'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry!
"He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just one."
"His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, And I watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as I laughed, and died.
"And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast, But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh the last.
Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote; Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine.
Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; Hands that proffered a brimming cup--empty, ere I could take; Then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! It was rude, fierce rain! Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake!
Dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead; But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail ahead. _Henry Herbert Knibbs._
A-DOWN the road and gun in hand Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill; A-lookin' for some place to land Comes Whiskey Bill. An' everybody'd like to be Ten miles away behind a tree When on his joyous, aching spree Starts Whiskey Bill.
The times have changed since you made love, O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill! The happy sun grinned up above At Whiskey Bill. And down the middle of the street The sheriff comes on toe and feet A-wishin' for one fretful peek At Whiskey Bill.