His place was the saddle, he was destined to roam.
The one thing he never did have was a home.
Just a campfire at night or a bunkhouse sometimes.
A hot ranch in Texas, or cold mountain climes.
A tumbleweed cowboy some folks called him then.
He might roll through in springtime, they never knew when.
He could ride like a Cheyenne and shoot like old Kit.
He could tear up a town, give the trail boss a fit.
Red River north up to Ellsworth some years
In the dust or the mud made by leaden skies’ tears.
Never stayed in one place long enough to set roots.
Always moving, never resting to take off his boots.
He was footloose and free as a cowboy could be.
But the hard years caught up to him eventually.
On a drive to Dakota late one summer day,
He was chasing a calf that had wandered away.
As the golden light faded from the top of a hill,
They saw him slump forward and all became still.
The cowboys dashed up as he slipped to the ground.
They jumped from their mounts and they all gathered round.
He still held the reins in one hand as he lay.
He had seen his last drive. There was nothing to say.
The years he’d spent wandering from place to place
Were etched in the lines of his weathered old face.
As the blazing clouds lowered and seemed then to touch
The plains and the mountains that he loved so much.
The light left his eyes but his smile, it held fast
And that homeless old cowboy was home now at last.
