Post by wildfire on Jan 13, 2005 9:42:49 GMT -5
Deacon and the Dun
Ol' Deacon was a punch, born a hundred years too late.
A top hand, and he sure as hell was tough.
His bed was in the corner, he had been there thirty years.
God help the man who rifled through his stuff.
I'd ridden lots of roundups when he didn't say a thing.
Was tho' the words were stickin' in his craw.
Don't know if he was crazy or a woman done him wrong.
I always tho't he's hidin' from the law.
Now Deacon cared for horses like no man I've ever known.
He lived to see the babies in the spring.
His favorite was a zebra dun–he raised him from a colt.
The old man pampered Dunny like a king.
Four of us was in the south camp through the winter months,
Me and him and Buck and Billy Joe.
The only thing he ever said to any one of us,
Was who would ride with who and where to go.
We were calvin' heifers in the Palo Duro Breaks.
A norther hit and started spittin' snow.
Was stickin' to the cedar where we rode along the rim.
The valley lay three hundred feet below.
Then Deacon saw a baldy heifer standing on a ledge.
She looked to be about a two-year-old.
Don't know if she was stuck there or she maybe lost her calf,
was bawling like a banshee in the cold.
So Deacon took old Dunny down a little rocky trail,
I watched the horse and rider disappear.
Then just as I approached the rim, the heifer ducked her head,
And bounded up that trail just like a deer.
Old Dunny tried to step aside and let the heifer pass.
The trail was narrow where they chose to meet.
Now Deacon knew they both would fall if he stayed in his kack,
Without him, Dunny might regain his feet.
Was at that very moment that she saw a little light
Between old Dunny and the canyon wall.
The old man left the saddle like an eagle takes to wing.
I stared in disbelief and watched him fall.
I had to ride the canyon rim until I found a trail.
It took forever pickin' my way down.
I found him by a cottonwood all rolled up in a wad.
Was breathin' but he barely made a sound.
Every single bone was broken, his eyes were all that moved.
He couldn't lift his head up, but he tried.
Through splintered teeth he asked me, "Son, did Dunny make it out?"
I nodded, he just smiled, and then he died.
Now in his stuff we found a dozen stories he had wrote,
‘Bout horses he had ridden in his life.
But there was not a mention of his family or his friends.
No indication of a child or wife.
So what we know about him we can still put in my hat.
And tho' his story has a bitter end,
He could have jumped the other way, let Dunny take the fall,
But Deacon gave his life to save a friend.
Ol' Deacon was a punch, born a hundred years too late.
A top hand, and he sure as hell was tough.
His bed was in the corner, he had been there thirty years.
God help the man who rifled through his stuff.
I'd ridden lots of roundups when he didn't say a thing.
Was tho' the words were stickin' in his craw.
Don't know if he was crazy or a woman done him wrong.
I always tho't he's hidin' from the law.
Now Deacon cared for horses like no man I've ever known.
He lived to see the babies in the spring.
His favorite was a zebra dun–he raised him from a colt.
The old man pampered Dunny like a king.
Four of us was in the south camp through the winter months,
Me and him and Buck and Billy Joe.
The only thing he ever said to any one of us,
Was who would ride with who and where to go.
We were calvin' heifers in the Palo Duro Breaks.
A norther hit and started spittin' snow.
Was stickin' to the cedar where we rode along the rim.
The valley lay three hundred feet below.
Then Deacon saw a baldy heifer standing on a ledge.
She looked to be about a two-year-old.
Don't know if she was stuck there or she maybe lost her calf,
was bawling like a banshee in the cold.
So Deacon took old Dunny down a little rocky trail,
I watched the horse and rider disappear.
Then just as I approached the rim, the heifer ducked her head,
And bounded up that trail just like a deer.
Old Dunny tried to step aside and let the heifer pass.
The trail was narrow where they chose to meet.
Now Deacon knew they both would fall if he stayed in his kack,
Without him, Dunny might regain his feet.
Was at that very moment that she saw a little light
Between old Dunny and the canyon wall.
The old man left the saddle like an eagle takes to wing.
I stared in disbelief and watched him fall.
I had to ride the canyon rim until I found a trail.
It took forever pickin' my way down.
I found him by a cottonwood all rolled up in a wad.
Was breathin' but he barely made a sound.
Every single bone was broken, his eyes were all that moved.
He couldn't lift his head up, but he tried.
Through splintered teeth he asked me, "Son, did Dunny make it out?"
I nodded, he just smiled, and then he died.
Now in his stuff we found a dozen stories he had wrote,
‘Bout horses he had ridden in his life.
But there was not a mention of his family or his friends.
No indication of a child or wife.
So what we know about him we can still put in my hat.
And tho' his story has a bitter end,
He could have jumped the other way, let Dunny take the fall,
But Deacon gave his life to save a friend.
