Old Hoss

Painting by Bill Jaxon

OLD HOSS


The old cowboy talked on almost without
end, and I but wanted more
Of a walking journal in wrangler ways
and true living cowboy lore.
He spoke with authority of one who's
lived and worked the ranching life.
The facts and heritage came forth from a
mind that's free from city strife.

His learn'ed sentences were punctuated
with bright and flashing eyes,
As gentle jestures end thoughts that, though
complete, were all the while concise.
I waited, impatient for every word and
line, like some greenhorn kid.
I lived his story and felt all his feelings,
and was proud that I did.

My hands fairly burned like his, when that
catch rope tore loose from his grip,
When takin' up on the slack, the many
times trying to throw a trip.
The frostbite that took the toes off his
foot, hurt me to the very core,
When he's throwed and walks forty miles,
in dead of winter, back to Camp Gore.

The loss of his pardner to a bronc in
'Fifty, caused my soul to cry,
But knowing he cowboy'd up, gave me
courage and steady cowboy try.
My old thumb hurts, from the thousand times
he pounded his while ridin' fence,
All the while learning those things I never
knew, at his eager expense.

I can hardly rise from my chair, thinkin'
his bones ought to be creakin',
But he leaps quite easily from a crouch
as soon as he's done speakin'.
As he walks away, I know he's bound to
be hurting, but he doesn't know.
There walks the past....and real good brood
stock on which future cowboys can grow.

© 5/98 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley