It was early in june 'neath a holo moon and harry was starin' at the sky.
These prairie nights with their starry lights get lonesome by and by.
A man gets strange out on the range without a woman's hand.
Harry needed a bride standin' by his side to help tame this savage land.
He looked around but there was none to be found, except one old widow gal.
She was old and gray and past her day, not the one you'd want for a pal.
Harry needed a wife who could share his life and help him run a ranch.
Someone pretty and pure who could shovel manure and cook and also dance.
But where do you look when you need a cook, that can dance by the light of the moon?
Where can you find a gal of this kind, early in the month of June?
Strange things are done beneath a prairie sun, when life seems all too cold.
At the end of his rope he was out of hope for havin' someone to hold.
Life's twists and turns and hard rope burns can wear a good man down.
Yet, even on the range things can change and it happened one day in town.
On a trip for grub and a new wash tub a magazine caught his eye.
It was tellin' a tale of a lonesome female who was lookin' for a guy.
Right or wrong it didn't take long for Harry to stake his claim.
He wrote a page and on the very next stage, into town his new bride came.
He married her in a hurried blur and drove her home to the ranch.
Harry was feelin' good in a happy mood, he was glad that he took a chance.
That very night, in the waning light they arrived at the ranch house door.
He said, "It ain't too much but with a woman's touch it won't look quite so poor."
At the crack of dawn, old harry was gone he had ranch work to do.
Alma was alone in her brand new home, alone without a clue.
Though the place was a sin, Alma pitched right in, and she worked 'til it was late.
She cleaned the floors and behind the doors, then she waited for her mate.
Old harry came back, he was right on track and as hungry as a bear.
He ambled on in with a big old grin, and said, "I like my steak kinda rare."
For eight long years, Alma fought back tears and did the very same thing.
It was cook and clean, growing lean and mean and all for the sake of a ring.
It happened one night by the dim firelight, while talkin' with her man.
Alma turned to her pard and said, "This work is too hard, I don't like this savage land."
"It's boulder flats, a few wildcats and a coyote now and then."
"It's rattlesnakes and dried up lakes, it's a place where no one's been."
Alma turned her head and she quietly said, "I'll be goin' my own way."
"I'm movin' on down to the nearest town, and you can come or you can stay."
At the crack of dawn, Alma was gone, she was headed for the nearest town.
Harry stayed there in the prairie air all alone as the sun went down.
Though he missed Alma bad he was a stubborn lad and needed to have his way.
In this game of life, Harry lost his wife 'cause of bein' too stubborn to play.
Now, you may decide that a mail order bride is not the way to go.
When you're lookin' hard for a lifetime pard, there are things you need to know.
Will she work like a dog, can she slop a hog and can she milk a cow.
You'd best decide before you take that ride, before you make that wedding vow.
Verlin Pitt writes about himself: "I hail from Lander, Wyoming and have been here from the time I started out. I've been writing poetry in one form or another since I was about fifteen. I've won a few awards, Lariat Laureate on Omar's West, Robert Service award on Wacobelle and some others. In the past, I've rode a few broncs, rode at a few broncs and have been throwed by a few that weren't supposed to be broncs. Wyoming is where I started out and probably where I'll stop last. I love where I'm at. I'll probably be writing poetry clear up to the time it's my turn to cross that "Great Divide." I just hope I get that last line in before I cash in. I've heard people say there aren't any more "Real Cowboys" left. Well, since I know for a fact there are still cows, I have to wonder who's guarding the herd. There will always be a cowboy out there somewhere, and he'll probably be writing a poem to prove it." His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
He came from the plains in the heat of the day
the rocks and the cactus all steamed
I saw him far off . . . a man on a horse
like a ghostly mirage . . . he seemed
He kept riding on ‘til he stopped by the barn
yet neither the horse . . . nor he
Would drink from the well and I wondered "pray tell"
. . . what kind of pair this could be
The desert was empty for near thirty miles
no water or shade . . . anywhere
Yet neither was thirsty . . . I couldn’t help think
. . . who could survive . . . out there
Why had they come here and where were they going
. . . only the desert could tell
Their ghostly appearance had caused me to guess
they were going or coming from hell
The silence was broke as the man quietly spoke
"I came in reply to your need"
"I’m known as the best . . . if you’d care to test
and also the best is my steed"
I still can’t explain why I didn’t refrain
from hiring a man I can’t pay
But quickly I said "you’ve a job and a bed
unpack all your gear sir . . . and stay"
He worked steers and cows and it seemed that somehow
they minded his voice . . . not his whip
I once saw him shoot the head off a snake
. . . he drew and shot straight from the hip
The wood was all cut and the fences were mended
. . .I saw not him chop or string wire
My wife and I prayed that we not be dismayed
by the man that was now in our hire
The small ranchers knew that only we few
had fenced in the land that we bought
"Fencing must go" . . . the big owner said
"or else a range war will be fought"
Stark was his name . . . the big owner came
when the Indians were still on a tear
He’d conquered the land and now couldn’t stand
the fencing of land anywhere
He called for a meeting in town to decide
if we’d fight or sell out and just leave
The small ranchers met at my house in hope
an alternate plan they’d conceive
Reluctantly I had invited the stranger
I remember . . . surprised that he came
Ghost Rider now was the name he was called
but not to his face . . . a nickname
After an hour or two planning in vain
it seemed that there wasn’t a way
Then Ghost Rider stood . . . and he said let’s all kneel
and silently each of us pray
The meeting was ended and all had decided
we’d go into town just as planned
That night as I prayed . . . I asked for God’s help
tomorrow we’d be far out manned
Next day as we rode into town there they stood
about thirteen hired guns around Stark
Ghost Rider rode far ahead ‘til he stopped
beside Stark . . . and made a remark
He said "Sir don’t move . . . in the Church steeple there
three angels have drawn a fine bead"
I looked ‘round to see . . . but saw not the three
yet Stark somehow quickly agreed.
He told all the rest . . . . . to lay down their guns
but several had started to draw
Guns flashing . . . shells firing . . . bullets around
I couldn’t believe what I saw
The Stranger fired six shots straight from the hip
while reaching to pick up Stark’s gun
The six shots hit six guns not yet fully drawn
then quickly the Ghost Rider spun
He emptied Stark’s gun and all found their mark
now twelve men were fully unarmed
Stark and the thirteenth man reached for the sky
we fired not a shot . . .no one harmed
I couldn’t believe . . . the stranger not hit
as bullets had flown all around
I stood there in awe . . . and finally I saw
some drops of his blood on the ground
He mounted his horse and began to explain
he hadn’t been sent there to kill
He said in the end . . . he’d been just a friend
to help God accomplish His Will
The blood dripped a trail as he rode out of town
we stared a long time through the haze
All that took place in the last several weeks
was now in my mind just a maze
I never saw angels up high in the steeple
but Ghost Rider might have been one
Or just a mirage . . . when the rocks and the cactus
make steam . . . in the hot noon-day sun.
Ron Baron is a native Texan vintage 1934 presently
residing in the central Texas community of Brownwood.
He is the Father of five grown children, single,
and retired. This affords him the time he has sought
to devote to his writing. He has been writing for
several years, and his desire is to share his work
for religious purposes. Ron's lifetime spans a chaotic
period in the degeneration of human and spiritual
values, which is reflected in many of his writings.
With family and careers behind him, poetry has
become his all consuming passion.
His work has appeared in: Southern Ocean Review,
New Zealand - Prarie Messenger, Saskatchewan and
Canadian Dream Gallery - Sunrise and Irelingus,
United Kingdom -Balaam's Ass, Australia - and Marbles,
AfterImages, The Thinker, 2River Review, Amrita,
Articulata, GreenHouse Poetry,Crossway Publications,
Black Rose Blooming, Galapegos, Voice, Legions of light,
Fern's Green House, Bible advocate, Rooms of Poe,
Black Rose Blooming, Angel Web, Block Lines, Bridge,
Cactus Bob's, EWG Presents, and several others
in the United States. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
High Country Communications