Soul Wrangler

by Deb Meyer

I found him in the old line shack,
Stretched back upon his cot.
A hundred pounds of wit and will,
And whiskey, like as not.

His face was lined as winter grapes,
Forgot upon the vine.
Once young and strong and limber, too.
He now lay in decline.

His life was spent upon the range,
In sun and wind and sand.
Where cactus, cows, and cowboys mix,
While ridin' for the brand.

“Awake, ol' pard,” I murmured low.
“This lonely guard is through.”
He heaved his shanks upon the ground,
To get a better view.

He sat amid the blankets and
Knew death was very near.
The light of recognition shone
Through eyes that held no fear.

“Your ketch rope’s at the ready, but
The loop you cast is wide.
My useful days ain’t over yet.”
His words were specked with pride.

He started reminiscin’ then,
Like cowboys often do.
He told of all the things he'd miss
If earthly life was through.

He talked about the cattle drives,
The women that he knew,
He talked about his truest pards,
Though they was but a few.

His thoughts trailed next to horses, and
The gift they'd always been.
“I'll miss the horses most of all.”
His voice was cracked and thin.

“Now Cisco was my bestest steed,
So strong and quick and fine.
My Luck, he was a good'un, too.
Both lost in twenty-nine.

I'll tell ya square,” he wheezed for air,
His eyes flew open wide.
“This puncher won’t be leavin’ here,
Without a horse to ride.”

The Boss, he calls the circles, so
I tried to make him see,
The greater plan for every man
Ain't set by him nor me.

Can't tell a cowboy nothin', though.
I knew before I came.
With each and every buckaroo,
The story's just the same.

I helped the man upon his feet,
Said, “Pard, ya got to know,
There's horses up in heaven and
It's time for us to go.”

I had his ponies waitin' there,
Decked out in finest gear.
I watched him stroke and scratch them both.
It dang near fetched a tear.

“Obliged to you, Soul Wrangler, and,
I'm ready now to go.”
His face was bright. His grin was wide.
His step no longer slow.

“You ride my good pal, Cisco, and,
I'll take my pinto, Luck.
I plumb fergot to mention, though,
That S. O. B. can buck!”