did stir.
Then to all of their surprise her voice began to slur.
She drank her cup, grabbed the pot she filled it three times more
Each time with ample sugar, then she staggered to the door.

Her funeral was lavish. Her coffin painted pink.
The men were sad but the women, now tell me what do you think?
A dry goods store was opened, of this you can be sure.
And strange things happen there, but the women, they endure.

Miss Anna's Dry Goods Store is run by the ladies of the town.
And odd things do take place there when 'ere the sun goes down.
Miss Anna haunts the dry goods store and the women cannot tell
Exactly what they did to her 'cause surely they'll go to...well

They endure this apparition. Out loud they honor her name.
Their husbands know not what to do or where to lay blame.
Well of course, she's not really gone. She lives in the dry goods store.
She lies on a bed of pink velvet, but I need to tell you more.

Miss Anna has a long tail, sharp claws and tufts on each ear!
She's brought milk in a saucer whenever she'll appear!
Yep, she purrs for canned sardines and they order them by the case.
'Cause Miss Anna is that yellow cat that just eats and haunts the place.

© 4/2003, Linda Kirkpatrick
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 


When Round Up Time Comes Around

The wood floor creaks in the old bunkhouse

No other sound or voice is heard,

Soon the rattle of plates on the table

As every cowboy is served.

 

The jingle of spurs, bumping of boots

And the creak of the bunkhouse door,

These are the early sounds of the dawning

Just as in the days of yore.

 

The gray gelding snorts and paws the ground,

Then tosses his head in the air,

The bay in the corner trots round the pen,

They call her the Mustang Mare.

 

Then the rest in the pen start to stir,

A whinny, a prick of the ear,

The familiar sounds of the early morn

Tells them saddling time is near.

 

The feel of the Levi jacket worn,

As it turns back the morning chill.

A soft glow of pink in an eastern sky,

The sun wakes behind the hill.

 

The strike of a match for one last smoke,

The last coffee hitting the ground,

These wonderful sounds of the early morn,

When round up time comes around.

 

Then the buckling of his leather chaps,

The ones that his dad used to own,

He shakes out his legs, steps from the old porch,

This is the only life he has known.

 

He walks to the barn in the darkness.

His steps crunch the cold frost bit ground.

These wonderful sounds at the break of day,

When round up time comes around.

 

The cold leather creaks of his saddle,

The chime of the hackamore bit,

These are the sounds of a working cowboy,

These sounds of toil and grit.

 

He smiles riding out from the ranch house,

Embracing this life he has found,

He lives for this day and he always has,

The day round up time comes ‘round.

© 2004, Linda Kirkpatrick
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Dead Man's Cave

First, just a little about my co-writer on this poem. Jim Pate and I both grew up on ranches here in the Frio Canyon. Young ranch kids have opportunities that no one can imagine...that is it: imagination!  Not only did we learn to ride and work on these ranches but we also developed imaginations. We both graduated from Leakey School where the population today has grown to 250 students, kindergarten through 12th grade, just a few students more than when we attended. What a life we were allowed to live and it is one that we both enjoy coming home to today. Jim and I have worked together on my dad's ranch and our families have remained close all of these years.  We never dreamed that we would be writing together. But the love of Texas history, cowboy and gospel music and stories of the cowboy have brought us back together again.

This poem actually began as a fictional story that I wrote. I was researching the story about a cave in our area that is called "Dead Man's Cave."  The only thing that seemed for certain was that somewhere there was
a cave and in the bottom of the cave was a very dead Texas Ranger, but I kept running into dead ends every where I turned. I was also researching an outlaw, with family connections, by the name of Sarge Cummings.  I never realized that the two would eventually come together.

I wrote the short story about the cave and emailed the story to Jim. A few days later, he emailed me back a song that he had written, inspired by the story. I was so excited about the song and I took the song and put it into a poem that I could recite. As we shared the poem and song different stories started appearing and they all were pointing to one Sarge Cummings. The stories of Sarge and the cave are still developing and I hope to have the final compilation in print soon. At that point you will get the rest of story. One thing, Sarge did many things that most folks would not think about doing and he lived to tell about it. His story involves Judge Roy Bean, running irons and Texas Rangers, so see you later with more details.

Dead Man's Cave

One night around the campfire
Another story was told,
'Bout mystery of Dead Man's Cave
And a Texas Ranger so bold.

Out in San Angelo, Texas
A young man died in strife,
Shot down by Teddy Booker
For his horses, he lost his life.

At sixteen and all alone
Teddy left San Angelo,
Headed for a border town
Cause there no one would know.

A Texas Ranger took his trail
The risks he understood,
As they headed to the Frio Canyon
Where the water was cool and good.

The ranger ridin' up beside him
With eyes of a deadly brown,
Teddy rode on as if he knew
He'd take that ranger down.

He shot him as he slept that night
And a cavern became his grave.
The ranger's bones lie there still
In what's known as Dead Man's Cave.

The grave's been unattended,
Teddy thought no one would know,
'bout the ranger that he killed that night
A long, long time ago.

Jeff Wade was the ranger's name.
He was known throughout the land
And there on his silver badge
Was engraved the JW brand.

It is a tale of mystery
Of a Texas Ranger so brave.
A sad and lonely story
'bout the man in Dead Man's Cave.

© 2006, Linda Kirkpatrick and Jim Pate
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


The Ranger

In the shadow of an oak tree
A ranger was laid to rest.
His name not found in history
But he was among the best.

He settled in this rugged land
And raised a family too
But when his captain called him
He knew what he must do.

He saddled up and rode away
To an unprotected land
And like the cowboys of the day
He was riding for the brand.

The brand was just a simple one,
A lone star upon his chest
To let those around him know
That he could stand the test.

They are always few in number
Because they are a chosen few.
They’re  known as Texas Rangers
And from them Texas grew.

© 2003, Linda Kirkpatrick
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Linda comments, "My great-great grandfather, John McQuirter Fleming, was a Texas Ranger during the Indian Wars in Texas, with the famed Frontier Battalion. I wrote 'The Ranger' in his honor and read it at his Texas Ranger Cross Dedication."

See a vintage family photo that includes John McQuirter Fleming and a photo of the Texas Ranger Cross Dedication in a Picture the West feature from January, 2007, here. Linda Kirkpatrick had another great-great grandfather, Samuel Lewis Kirkpatrick, who was also a Texas Ranger.

 



Linda has written poetry and stories about her father, and we invited her to share more about him for Father's Day, 2008. Find poems, photos, and her words in a tribute to her father, Alton Stuart Kirkpatrick, in a feature here.


 

Linda Kirkpatrick has shared  interesting Picture the West photos:

  Going to the home ranch house one last time

  Photos from Garner State Park

  Horses and horsewomen in her family

  Raising goats in Texas

  Vintage dolls from a ranch girl's life

   Photos and a story about the wild hogs of Frio Canyon in Texas Hill Country

  Sheep and goat ranching photos from the 1950s and later

    1930s photos from her Texas hometown's history

lkFLEMINGfinal.JPG (40636 bytes)  A 1905 family photo, Texas Ranger family history and contemporary photos

lkwatsonsmj.JPG (24370 bytes)  A 1930s-era photo of cowboy polo team

 

Linda Kirkpatrick is a regular contributor at Texas Escapes, with her monthly Somewhere in the West column.

Read Linda Kirkpatrick's tribute to T. R. Stephenson, Outlaw and her tribute to Larry McWhorter, Tribute to Larry

See Linda Kirkpatrick's poem The Christmas Story, posted with other Holiday 2000 poems and Santa Claus' Sidekick posted with other Holiday 2001 poems and One Less Chair at the Table posted with the Holiday 2003 poems.

 

Books and Recording

Tales of the Frio Canyon; Stories of the Texas Hill Country

Tales of the Frio Canyon; Stories of the Texas Hill Country spins fascinating stories and collects rare photographs from the Texas Hill Country that she calls home. There are wild hog hunter tales, Texas Ranger mysteries, profiles of early cowboys and ranchers, outlaws, movie stars, ghost tales, and more. Some of her poetry and that of others is included.

Author Mike Cox comments, "...Linda is a natural storyteller. She offers some takes that have never before seen print, and adds new details to others. The result is an excellent work of local history and folklore that is both fun to read and a good source of information for future researchers."

The handsome book was produced by Jeri Dobrowski's Lamesteer Publishing and Graphics.

Tales of the Frio Canyon is available for $20 postpaid from Linda Kirkpatrick, PO Box 128, Leakey, Texas, 78873, and from her "Somewhere in the West" blog, somewhereinthewest.blogspot.com.

 

 

 Chapbook: Somewhere in the West

Carrying on the name from her award-winning collection of stories and poems (Cowboy Miner, 2002), the Somewhere in the West chapbooks are published in January and June, and "Topics are devoted to the history of the West and those who played an important role in making it."


Volume 1, Number 1

The first in a semi-annual series includes a feature story, "Conflict in the Frio Canyon; The Incident at the McLaurin Ranch," accompanied by a bibliography and vintage photos; her poem, "Conflict in the Frio Canyon"; classic poetry by Bruce Kiskaddon, "Graves by the Side of the Trail"; and a list of rare, old, and out-of-print books and more available from her Frontier Book Store.

 
Linda comments, " I have been intrigued by the McLaurin story since I was in the fourth grade.  Through extensive research, I think that the story can now rest as I am not sure that there are any more stones to overturn there.  I have always been interested in the chapbook of the old west and wanted to do one for myself.  So what story, for my first chapbook, would be more fitting than the McLaurin story."

 


Volume 2, Number 1

The second volume includes a feature story, "The Mysterious Yellow Rose of Texas," which explores the history of the famous song and its place in Texas history. Engrossing biographies of several important figures accompany versions of lyrics (including the first-known, circa 1835), engravings, and a bibliography.

 

Volume 2, Number. 2

 

The third volume's feature story, "A Pig’s Tale, Feral Hogs of the Frio Canyon," is accompanied by the poetry of the late Texas Poet Laureate Carlos Ashley and Montana’s DW Groethe, photos, historical information, interesting recipes, and colorful tales of "hog hunters" of Real County. The cover incorporates the art of Pat Richardson.

 

 

The chapbooks, in authentic vintage style, also include a list of rare, old, and out-of-print books and more available from Linda Kirkpatrick's Frontier Book Store. The chapbooks are available for $10.00 postpaid each ($25 for the set of three) from Frontier Books, P.O. Box 128, Leakey, Texas 78873; www.lindakirkpatrick.com.

 

 

Linda Kirkpatrick is a regular contributor at Texas Escapes, with her monthly Somewhere in the West column.

 

The Somewhere in the West chapbooks are available for $7.00 postpaid each, from Linda Kirkpatrick at:

Frontier Books
P.O. Box 128
Leakey, Texas 78873

 

Beneath a Western Sky - CD

Linda Kirkpatrick describes her CD, Beneath a Western Sky:  

Each poem, song and background music has a special meaning to me.  My partner in Sunset Serenade, Frank Roberts, added his special touch with the songs, the background music and sound effects. Our other partner, Joe Wells, recited the classic poem, "Bruin Wooin',"  that I always enjoy hearing. The music from "Lonesome Dove," my favorite movie, backs my poem, "Cupful of Mem'ries."  "Old Yellow Slicker," written by Debra C. Hill, and "Rosie's Eagle," written by J. W. Beeson, are two of my favorite contemporary poems, destined to be classics.  The poem written by my great, great, great, great grandfather Ambrose Smith, "Neighbor Thompson," shows the sense of humor in this old circuit rider Baptist preacher. The last poem, "All My Trails Lead Home," was co-written by Woody Woodruff; we tied for first place with it in the Academy of Western Artists Team Penning competition in July of 2005. Sandra Herl of WorkingCowboy.com created the cover design, an adaptation of a photo taken by Frank Roberts.


Includes:

When Round Up Time Comes Around/I'd Like to be in Texas
Beneath a Western Sky
Tribute
Legend of Mary Millsap
Cathay Williams 
Mary Ann's Legacy
Neighbor Thompson
Teresita
A Cup Full of Mem'rys
The Ranger
Bruin Wooin'
Bronco Twister's Prayer
Old Yellow Slicker/Amazing Grace
Rosie's Eagle
Daybreak/The Saga of Lucy Murdock/Bosque County Romance
The Vaquero's Goodbye/Lo Siento Me Vida
All My Trails Lead Home

 

Available for $15.50 postpaid from

Linda Kirkpatrick
P.O. Box 128
Leakey, Texas 78873
830-232-5308

You can also contact Linda Kirkpatrick by email.

See our review here.

 

Somewhere in the West

   

Linda Kirkpatrick's book, Somewhere in the West, is published by Cowboy Miner.  She described it for us:

It is a collection of poems that I have written and the research behind them.  It also has a few ghost stories, some stories of my family and a recipe or two. Almost all involve a woman of the West in one way or the other!

There is the story of the conflict between the McLaurin family and the Lipan Apache Indians and another twist to the story that I discovered which involves a Lipan Apache Indian woman and the Seminole Scouts of Ft. Clark, Texas.

There is the story of Mary Millsap and Susannah Dickenson and how the fall of the Alamo and the beginning of Texas made them a part of Texas history. Also that same year little nine year old Cynthia Ann Parker was captured by the Comanche at Fort Parker Texas.

There is also the story of how my mother, a Philadelphia lady, became locked in a Texas outhouse!!

We asked Linda about the cover art (click above for a larger image) and she said that she did the book's illustrations and drew the cabin on the cover that "...was built in the 1800's.  It is located on the banks of the Frio River."

You can order the book directly from Linda Kirkpatrick: $12.95 plus $3.00 shipping and handling for the first book, and $1.00 for each additional book:

Linda Kirkpatrick
P.O. Box 128
Leakey, Texas 78873

You can also contact Linda Kirkpatrick by email.

And it is available at:

 

Contact Information

Linda Kirkpatrick and Surprise

Linda Kirkpatrick
P.O. Box 128
Leakey, Texas 78873 
email

 

 

www.cowboypoetry.com

 

HOME

 What's New | Poems | Search

 Features | Events  

The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week

Poetry Submissions 

Subscribe | Newsletter | Contact Us

  Join Us!

 

Authors retain copyright to their work; obtain an author's
permission before using a poem in any form.

 

CowboyPoetry.com is a project of the Center for Western and Cowboy Poetry, Inc., a Federal and California tax-exempt non-profit 501 (c) (3) organization.  

Site copyright information

FCEB