A Dying Cowboy's Prayer

(The prolific author James Willard Schultz moved to Montana in 1877 from New York when he was 18-years-old. He penned 37 Western adventure books. Before his death in 1947, he had sold more than 1.5 million copies of his first book, My Life as an Indian. His half-Blackfoot Indian son, Lone Wolf, was born on the Montana Blackfoot reservation, a few years after Schultz went to Montana. Lone Wolf would fulfill a legacy of his own, producing more than 500 paintings. Featured above is one of them. He became the first Indian to earn a national reputation as an artist. )

The night was sprinklin' twinklin' stars
in clusters 'cross the sky...
and down below a cowboy lay,
sick....about to die.
The sky above, the earth below...
was foggy and obscured;
but in the cowboy's feverish dream,
a distant voice was heard,

"Heaven, maybe...hell, perhaps",
declared a distant voice.
"I've weighed the good and bad in you;
and heaven- that's my choice."
Though racked with pain and fever,
the cowboy hadn't died.
Fighting through the fog, the man,
with heavy heart, replied,
"If it's all the same with you,
I like it fine down here.
I'd like t' ride the range again
and rope some racin' steer.

"I like it fine down here, oh Lord!
It ain't for me up there.
I'd miss the crisp Dakota winds
a' combin' through my hair.
I'd miss the cowboy's laughter,
and the frequent barroom brawl;
the ridin' herd on moonlit nights
and hearin' cattle bawl.
The cowboys down at Caseys,
and the mugs a' friendly beer.....
I'd miss 'em! Lord, I'd miss 'em!
I'd like t' stay right here!

"I'd miss ole Cookie's coffee.
I'd even miss his beans.
I'd even miss my worn out boots
and dirty, beat-up jeans.
The mountain mists at mornin',
and the roarin' waterfall,
the thunder and the lightenin'
of the sudden summer squall....
I'd miss 'em! Lord, I'd miss 'em!
I know I'd miss 'em all...
the roundups in the springtime
and the cattle drives each fall.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Pain be damned! The cowboy climbed
a mountain cliff all night;
stumblin' every now and then,
but always clutchin' tight.
When the cowboy reached the crest,
his fiery fever broke;
and in his bedroll on the range,
at daybreak, he awoke.
Never did just wakin'-up
seem such a splendid treat...
not a gray cloud anywhere...
just blue skies, sunshine-sweet.
"Heaven, maybe...Hell, perhaps..."
still echoed in his ear;
and once again the cowboy said,
"I like it fine down here.!"

Bette Wolf Duncan