Charles Badger Clark

The daybreak comes so pure and still.
He said that I was pure as dawn,
That day we climbed to Signal Hill.
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Old camp-mate, black and rough to see,
A hard-worked aid and ally you
In all my single-handed wars
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I laughed when the dawn was a-peepin'
And swore in the blaze of the noon,
But down from the stars is a-creepin'
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Two miles of ridin' from the school, without a bit of trouble—
The main road hit her father's ranch as straight as you could fall.
I led her by a shorter cut that made the distance double
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As I was ridin' all alone
And winkin' in the noontime glare,
I seen a hawse all hide and bone
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Red is the arch of the nightmare sky,
Red are the mountains beneath,
Bright where a million red imps leap high,
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Once again the regiments marching down the street,
Shoulders, legs and rifle barrels swinging all in time.
Let the slack civilian plod; ours the gayer feet,
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Deeply the buffalo trod it
Beating it barren as brass;
Now the soft rain-fingers sod it,
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I've tracked you up the wind, my buck;
You're lying plain in sight.
No need of hasty trigger-pluck—
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No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide;
It is all stark red and gray,
And strewn with bones that had lived and died
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We're the prairie pilgrim crew,
Sailin' with the sun,
Lookin' West to meet a great reward,
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Oh, days whoop by with swingin' lope
And days slip by a-sleepin',
And days must drag, with lazy rope,
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This I declare: As I trudge the road
Of pain-filled souls with a heavy load—
A pilgrim lad, with staff in hand, plodding along through the shifting sand;
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My father prayed as he drew a bead on the graycoats,
Back in those blazing years when the house was divided.
Bless his old heart! There never was truer or kinder;
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All mornin' in the mesa's glare
After his crouchin' back I clattered,
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You and I settled this section together;
Youthful and mettled and wild were we then.
You were the gladdest town out in the weather;
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I dread the break when I shall die—
Not from my human friends, for they
Are shifting shadows such as I
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Our town has history enough.
Across the railroad, on the bluff,
Prof. scans the records of our age
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Stop! there's the wild bunch to right of the trail,
Heads up and ears up and ready to sail,
Led by a mare with the green in her eyes,
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Fathers with eyes of ancient ire,
Old eagles shorn of flight,
Forget the breed of my blue-eyed sire
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