|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
Freckles. A Fragment
So I told him all right, turn them loose down the draw, that the latch string was always untied,
He was welcome to stop a few days if he wished and rest from his weary ride.
Well, the cuss stayed around for two or three weeks,
till at last he was ready to go; And that cuss out yonder bein' too poor to move, he
gimme,— the cuss had no dough. Well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer,
an' would snort when he came to the branch, An' it took two cow punchers, on good horses, too,
to handle him here at the ranch.
Well, the winter came on an' the range it got hard,
an' my mustang commenced to get thin, So I fed him some an' rode him around, an' found
out old Freckles was game. For that was what the other cuss called him,— just
Freckles, no more or no less,— His color,— couldn't describe it,— something like a
paint shop in distress.
Them was Indian times, young feller, that I am telling about;
An' oft's the time I've seen the red man fight an' put the boys to rout.
A good horse in them days, young feller, would save your life,—
One that in any race could hold the pace when the red-skin bands were rife.