into keewatin - pt 3.2
by john k zimmerman
Not rated by the Author.
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the old wrangler is a composit with a whole bunch of Poetic License
THE OLD WRANGLER
He rode up from the way I’d come
On a tall paint horse with a wicked eye
He wore blue jeans and a denim shirt
An eagle feather hung from his Stetson Hat
He lead a string of six; two fat paint ponies
And four stout spotted mules. The tack was
serviceable, plain but well kept, The beasts,
well groomed, stepped along with style
He stepped down lightly from the saddle
Then stepped a step-dance step or two.
A pipe hung cold from his scowling mouth.
“Need a light” he said as he stepped around.
I gave him a box of matches. He lit up
and puffed in silence then hitched
His string to the rail. He loosed the Cinch
On the big paint horse
With a nod and a thrust of my chin I invited
him to the fire. He takes a fiddle box off his saddle
At the fire he pours him a coffee tunes up a string
And plays jigs and reels and waltzes from across the sea
I poured cup of coffee. And watch and listen
To my guest He pours himself into the music
His sun-blackened face seems to soften the light
In his forest brown eye belied the grey of his braids
He stops we sit in silence a yellow head takes up the song
He knocks the pipe on the fire place. “Rusty, me”
He says slowly, “Haven’t played in day and a night” awhile
Then he looked at me all serious “You stay here tonight?”
I nod.“This place of bad dreams.” I shrug
“Very bad dreams, seek not here.” he goes on
“I’m not seeking, just resting.” He nods, and sits cross
Legged fold his hands in his lap.“I tell you a story, Boy
“I had an uncle, not here: lives way up. Prince Albert.
He went hunting one day: Got lost him. Always lost him.
Found old stone lean-to like this. Slept there. Terrible dreams.”
I waited in silence for the punch line while he filled and lit his pipe.
Through a fresh cloud of smoke “Dreamed of himself.”, he said.
He seemed to find it funny cause he laughed in a nervous way
He picked up his fiddle. “Got a ways to go ‘fore dark”
He looked towards the corral “You wanna swap that grey mule?”
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|Reviewed by L. Figgins
|"Old wranglers are supposed to be as tough as the saddles that carry them. Hah! Old softies at heart, eh? Enjoyed this John! Thanks for the visit...PS You can tell how a man treats a woman, by the way he treats his fiddle.|
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|This reminded me of a film about Therence Hill and Budd Spencer "Trinity" real cowboy....just the bakedbeans are not here....lol
|Reviewed by Erica Ivory
Saddle up and ride.. This one makes me remember my good ole country days.. My Grampy playing the fiddle. You have written a story that is vivid.. and transcends time.
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