|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
144 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS
His color, could n't describe it, something like a paint-shop in distress.
Them was Indian times, young feller, that I'm
a-telling about, And oft's the time I've seen the red men fight and
put the boys in blue to rout. A good horse in them days, young feller, would
often save your life — One that in any race could hold the pace when the
red-skin bands were rife.
I was a-settin' one night at sunset, jest inside that
hall, En Mollie hed gone to the milk-pen as she heard
the milk cows bawl, When out o' brush en thicket, ridin' towards me
out o' the west, Comes Antelope John, his horse on the run, en
ridin' like one possessed.
"Apaches are out!" he shouted; "for God's sake,
hurry and go! They're close behind, comin' like the wind; catch
your horse and come on, Joe!" Old Speckles was saddled, I grabbed my gun,
picked Mollie up as I passed; With the grit of her kind she hung on behind and
never a question asked.
Down through canons deep, over mesas steep, Old
Speckles never failed; In his heart of steel he seemed to feel the red-skins
on our trail;