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Show OUTLAW COUNTRY The cabin was silent and lonely, in a deserted glade it stood. Low eaves and a crude rock chimney, with log walls of rotting wood. The door swung on broken hinges, the glass in the windows long gone. Not worth an investigation, except for the storm coming on. Inside was rough hewn and dusty, by the light of the fading day. Unused for a generation-but for rats that had passed that way. Now I grounded my chaps and saddle, tied Old Pard in the leanto behind. With my pistol and sack and slicker, went in to see what I'd find. With a bough of quaking aspen I broomed a spot clean on the floor. Threw down my tarp and soogan, cleared the jam and closed the door. Now the storm blew in with fury, hid the day in its ominous gloom. Leavin' me in my solitude, wonderin', interred in my log cabin tomb. Well, I laid out a fire on the hearthstone, while the storm blew rank and raw. The chimney had caved in on the fireplace, but wrecked as it was it would draw. Well, the room it grew bright with the firelight, more friendly with a little heat. It'd be a pretty good place to lay over, if a feller just had something to eat. Now, I checked Old Pard in the leanto, shed my boots and my belt and my gun. Rolled up my pants to use for a pillow, and sacked out for the sleep I had won. I woke in the night before mornin', the storm, it had blown itself out. 'Twas too quiet inside of that cabin, had a notion of somethin' about. I reached in my jeans for my matches, scratched one of 'em into a light. In the instant there that it flickered, I beheld a most frightenin' sight. He was aimin' in my general direction, nothin' 'tween him and the wall. Keepin' the rule of the gunman, with the hammer ready to fall. That is the view I had of him, when the match burned down to my thumb. Grabbing my gun I rolled sideways, knowin' what was to come. I took that big pistol two-handed, thumbed the hammer and squeezed off a shot. Well, the crash and the flash and the thunder, turned the night into what it was not. In a shootin' things get confusin', actions hard to remember at best. When I shot, I knew I'd missed him, but he got me square in the chest. Now, it was like gettin' hit with a pole-ax, the pain went straight to my brain. The atmosphere was suddenly blindin', at breath I could only strain. 76 Cowboy Poetry From Utah |