Post by wildfire on Jan 27, 2005 8:15:12 GMT -5
Rider on the Rim
On the wagon last October, was a kid of 17.
A city kid from Dallas, wet behind the ears and green.
He’d stepped out of the pages of a western catalog.
Not the kind you’d pick to ride the rivers and the bogs!
The boss had throwed this . . . kid . . . and me together for the drive.
We took the outside circuit, I was mad and full of fight!
“This ain’t no place for tender feet!” ‘Cause where we had to go,
was through the hill and badlands, where the twisted cedar grows.
This kid had drawed a snakey bronc, plumb full of dirty trick!
I’ll give the kid his credit, boys, he stayed and took his licks!
‘Cause every time he’d get throwed off, he’d step back on again!
We wondered how much “practicin’” this city boy could stand!
At the head of an arroyo where the tamaracks grow tall,
I sent the kid a driftin’ north, to ride up Deadman’s draw.
The country’s pretty open, and the draw ain’t very deep.
So I took Black Oak Canyon where the bluffs are high and steep.
It was misty in the canyon, and the light was sorter dim.
And through the mist a saw a ghostly rider on the rim.
He waved his hat and motioned to go back the way I’d come.
And when the mist had cleared away the ghostly form was gone!
Well, I turned my hoss around, headed back for Deadman’s Draw.
I knowed, “the kid’s in trouble” I could feel it in my craw!
From the trail of broken cedars, and the deep track in the sand,
the gray was usin’ all his tricks . . . the kid had made a hand!
But there beneath a cutback where the trail was slick and steep,
The gray lay thrashing on his side, the kid lay underneath.
With his foot run through the stirrup hole and to the horse’s head,
He knew that if the gray got up; he’d soon be drug to death.
The kid was tired and gettin’ weak, the horse was gainin’ ground.
I slipped my gutline on his neck, the kid got turned around.
So he was in the saddle, when the horse got to his feet.
And we rode out together, but we didn’t hardly speak.
A dozen times I’ve ridden, out along that canyon rim.
There ain’t no tracks, and I ain’t seen that ghostly form again!
And, I don’t really care if you believe a word I say,
But a cowboy guardian angel helped me save the kid that day.
It was misty in the canyon, and the light was kinda dim.
And through the mist I saw a ghostly rider on the rim.
If I live to be a hundred, I will not forget the day,
when a cowboy-guardian angel, taught two puncher how to pray.
On the wagon last October, was a kid of 17.
A city kid from Dallas, wet behind the ears and green.
He’d stepped out of the pages of a western catalog.
Not the kind you’d pick to ride the rivers and the bogs!
The boss had throwed this . . . kid . . . and me together for the drive.
We took the outside circuit, I was mad and full of fight!
“This ain’t no place for tender feet!” ‘Cause where we had to go,
was through the hill and badlands, where the twisted cedar grows.
This kid had drawed a snakey bronc, plumb full of dirty trick!
I’ll give the kid his credit, boys, he stayed and took his licks!
‘Cause every time he’d get throwed off, he’d step back on again!
We wondered how much “practicin’” this city boy could stand!
At the head of an arroyo where the tamaracks grow tall,
I sent the kid a driftin’ north, to ride up Deadman’s draw.
The country’s pretty open, and the draw ain’t very deep.
So I took Black Oak Canyon where the bluffs are high and steep.
It was misty in the canyon, and the light was sorter dim.
And through the mist a saw a ghostly rider on the rim.
He waved his hat and motioned to go back the way I’d come.
And when the mist had cleared away the ghostly form was gone!
Well, I turned my hoss around, headed back for Deadman’s Draw.
I knowed, “the kid’s in trouble” I could feel it in my craw!
From the trail of broken cedars, and the deep track in the sand,
the gray was usin’ all his tricks . . . the kid had made a hand!
But there beneath a cutback where the trail was slick and steep,
The gray lay thrashing on his side, the kid lay underneath.
With his foot run through the stirrup hole and to the horse’s head,
He knew that if the gray got up; he’d soon be drug to death.
The kid was tired and gettin’ weak, the horse was gainin’ ground.
I slipped my gutline on his neck, the kid got turned around.
So he was in the saddle, when the horse got to his feet.
And we rode out together, but we didn’t hardly speak.
A dozen times I’ve ridden, out along that canyon rim.
There ain’t no tracks, and I ain’t seen that ghostly form again!
And, I don’t really care if you believe a word I say,
But a cowboy guardian angel helped me save the kid that day.
It was misty in the canyon, and the light was kinda dim.
And through the mist I saw a ghostly rider on the rim.
If I live to be a hundred, I will not forget the day,
when a cowboy-guardian angel, taught two puncher how to pray.
