The Range Rider

Up and saddle at daybreak, Into the hills with the light, While still on piñon and cedar Lingers the wings of night; Clatter of hoofs in the cañon, Scatter of horns on the trail; Dim forms lost in the chaparral, Fleeing like frightened quail.

Follow! the deer behind them Pant in a beaten race; Light in its flight is slower Than a mountain steer in chase. ’Ware! That black bull charges; Head down, red eyes aglow; Crack! Crack! the pistol flashes-- God, but a noble foe!

His black bulk reels from the pathway, The horses reek and sweat; Unsaddle a space and breathe them, The day’s before us yet: Look back from our bed of bracken Here on the world’s green roof, You’d lie at less ease in the green below But for pistol and sure-set hoof.

What! Is your nerve so shaken? A man can die but once! Who shirks the game for the chance-sent end Is a coward soul, or a dunce.-- The turn of a loose-cinched saddle, The plunge of a keen-curved horn-- Play down to-day--and to-morrow Who cares that we were born!