We had a rider named Flo, who fellers who’d know
Movin' On...
Musterin' up the Drive - Page One
Said could sing like a nightingale,
And a Mex we called Whitey, though it does sound some odd,
On account of his skin being pale.
And those two worked together. Preferred it that way,
Ridin’ nighthawk, alone in the dark,
When the evenin’ was quiet, ‘cept for Flo’s singin’,
Whitey ‘companyin’ him with his mouth harp.
And those fellers was friends. Oh, they wouldn’t have said,
If fact they ‘most never spoke words.
But it was clear to us all they expressed more than most
With their singin’ at night to the herd.
And we’d all love to listen, when they pulled night watch
To the sound of their soft serenade
And dreamin of home, and the end of the trail
We’d drift off to the music they made.
Well, it was on such a night, and things seemed all right,
With Flo singin’ and Whitey behind,
We’d supped and cleaned up, and had a last cup,
And were mullin’, and tryin’ to unwind,
When along the horizon the dark seemed to deepen’,
Then a breeze whipped itself to a wind,
And within heartbeats a thousand splatters of rain
Splashed our faces and slashed at our skin.
Below us the cattle grew restless.
Flo and Whitey, they yelled for more men.
Then lightin’ bolts slashed the dark sky like gold daggers,
Thunder crashed as the night storm rolled in.
And the steers in the back started circlin’
The heifers lowed, deep in their throat.
Then two thousand head, like a wave on an ocean
Met that storm. The stampede broke.
We raced those hides ridin’ half cinched on saddles,
Catchin' stirrups with the heel of one boot.
Flo and Whitey was leadin’, with death in their eyes,
The whole outfit in desperate pursuit.
You couldn’t call none of us slackers.
We rode strong, and raced ‘em towards Hell,
Mixin’ our sweat with the rain and the sleet
Or maybe tears, if there’s truth to tell.
But the force of that storm was like nightmare.
A gravity born of the wind.
And onward they rushed, like a dam that’s been broke,
Or demons, rejoicin’ in sin.
Til the sleet heavy onslaught subsided,
The thunder rumbled, then faded away
And heads down, the herd slowed, an uneasy truce,
As the night met a new dawnin’ day.
We rode in, pantin’ and queasy,
Easin’ ‘em gentle back where we’d left camp,
Movin’ ‘em slow, our voices kept low,
Feelin’ musty and froze in the damp.
And Sal sluiced us some barrels of coffee,
Made biscuits, not sayin a word.
And we sat there in silence, wating to hear
Two voices that we never heard.
But you knew they was somethin’ like brothers.
And maybe, if they’d made their own choice,
They would have done it this way to end up together,
Whitey ‘s harp softly backin’ Flo’s voice.
©Jo Lynne Kirkwood – April, 2001
Pelican Stewart - Page Two
The Cocinero - Page Three
The Railhead - Page Five
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