I grew up in El Paso, Texas and moved to San Antonio, Tx by the time I was 18. The life of cowboys and ranches, sagebrush and cactus was a thing very familiar to me. My father was a man deeply interested in history, so our family outings were normally climbing the Franklin Mountains of El Paso to explore the geography and desperately search the earth for little signs of times gone by. Occasionally, on rare occasions, we would stumble upon an arrowhead or piece of ancient pottery- a treasure to us.
This folksong was a reminder of bygone days.
Oh, the high hawk knows where the rabbit goes,
the buzzard marks the kill
but few there be with eyes to see the tall men riding still
We hark in vain on the speeding train
for an echo of hoofbeat thunder
And the yellow wheat is a winding sheet
for cattle trails plowed under
Hoofdust flies at the low moon's rise
and the bullbat's lonesome whir
Is an echoed note from the longhorn throat of a steer,
in the days that were
Inch by inch, time draws the cinch,
till the saddle will creak no more
And they who were lords of the cattle hordes
have tallied their final score
This is the song that the night birds
sing as the phantom herds trail by
Horn by horn where the long plains fling
flat miles to the Texas sky
And this is the song that the night birds wail
where the Texas plains lie wide
Over the dust of a ghostly trail
where the phantom tall men ride
Written by S. Omar Barker (read his story by clicking his name)
