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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
CHICO
John Duncklee
Chico was a cowboy, the only trade he knew
He rode in to my camp one day, from then our friendship grew
His home was down in Mexico, where the Rio Yaqui flows, but he
crossed the "line" when just eighteen with his saddle and his clothes
He'd heard they needed mountain hands to tie the wild ones down
He found his way to Tucson and wandered through the town
Before the day was over he had joined up with a crew
And headed for the mountains the kind of country that he knew
The boss cut out five horses, and told him where to ride
pointing out the canyons where the wild ones liked to hide
Chico used his rawhide well, and threw it without fear
not caring if his partner was far away or near
He'd bust the wild ones every day, and bring them in alone
at the end of his old rawhide rope, 'till he became well-known
He was the toughest of the mountain hands that tied the wild ones down
and he'd ride for months in the mountains, never seein' town
One day he found an old black steer a hidin' in a draw
with one horn up and one horn down, he threw rawhide before he saw
The look the old steer had in his eye, a look he'd seen before
in the eye of a brindle bull one day, so he knew what was in store
The rawhide sung and found its mark around the black steer's horn
then all hell broke loose as the black steer charged through the cactus
trees and thorn
The steer kept comin' straight at his horse and hit him in the chest
The upturned horn ripped through his hide and tore in to his flesh
The horse went down and Chico fell, as the old black steer turned back
to take another run at them, and he heard his leg bones crack
The horse got up, and with the steer, they both ran far away
They found Chico with both legs broke, in the morning the next day
Chico healed and soon got back to tyin' the wild ones down
until there no more wild ones left, and he wandered back to town
The day he rode in to my camp he'd turned eighty the month before,
and through the blurr of time, he remembered the wild ones once more
He'd ride with me rememberin' the times he'd tied the wild ones down
He told me of the old black steer, and the times he'd had in town
He rode with me for near two years, ridin' herd on three hundred head
Then one mornin' as we saddled up, I looked over and he was dead.
The day he died was sad for me, I said good bye to my best friend
The little man from Mexico, who threw his rawhide to the end.
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