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No, I ain't from Texas, nor Wyoming or Montana.
I grew up where folks can raise a crop of corn or such.
I been West so long, I guess I hail from just wherever.
From one place or another, which I don't remember much.
Farming was a good life, though the work was hard and dirty.
You didn't see much folks, or ever get to town a lot.
Till, you lived good, with a full belly and a warm bed.
Be a fool to up and leave it, men would tell you, like as not.
But I had several brothers, and with just one farm to hold us,
The first one got the home place, and the others married land.
One went off to homestead, on the plains of Oklahoma.
I went along to help him, more or less a hired hand.
I sure liked that big country, but a whole lot more was out there.
And nothing much was here for me, so I just eased along.
Took up with some people moving cattle to the railroad.
A job that gives a man a horse, he surely can't go wrong.
And that was how I found my work, just riding for my wages.
Horses and cattle hammered me, and me, I hammered back.
I froze and baked and sweat and cussed. I saw a lot of country.
Never saw much people, and we never felt the lack.
I think they found us scary, but they didn't mind our money.
When we hit town, they knew it. From a drive, or roundup, say.
Come to see the elephant, and stayed to see the jail.
We had some fine times, mostly, and we parted with our pay.
We rode out there away from anywhere, and rode alone.
Just you and some old horse and all outdoors.
Sometimes there was danger; there was rustlers, and stampedes.
But mostly just man-killing work was yours.
I was proud to be a cowboy, but our way of life passed on.
We're building fence, and making hay, like farmers, I suppose.
And I have nothing much to show for it but busted bones.
A lot of hard-earned calluses, and sunburn on my nose.
Well, it was some hard life, and I'm too old to try another.
I chore around, do what I can, the times are mighty slow.
I might as well have stayed back East, and maybe got ahead.
So do I ever wish I had? Hell, no.
Copyright ©2003 N. Ross Peterson. All rights reserved.
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