Bill Lange

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"My Treasured Silver Saddle" [ Back ] [ Up ] [ Next ]

Well, Bill Lange is Debra's cousin, an attorney from back East,

who's longed to see the wild West and every type of beast.

So we meet him at the station an' we take him to our home

for a taste of western livin' where the deer and cattle roam.

At the crack of dawn, he's askin' where the water closet lies.

When he finds it's just an outhouse he's concerned about the flies.

He's been out there forty minutes, so I yell, "Bill, what's the rush?"

An' he hollers back, all flustered, "I can't find the chain... to flush."

Well, he's achin' for a horse ride, so 1 saddle up my roan.

'Cause the hands are all out wranglin', there's one saddle left to loan.

It's my treasured silver saddle that 1 won for doggin' steers.

When I look at its engravin', 1 can almost hear the cheers.

Well, I throw it on 01' Dobbin, cinch it tight and help Bill up,

and I holler at my Deb that we'll be home in time for sup'.

Then I head on up the trail. Bill is taking up the rear.

I dismount beyond the meadow and I grab us each a beer.

But 01' Bill ain't there behind me so I have to double back.

He's exactly where we started with that horse and silver tack.

An' he's lookin' mighty puzzled, says, "I asked the nicest way,

but this horse is just plain stubborn, and it always answers "Nay!""

So I school Bill in the basics, an' he picks it up right quick.

Why in less than twenty minutes, he can give that horse a kick.

Then our ride goes real smoothly, but it's gettin' kinda late,

an' it's time for headin' back because we've got a dinner date.

Well, I stop down at the streambed 'cause my horse has got a thirst,

an' to lose a purebred stallion sure'ld be the very worst.

Then, without a hint of warnin', 0l' Bill's horse plows into mine,

and the four of us go sprawlin' an' uproot a sturdy pine.

Well, my stallion's heavin' heavy and I'm bleedin' from the lip.

Poor 0l' Dobbin's plumb unconscious; Bill has wrecked his one good hip.

An' my silver saddle's ruined. Its engravin's scuffed and scratched,

and it's hand-tooled seat is shredded in a way that can't be patched.

Then I ask Bill, through my sufferin', "Bill, why didn't y' let me know

you was just about to hit me, so I'd braced before the blow."

Poor 0l' Bill is nearly cryin' an' he makes a lame excuse

how he really tried to warn me of that runaway cayuse:

"When Dobbin wouldn't stop, I was concerned that we'd collide,

so I tried hard to alert you, so your horse could step aside.

It's that saddle's fault, I tell you, though it's near a work of art—

like a pretty face, beguiling, I didn't trust it from the start.

I'd have much preferred an old one that was simple, plain, and worn,

'cause no matter how I squeezed, I couldn't honk that saddle's horn!"

Well ol’ Bill is back in Boston, an’ his hip is nearly healed,

An’ he’s glad he didn’t choose ranchin’ for his lifetime, chosen field