We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West-- We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest-- We are Justice, and Right, and the Law! _Margaret Ashmun._
'MID lava rock and glaring sand, 'Neath the desert's brassy skies, Bound in the silent chains of death A border bandit lies. The poppy waves her golden glow Above the lowly mound; The cactus stands with lances drawn,-- A martial guard around.
His dreams are free from guile or greed, Or foray's wild alarms. No fears creep in to break his rest In the desert's scorching arms. He sleeps in peace beside the trail, Where the twilight shadows play, Though they watch each night for his return A thousand miles away.
From the mesquite groves a night bird calls When the western skies grow red; The sand storm sings his deadly song Above the sleeper's head. His steed has wandered to the hills And helpless are his hands, Yet peons curse his memory Across the shifting sands.
The desert cricket tunes his pipes When the half-grown moon shines dim; The sage thrush trills her evening song-- But what are they to him? A rude-built cross beside the trail That follows to the west Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow Across the sleeper's breast.
A lone coyote comes by night And sits beside his bed, Sobbing the midnight hours away With gaunt, up-lifted head. The lizard trails his aimless way Across the lonely mound, When the star-guards of the desert Their pickets post around.
The winter snows will heap their drifts Among the leafless sage; The pallid hosts of the blizzard Will lift their voice in rage; The gentle rains of early spring Will woo the flowers to bloom, And scatter their fleeting incense O'er the border bandit's tomb. _Charles Pitt._
SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide Which parts the falling rain,--the eastern slope Sends down its waters to the southern sea Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream; The western side spreads out into a plain, Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues At last into the rushing Rio Grande,-- See, faintly showing on that distant ridge, The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest, Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral, The dim reminders of the olden times, The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid, The hunt of buffalo and antelope; The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers; The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night; The stampede and the wild ride through the storm; The call of California's golden flood; The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho" Which set our fathers' faces from the east, To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes, To people all the regions 'neath the sun-- Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.