Where the Powder River races
with the eagles in the sky;
And washes off the traces
of the drinking herds nearby;
where canyon walls and waterfalls
box in a range that hid
the cattle and the canyon
of the man called Kaycee Kid;
it was here, just past the marshes
where the river overflowed,
that the Powder River War was fought
with two against a train-load.
Two cowboys facing off against
a train of well-armed men;
all hired by those that called the shots
in Cheyenne, way back then.
Vast fortunes had been made by most.
These cattle barons thrived.
Though over-stocking was a threat,
most all of them survived.
Why not? They held Wyoming
firmly in their grasp;
most all the courts and lawmen there
helped steel their hawkish clasp.
The "open range" was open...
But to them and them alone
And all the mavericks on it...
that was stock they sought to own.
So let some wayward waddie
claim an orphan steer or steed,
a rustler's what they'd call him;
then they'd hang him for the deed.
They hung 'em fast and hung 'em high
for all their friends to see
and many were the cowboys found
a' dangling from a tree.
The range was de jure open...
a law they all opposed.
With courts in hand, they owned the land.
It was de facto closed.
With the river fast erasing
all their tracks left on the ground,
walking forms were staking out
the waking world around.
Inside the cabin, yellow sparks
were leaping from the wood
and falling from the fireplace
to the floor where Kaycee stood.
His thoughts were focused on the sparks...
he ought t' get a screen...
while all the while the shadows stalked,
silent and unseen.
When the coffee started boiling.
his partner, Jake, got up.
The coffee smelled so campfire good,
he poured himself a cup.
Still half asleep, he heard outside
his dog's disruptive howls.
"Old Blue," he thought, "must see a wolf,
a' judgin' from his growls."
Kaycee grabbed his Henry
when he heard the barking dog;
and rammed it through some crumbling chinking,
shrinking from a log.
He'd heard about the Baron's plans...
about their hired guns;
and of the men they wanted dead,
he knew that he was one.
Now it was clear to Kaycee
what upset the barking dog...
the Barons' sharp-eyed shadows
that were shooting all around.
The bullets started ripping through
the door, the window pane;
and when Blue's frantic barking stopped,
Jake figured he'd been slain.
He'd herded sheep and steers with Blue
across the range for years;
and dust kicked up by casings
brought a multitude of tears.
Kaycee saw Jake moving
through the corner of his eye.
He was reaching for his rifle
as the bullets zinged nearby.
One moment Jake was cursing
and crawling past the door.
A couple seconds later,
he was sprawling on the floor.
His blood gushed out profusely.
He was bleeding from the head.
A couple seconds later
Kaycee saw that Jake was dead.
Jake had been his partner
and the finest man he'd known.
For years, they both had dreamed about
the ranch they'd one day own.
Kaycee cursed the crooked scales
where wealth weighed more than right;
where justice was no longer blind
for gold restored her sight.
He couldn't bring his partner back,
but by Gawd he could see
that when they came to bury him
he'd have some company.
His rifle roared defiantly...
rounds of bullets soared.
Inside, outside the cabin,
the blazing rifles roared.
As bullets dropped around him;
like striking balls of hail,
he heard them whistle past him...
till one pierced him like a nail.
The blood gushed from his shoulder,
but Kaycee kept right on.
He fired until the shadows
were lifeless or withdrawn:
without regard for life or limb,
trepidation free,
oblivious of pain or blood,
resigned to what would be.
Suddenly, his eye was drawn
to something past the porch.
A man rose up and threw it...
a brightly glowing torch.
He heard it hit the cabin wall
a few feet from the door,
and somehow now, none of it
mattered anymore.
For awhile the Kid hung on,
fighting to the end,
his rifle smoking, furnace-hot,
and thinking of his friend.
Then when the raging cabin fire
was licking on his skin,
he ran outside to finish
what he knew he couldn't win.
The Barons came to bury him.
He paid back what they gave.
He took a dozen men or more
with him to the grave.
Where the Powder River's chasing
after herds a' racing by,
and overhead the eagles
skim across the Western sky,
that's where Kaycee's buried,
and every now and then,
in the wind, you'll hear him whistling
to his maverick herd again.
Bette Wolf Duncan © Copyright
High Country Communications