AN INCIDENT OF THE WEST by ANONYMOUS

MORE annoyed than for many a week before,
We looked on Bill whar' he lay,
He had got down sick — an' the livelong day
Had groaned an' babbled an' maybe swore.
An' didn't he look as he tumbled thar',
As big as a hoss, as strong as a b'ar,
His face as red as the leaves out whar'
The sun fell last on the canyon.

Old Bill was a brick — wild, full of his pluck;
But somehow deep in his bosom yit
He'd a feelin' fer man that wuz down — hard hit
By the graceless thing that we call bad luck,
An' to hear him there with his eyes shet fast,
Blabbin' of things that belonged to the past,
His mother an' sisters — we jest had to ast:
"Turned baby, Bill, in the canyon?"

We had no fire; it was fall of the year;
An' the moon shined fair on the bowlders —
A white shawl hangin' over the shoulders
Of the mountains that stretched out fer an' near.
Fer an hour then, not a sound from Bill.
No snarl of wolf, an' no streamlet's spill;
It seemed God's step, ef you'd be right still,
Mought be heard even down in the canyon.

"Yes, mother, I'm ready to say my prayer,"
He murmured then in a voice now faint,
A look on his face no bresh could paint,
So drawn, yit soft in the midnight air:
"Now — I — lay me — down — " then we all drawed near,
An' the rest of the words fell plain on our ear —
The sweet old prayer God loves most to hear,
Went up with his soul from the canyon.

Jest plain rough scouts, half-feelin' our way
On the borders of hell for the pioneers,
We had little time fer sighs and tears
As we laid Bill under the grass next day.
But we b'lieved as we turned and left him alone,
His childish plea reachin' up to the throne,
Fer his mother's sake might somewhat atone
For the faults of the dead in the canyon.

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