THE LEGEND OF SCREAMIN' BILL WILCOX

Screamin’ Bill Wilcox was quite a man,
carved from a block of stone,
with a face of leather, deeply tanned,
and a voice you could hear in Rome.

A cow hand he was, best with a rope,
could ride both bull or steed,
quick with a joke, quick with a laugh,
quicker still dealing with thieves.

One cold night on old Montana’s plain
the herd milled, restless, unsettled,
then ran when they heard a lone wolf’s howl,
a test to any puncher’s mettle.

Screaming Bill rode out ahead hollering,
his voice booming and proud,
the cattle swerved in a moment’s spell
and Screamin’ Bill went down.

We found nothing much left of Bill,
just his trampled, yellow hat.
We buried him with it, twas only right,
then rode, a herd to catch.

Months went by and the job rolled on,
long hours for little pay,
and we rode out to green Idaho,
a new herd to drive away.

One gray evening the clouds moved in,
lightning crashed across the land,
the cattle spooked into a grand stampede,
with thundering hooves they ran.

And I alone out in the great range
was answering nature’s call,
turned and saw a crush of steers,
a writhing and churning wall…

Just then a man he cut across,
hollering out ‘This a-way!’
The cattle turned and charged at him,
but he whooped as if at play!

The next day found the herd amidst
a stretch of fertile, green grass,
feeding quietly, quite content
no thought of the near past.

I road along to find the man
who’d saved my life last night,
I found only a yellow hat,
glinting in the sunlight.

The others they did cross themselves,
but on my face a smile played,
because I knew right then, for all of time
Screamin’ Bill would ride the plains.