Classic Poem

Around the bend we streaked it with the leaders swingin' wide;
Round the bend and down the mountain from the old El Oro mines:
Jim Waring he was ridin', gun — a sawed-off at his side,
And the sun was settin' level through the pines.
We was late — and come a-reelin',
With the gritty brakes a-squealin',
And the slack a-dancin' lively down the lines.

Jim Waring he said nothin', for he weren't the talkin' kind;
He left that to his lawyer — and his lawyer was a gun;
But I seen as plain as daylight he had somethin' on his mind,
'Cause he kept a-glancin' sideways at the sun:
And we hit the grade a-glidin',
With the smokin' tires a-slidin',
Then I give the broncs a chanct, and let 'em run.

And them broncs was doin' noble — layin' clost and reachin' far,
With the Concord chains a-snappin' and the brakes a-swingin' free,
And the Notch below a-loomin' plumb ag'inst the evenin' star,
And nothin' in the road that I could see:
Stage a-rollin' — hosses reekin',
With the heavin' springs a-squeakin' —
When Jim Waring touched me gentle with his knee.

Oh, I knowed just what was comin'. We was packin' Oro dust —
And that hombre there beside me didn't know what quittin' meant:
We was bustin' on a holdup. It was Salvador, or bust:
With our chanct of winnin' worth about a cent:
Now I weren't no outlaw stopper,
But I sure could shoot the popper,
So I shot it to the broncs — and in we went.

I seen a bridle shinin' and a shadder in the brush,
Then a streak of red come flittin' and a-spittin' through the black:
I seen a empty saddle in the ruckus and the rush,
And the leaders pawin' air, and traces slack.
Hell it sure was loose and hoppin'
With Jim Waring's gun a-poppin',
And a-spreadin' his ideas in his track.

If the game was worth the glory, then we ought to had a crown,
For we sure was nominated, biddin' high for all we got:
I was watchin' of the hosses when I see Jim's gun come down,
And I smelt the powder-smoke a-blowin' hot,
As we took the grade a-flyin'
With the pinto wheeler dyin'
And Jim doin' business every time he shot.

We made it! And the wind was fannin' cool ag'inst my face:
But the scare was still a-boilin' where I aim to keep my brains:
The wheeler he was weavin' and a-saggin' on the trace,
When San Salvador loomed up acrost the plains.
And we hit the town a-reelin',
With the gritty brakes a-squealin',
And the pinto wheeler draggin' in the chains.