The Kid

By Dave P. Fisher

She put him on the bus in Vegas, one way bound for her brother Ed,
To his ranch up north and out of the city, before he wound up dead.
He was bad at sixteen, a liar and fighter; he beat all she ever saw,
But it was because there was no man to guide him, the boy he had no pa.

She told her brother to work him hard, and teach him to be a man,
For she had given up and told him, “Do with him what you can.”
Now, Ed was a busy man, with no time to wet nurse a spoiled brat,
So he picked out one of his best men and partnered the kid with Pat.

He dropped the kid at the bunkhouse, “You work with this man here,
And don’t give him none of your lip or you’ll end up on your rear.”
The kid stared at the weathered, tough old face and the hair of silver gray,
Anger boiled in him; there was no way these people could make him stay.
He smirked at Pat’s outstretched hand; he’d give the old guy something to feel,
But instead he almost went to his knees; for the old man had a grip like steel.
Pat could see this kid needed a steady hand; his attitude overflowed the brim,
As he showed him where to stow his gear and which bunk belonged to him.

He woke the kid next morning at four and listened to him cuss and shout,
Then grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged his tail on out.
“Now, boy, you’d best get this straight, you’ll do like the others here and work,
Cause no one has the time to nurse maid some little snot nosed jerk.”
The kid didn’t like it one bit, he’d never been talked to straight that way,
But something inside of him needed that, and he figured he’d better obey.
They put him to work building fence and worked him hard the whole day long,
He came in sore, blistered, and angry, and just knowing they’d done him wrong.

As the days went by they kept him working, but all he did was whine,
He was always the first to quit the day, then first in the supper line.
He did his best to get out of jobs and not tend to the work he should,
Then lie and make excuses, so they kept him in, and put him to cuttin’ wood.
Pat shook his head, “Son, you’ve the makin’s of a hand, I can see it in your eyes,
But, I’ll tell you right now, no man’ll ever trust you if all you can tell are lies.”
It shook the kid to the core, and for the first time he felt shame, instead of mad,
That’s when he realized how that old man was becoming the pa he never had.

The next morning he was the first one up, and the last one to bring it on in,
He was on the wood all the day and no one had to wonder where he’d been
As the days went by he felt the change and now he started to show some pride,
Then one day he came into supper sorta nervous and sat down by old Pat’s side,
“Pat, I’ve been taking a hard look at myself, and I really don’t like the guy,
I want to be a hand like you, if you’ll help me, I’ll sure give it my best try.
To rope and ride, and be a man folks can trust, that’s what I really want to be,”
Pat grinned, “I knew it was in ya son, and as of tomorrow you’ll be ridin’ with me.”
Well, a lot of years have gone by since then, and that kid he became a hand,
And he grew up to be a mighty fine man, a truer one never rode for a brand.
He was there when old Pat‘s time had come and he bunched up his last herd,
And there wasn’t a dry eye in the church when the kid said the final word.
Now, he’s got a spread of his own, where he raises horses and good white face,
And he gets these problem kids out of jail and hauls ‘em on up to the place.
He teaches them respect, and to tell the truth, while workin’ ‘em hard all day,
Then headin’ home at night he talks about, this old hand, with hair of silver gray.