There are strange things told of spirits bold,
And the trail to Sante Fe,
There is many a tale of the Chisholm trail,
And the trail to Laramie.
But this is the tale of an obscure trail
That few men travelled on;
Where a spirit was known to ride alone,
‘Twixt the midnight hour and dawn.
It would wind and creep through canyons deep
And over the mesa wide.
The men who knew this trail were few,
Where the phantom used to ride.
At times was heard a careless word
Some drinking man let fall,
But ’twas held a joke by the rangeland folk,
That no one believed atall.
I learned the truth from a hard youth.
He was one of those reckless men
Who could ride in the lead of a night stampede,
Ot the dust of the broncho pen.
On a winter night when the stars were bright
And the dying moon was low,
He was holding his course on a jaded horse
And the pace that he made was slow.
The cow horse flinched and cringed, till the cinch
Was almost against the ground.
His quivering ears showed deathly fear
And the cow boy looked around.
He felt the thrill of a clammy chill,
As it travelled along his spine,
For he saw at his side a phantom ride,
With never a word or sign.
He kept his place, for he set his pace
To the cow boy’s jogging speed.
There came no sound on the frozen ground
From the tread of his phantom steed.
He showed a flash of a long moustache
And a tilted campaign hat.
There straight and strong with stirrups long
The phantom trooper sat.
They were all alone. And the pale moon shone
Through the ghost at the cow boy’s side.
His courage fled as he rode with the dead
Alone on the mesa wide.
No sign of flight, no show of fight
The buckaroo displayed,
For slugs of lead won’t hurt the dead,
Through the mist of a vapor shade.
With the mesa past they came at last
To a canyon wide and dark,
Where some stone huts stood in the cottonwoods
That had long been an old land mark.
Each ruined shack had a chimney black,
And a roofless crumbling wall.
A living spring was the only thing
That was useful to men atall.
The chilling breeze through the leafless trees,
Gave a dreary, dismal moan.
The trooper stayed in the ghastly shade
And cow boy rode alone.
Strange tales are head of what occurred
At that place in the years gone by,
Ere that restless soul of the night patrol
Rode under the starlit sky.
What the trooper knows, or where he goes,
Nobody has ever found.
But the tale is told of the lone patrol
By the older settlers ’round.
There’s a cow boy trip with a face that’s grim,
Will never forget that ride
On a winter night in the pale moon light,
By the phantom trooper’s side.
More Poetry from Bruce Kiskaddon:Bruce Kiskaddon Poems based on Topics: Man, Cows, Night, Place, Winter, Spring, Faces, Nature, Death & Dying, Jokes & Humor, Light
- The Cow Boy's Dream (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
- When They've Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
- The Stampede (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
- The Balky Hoss (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
- An Old Western Town (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
- The Ghosts at the Diamond Bar (Bruce Kiskaddon Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:Based on Topics: Man Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Nature Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Place Poems, Spring Poems, Truth Poems
Based on Keywords: trooper, settlers, stirrups, cinch, flinched, mesa, slugs, jogging, cringed, broncho, cottonwoods