Where the Onion Brook flows
into Lassiter's Creek
and the trail winds south toward
O'Shaunessey's Peak...
where the bones of the hopeless lie bleached where they fell,
lived that she-devil, known as the
Weaver from Hell.
Though I'd never been there, in that forsaken place,
or experienced the shock of her hideous
face,
or endured the foul ragin' that spewed from her scowl,
like the razor-sharp points on a bronc
rider's rowel,
I knew well, from the stories, that woman was mean,
a detestable beast with a mutated gene.
But, alas, I'm now part of the legend they tell
of that she-devil, known as the Weaver
from Hell.
She kept pretty invisible, 'cept for the treks,
when she bartered her blankets and
scanty gold flecks
for the food and supplies that she'd need to endure
through another dark winter at Hell's
open door.
As she'd ride down Main Street with her pack mules in tow,
all the children would scatter, and big
uns laid low,
for the sight of her face made their skins start to crawl---
caused the mamas to gasp and the babies
to bawl.
And, though ev'ryone's heard that one stitch'll save nine,
that a bird in the hand is worth two in
the pine,
and that actions are precious and words are so cheap,
they all knew that her ugly was
more than skin-deep.
She'd been saved, once, from hangin' for killin' a man--
some poor cowpoke who worked for the
Connelly clan.
And there wasn't a question, she'd've swung from a noose,
if she hadn't been tried clear down
south in Scapoose.
She'd once cut up a feller at Henderson's Draw,
who had laughed at her face and
insulted her Ma.
But the judge didn't side with that sliced-up old fool---
said the guy had it comin' for bein' so
cruel.
Well, there always was
wond'rin' and questionin' looks
as the shopkeeper hung up her blankets
from hooks,
Just a few, who were rich, could come up with the cash,
yet each masterpiece offered was gone
in a flash.
Woven tight, to perfection, and colors so rich--
How could things of such beauty have
come from that witch?
Yet I knew, in my heart, from the briar comes burl;
and, from crusty old oysters, the
luster of pearl.
So I ate lots of beans and I saved up my pay,
'til I'd reached that hard goal and
could finally say
that I I'd scrimped for a bride's gift for my precious Nel--
of a wonderful wool by the Weaver from
Hell.
And there, right in the midst of our humble abode
was a blanket--worth more than the
whole mother lode--
where our love was fulfilled on a moon-shadowed night,
and the dreams of our youth took
reality's flight...
where the heaven's poured forth and our marriage was blessed
with a sweet babe who nursed at a kind
mother's breast;
A mere handful of mavericks turned into a herd;
All the heifers got plump and the
kittens all purred.
But, down deep in my heart was a question that stayed,
as the blanket got old and its edges
were frayed,
of the woman who'd woven that blanket so well--
that old she-devil, known as the Weaver
from Hell.
It was late 1890, near Lassiter's Creek,
where the trail winds south toward
O'Shaunessey's Peak,
when a rock tumbled down and stampeded my cows,
and my horse scraped me off on a yellow
pine's boughs...
and all trampled by cattle, and stomped by my bay,
with my head all caved-in and my scalp
torn away,
'twas the weaver who found me, where snow'd turned to red,
and she carried me back from the land
of the dead.
Well, unconsciousness came and unconsciousness went,
and most times, that I stirred, found
the old weaver bent
over me like an angel attendin' my needs--
with a cup of hot broth and a rosary's
beads.
Other times, I would see her across the bare room,
as her shuttle drew yarn twixt the
threads of her loom,
where a blanket emerged with a beautiful face
of a love-splendored girl, with such
delicate grace...
as I'd never once seen in the days of my life,
'cept for Nel, on the day she'd become
my dear wife.
So I asked her, "Who's that?" and I got her to tell:
"That's the woman, they now call,
the Weaver from Hell."
"But, when Jim and I married, my face had no scars,
just two eyes that were filled with the
moon and the stars."
Like the ins-and-the-outs of her smooth shuttle's way,
came the pieces and bits of a life of
dismay...
how her dear husband died of the burns from that fire,
as he asked for her promise--his
lifelong desire
to remain on the ranch and accomplish the dream
of an idyllic life along Lassiter's
stream.
But beef prices went south, so the money was slow,
and the calves fell to wolves and the
merciless snow.
And a fire-scarred face found no love of a man.
But that cowpoke, that worked for the
Connelly clan...
thought he'd have him his way--use her body for him.
She'd fought hard, punched, and kicked,
and called out for her Jim,
as she smelled the foul breath, felt the weight as she fell,
found the poker and dispatched that
cowboy to Hell.
Startlin' fast, like they'd come, lots of years disappeared,
and the weaver grew tough--neither
fretted nor feared--
kept the ranch, kept her promise, and never would sell
the last wish of her Jim to his Weaver
from Hell.
As my body grew stronger, she walked me each day,
across the freshly-swept floor from the
bed where I lay.
Two months passed and I knew I was ready to ride,
but a change had come over my heart,
deep inside;
For, that hideous face that had scared young and old,
that had brought back my life from the
land of the cold,
that had suffered the curse of an undying love,
now appeared like a beautiful,
unblemished dove.
But, December was flyin'. I sure missed my Nel,
and I knew I must leave--There were
steers still to sell.
And I sure longed to hold my grandson in my arms,
and to relish the bliss of my lovin'
wife's charms.
So the widow baked bread and packed up a nice slab
of salt pork and a strip of of some
jerky she had.
Then she gave me that blanket and sent me away,
sayin' "Joe, have a wonderful,
warm Christmas Day."
Softly floated the flakes as they fell on that place,
while a stray ray of dawn cast a glow
on her face;
And an angelic halo--the legend will tell--
crowned that she-devil, known as the
Weaver from Hell.
No! A radiant halo--the legend will tell--
crowned an angel, once known as the
Weaver from Hell.
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