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Show They chased that sorrel through the trees, around and under limbs... Through thick and thin they followed him. When almost to the rims Old Buster caught his hind legs in the sharp crotch of a tree, And down he went-with his head bent beneath him, helplessly. Old Buster's neck was surely broke so badly was it bent Back under him. His chance was slim. Dad's chance, not worth a cent.. His leg was pinned 'neath Buster's side and him pinned by the tree... And though he tried, he pulled and pried, he could not set it free. Dad thought about a lot of things, up there on Boulevard. Bereft of pride, he cussed and sighed-the dying would be hard. He'd likely have to starve to death, or maybe die of thirst. Or go stark mad-or wish he had if lions got him first. Ah, no, he'd simply shoot himself before it came to that... But there it lay, ten foot away, his gun beside his hat! He wondered what the kids would do when he did not return. They'd search for him, but chance was slim his fate they'd ever learn For by the time they looked for him way down there by the rim They'd find but bones among the stones... His fate looked mighty dim. 'Twas then Dad heard a feeble sound from Buster's smothered head. Those flanks of brown moved up and down... old Buster wasn't dead! Thank God-Perhaps they had a chance-perhaps they weren't through- A stick, a twig and he could dig... could dig... that's what he'd do! He looked around the crusted ground and spied a piece of stick, (The only one that he could reach) but it might do the trick. The earth was hard beside his leg, but once beneath the crust, With stick and stay he scooped away the loosened dirt and dust. His hands grew torn and bloody but he didn't care a hoot - He knew that they were doomed that day unless he freed his boot. His boot was stuck. But not his foot-it moved, he gave a shout- Though numb with pain he pulled again and slowly it slipped out! Then Dad fell back across the ground and moaned a thankful prayer That HE'd seen fit to help a bit and hadn't left them there. With trembling hands he rubbed his leg until the ache was gone. Then coaxed with rein and tug of mane to urge old Buster on Until he stood, on shaking legs... Dad gently rubbed him down. For where the tree had set him free was blood mixed with the brown. And well Dad knew, it was because of that small piece of stick, And strength to try, they did not die up there by Bitter Creek. Frances B. Steiner Cowboy Poetry From Utah 59 |
