Greenhorn

He rode in on a plow horse
without a hat or spurs,
and in surprising deference
politely called us Sirs.

We knew he warn’t no cowboy
without a blanket or a rope,
but for all he did not have
he seemed chock full o’ hope.

His maw had died he told us
and his daddy was a drunk.
so to avoid starvation 
he’d work for meals and bunk.

“I’ll do my chores from dawn to dark
without a word of sass,
and with a worm and fishing pole
I’m good at catching bass.”

We couldn’t help but like him
and took him on of course,
having for him a pony
and the wagon for his horse.

His name was Angus Devlin
to be fourteen the first of June,
but forced into his manhood
we all saw much too soon.

He made a jaunty cowpoke
in a hat that covered his ears,
still missing his departed maw
as he tried to hide the tears.

We saw he had the makings
of being a pretty fair hand,
‘cause drivin’ cows up Chisholm’s trail
took one helluva man.

He ate the dust a riding drag
and chased the dogies down,
asking about the things we’d see
when we got to town.

The girls met in the city
wanted his innocence and his gold,
the coins he earned a punching cows
made him eager and quite bold.

Tasting his first whiskey
and illicit love that night,
one gave him a headache
the other dreams of delight.

Skills acquired on that drive
stayed with him as he grew,
by twenty one he owned a ranch
by thirty he owned two.

Outliving all the wranglers
who taught him survival skills,
he mourned them at their funerals
and paid off all their bills.

Little greenhorn Angus Devlin
ended up with silver spurs,
earned right from the git go
that first time he called us Sirs.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved