“I
By the ditch in the hollow stands the tree,
A cottonwood with deeply wrinkled bark
About its mighty trunk, and limbs that spread,
And leaves that gleam and shimmer in the sun,
The oracle of any moody breeze.
Aloft, the bee-bird spies; here orioles sing,-
In vain we boys risked necks to reach their nests,
To see, touch, boast of – O, no thievery.
Here in a gentle wind the body swayed.
His hands were bound behind, and his dead weight
Dangled with feet not far above the ground
Where the sombrero lay brim uppermost.
His shoes were frayed by grass blades; a gold ring
Shone from one hand; about his blackened throat
The gay silk kerchief loosely knotted lay.
The rope was higher, right against his chin.
A boyish face, scarce bearded, but now marked
With the last agony in those bursting eyes,
A glassy blue, mouth drawn in grinning pain
To show with what a struggle life broke loose
From his young body. Yet his soft brown hair
Was neatly parted, just one lock waved low
Over the forehead. All of this we saw
While men sought out a tool to cut the rope.
II
His watch contained a picture I was told,
They thought his mother’s, but they could not find
A hint. No doubt the horse thief saw to that,
Took comfort thence. The prison cells are full
Of men who veil themselves with alias
Lest kindred share disgrace. And nameless graves,
And vagabonds in exile! Lost, and lost!
Perhaps this whole long winter evening through,
While the wood fire hums its low, sad tune,
And the knitting needles click, and the open page
Is scarcely turned, father and mother muse
Of the boy who vanished alive in the strange wild land.
Was it for love, or hate, or avarice?
Or untamed blood that wantons in the breast,
Spurring the soul to pass all barriers
As it had wings, not limping feet of clay,
That brought him to the unmarked, grassy mound
They call the horse thief’s grave? We shall not know.
III
”Old Gray gone? Why, we loved him human-like!”
“”It’s thirty miles with loads to market, store!”
“”The plough rusts in the furrows!”” “”Ripened wheat
Must fall for birds!”” “”He is professional,
Outrides pusuit, and makes horse stealing pay!”
“”A gang with stations!””
O, a dozen like
Reasons of sentiment and poise. Did such
Lead twenty men to coolly hang this boy?
Or did some underlying passion burn
Their hearts, flare up in cruelty?
Hear, and judge.
He answered or kept silence as he would,
Without manhandling, till the proof of guilt
Cast its black shadow. Slowly to the tree,
His captors all rode mute. The thief might pray,
Or plead or curse. By glimmering lantern light
He stands in the saddle while the rope is tied;
The leader speaks, the horses start, the dark
Enfolds the dangling struggler.
Custom this;
Stark custom, wherein rough men harden heart
Melting so kindly to the desperate plea
For mercy. This youth knew what path he chose;
Played life against the slipnoose snare and lost.
The people judged, and carried out their law,
Effecting sentence rather than revenge.
Their law takes life for that which money buys?
Unduly harsh, perhaps. Consider this:
What money has the settler, and wherewith
Shall he make purchase? Livelihood and life,
From settler and his family? Death to thieves!
Of course, rope won’t reform a horse thief’s soul,
But it warns stealers of such heavy risk
A man can tie his team on grass at night
And find it in the morning. Life is life-
Nor cheaper here than in the city streets,
Except to those who covet horse, – or rope.
(Edwin Ford Piper)”
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