The Lost Range
Only a few could understand his ways and his outfit queer,
His saddle-horse and his pack-horse as lean as a Winter steer,
As he rode alone on the mesa intent on his endless quest—
Old Tom Bright of the Pecos, a ghost of the vanished West.
His gaze was fixed on the spaces; he never had much to say
When we met him down by the river, or over in Santa Fé.
He favored the open country with its reaches clean and wide,
And called it his “sage-brush garden; the only place left to ride.”
He scorned new methods and manners and stock that was under fence.
He had seen the last of the open range, but he kept up the old pretense;
Though age made his blue eyes water, his humor was always dry—
“Me? I'm huntin' The Lost Range down yonder against the sky.”
That's what he'd say when we hailed him as we met him along the trail,
Hazing his old gray pack-horse, fetching some rancher's mail
In the heat of the upland Summer, or the chill of the thin-spread snow;
Any of us would have staked him, but Tom wouldn't have it so.
He made you think of an eagle caged up for the crowd to see,
Dreaming of crags and sunshine and glories that used to be;
Some folks called him a hobo—too lazy to work for pay;
But we old-timers knew better, for Tom wasn't built that way.
He'd work till he got a grub stake; then drift—and he'd make his fire
And camp on the open mesa as far as he could from wire;
Tarp and sogun and skillet, saddle and rope and gun—
And that's the way that they found him, asleep in the noonday sun.
They were running a line that Summer surveying a right-of-way
From Buckman, down by the river, clear over to Santa Fé,
Spoiling his sage-brush garden—“the only place left to ride,”—
But Tom he had beat them to it: he had crossed to The Other Side.
The coroner picked his jury and a livery horse apiece,
Not forgetting the shovels, and we rode to the Buckman lease,
Rolled Tom up in his slicker, and each of us said “So-long.”
Tom never cared for preachers, but we knew that he liked a song.
None of us had a hymn-book; so we didn't observe the rules,
But we sang “Git Along Little Dogies”—all cryin', we gray-haired fools;
Kind of wishing that Tom could hear it, and know we were standing by;
Wishing him luck on The Lost Range down yonder against the sky.
His saddle-horse and his pack-horse as lean as a Winter steer,
As he rode alone on the mesa intent on his endless quest—
Old Tom Bright of the Pecos, a ghost of the vanished West.
His gaze was fixed on the spaces; he never had much to say
When we met him down by the river, or over in Santa Fé.
He favored the open country with its reaches clean and wide,
And called it his “sage-brush garden; the only place left to ride.”
He scorned new methods and manners and stock that was under fence.
He had seen the last of the open range, but he kept up the old pretense;
Though age made his blue eyes water, his humor was always dry—
“Me? I'm huntin' The Lost Range down yonder against the sky.”
That's what he'd say when we hailed him as we met him along the trail,
Hazing his old gray pack-horse, fetching some rancher's mail
In the heat of the upland Summer, or the chill of the thin-spread snow;
Any of us would have staked him, but Tom wouldn't have it so.
He made you think of an eagle caged up for the crowd to see,
Dreaming of crags and sunshine and glories that used to be;
Some folks called him a hobo—too lazy to work for pay;
But we old-timers knew better, for Tom wasn't built that way.
He'd work till he got a grub stake; then drift—and he'd make his fire
And camp on the open mesa as far as he could from wire;
Tarp and sogun and skillet, saddle and rope and gun—
And that's the way that they found him, asleep in the noonday sun.
They were running a line that Summer surveying a right-of-way
From Buckman, down by the river, clear over to Santa Fé,
Spoiling his sage-brush garden—“the only place left to ride,”—
But Tom he had beat them to it: he had crossed to The Other Side.
The coroner picked his jury and a livery horse apiece,
Not forgetting the shovels, and we rode to the Buckman lease,
Rolled Tom up in his slicker, and each of us said “So-long.”
Tom never cared for preachers, but we knew that he liked a song.
None of us had a hymn-book; so we didn't observe the rules,
But we sang “Git Along Little Dogies”—all cryin', we gray-haired fools;
Kind of wishing that Tom could hear it, and know we were standing by;
Wishing him luck on The Lost Range down yonder against the sky.
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