From the mesquite groves a night bird calls
When the western skies grow red;
The sand storm sings his deadly song
Above the sleeper's head.
His steed has wandered to the hills
And helpless are his hands,
[p. 153] Yet peons curse his memory
Across the shifting sands.
The desert cricket tunes his pipes
When the half-grown moon shines dim;
The sage thrush trills her evening song —
But what are they to him?
A rude-built cross beside the trail
That follows to the west
Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow
Across the sleeper's breast.
A lone coyote comes by night
And sits beside his bed,
Sobbing the midnight hours away
With gaunt, up-lifted head.
The lizard trails his aimless way
Across the lonely mound,
When the star-guards of the desert
Their pickets post around.
The winter snows will heap their drifts
Among the leafless sage;
The pallid hosts of the blizzard
Will lift their voice in rage;
The gentle rains of early spring
Will woo the flowers to bloom,
And scatter their fleeting incense
O'er the border bandit's tomb.
Charles Pitt.
THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL
SEE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide
Which parts the falling rain,— the eastern slope
Sends down its waters to the southern sea
Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream;
The western side spreads out into a plain,
Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues
At last into the rushing Rio Grande,—
See, faintly showing on that distant ridge,
The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest,
Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral,
The dim reminders of the olden times,
The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid,
The hunt of buffalo and antelope;
The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers;
The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night;
The stampede and the wild ride through the storm;
The call of California's golden flood;
The impulse of the Saxon's "Westward Ho"
Which set our fathers' faces from the east,
To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes,
To people all the regions 'neath the sun —
Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail.
It winds — this old forgotten cattle trail —
Through valleys still and silent even now,
[p. 155] Save when the yellow-breasted desert lark
Cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite,
In quivering notes set in a minor key;
The endless round of sunny days, of starry nights,
The desert's blank immutability.
The coyote's howl is heard at dark from some
Low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf
They yelp in concert to the far off stars,
Or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rage
That lie unburied by the grass-grown paths.
The prairie dogs play sentinel by day
And backward slips the badger to his den;
The whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake,
A staring buzzard floating in the blue,
And, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,—
Lost, always lost, and seeking evermore.
All else is mute and dormant; vacantly
The sun looks down, the days run idly on,
The breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls
Smothering the records of the westward caravans,
Where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves
Make milestones for the old Mackenzie Trail.
Across the Brazos, Colorado, through
Concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on
By Abilene it climbs upon the plains,
The Llano Estacado (beyond lie wastes
Of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),—
And here is lost in shifting rifts of sand.
Anon it lingers by a hidden spring
[p. 156] That bubbles joy into the wilderness;
Its pathway trenched that distant mountain side,
Now grown to gulches through torrential rain.
De Vaca gathered pinons by the way,
Long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill,
Cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels;
La Salle, the gentle Frenchman, crossed this course,
And went to death and to a nameless grave.
For ages and for ages through the past
Comanches and Apaches from the north
Came sweeping southward, searching for the sun,
And charged in mimic combat on the sea.
The scions of Montezuma's low-browed race
Perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree;
Or sucked the cactus apples growing there.
All these have passed, and passed the immigrants,
Who bore the westward fever in their brain,
The Norseman tang for roving in their veins;
Who loved the plains as sailors love the sea,
Braved danger, death, and found a resting place
While traveling on the old Mackenzie Trail.