Face In the Snow

Sly had him no love for Christmas, It was just another day— When the devout celebrated And weak-willed cowpokes did pray. Old Sly, he weren’t all that bad— No, by gosh, he sure was not— He never did shoot him a man That he didn’t think need shot. Sly Stern was just an old drover Who outlived his friends and time— That was headed nowhere that day Without a care or a dime. So it was Christmas that morning As he crossed the Mummy Range— Heading higher and still higher, When he felt a little strange. He’d crossed these old mountains before, But never on Christmas day— Yet now he felt a bit confused And he couldn’t find his way. The wind and the cold grew fiercer— Snow hit his face with hard slaps, Sly knew he needed some shelter As one hand froze to his chaps. But all he could find was a ledge, A wind break with icy sage. He unsaddled his horse gently— For the first time felt his age. Quickly, Sly gathered up damp wood— Built a fire to heat his soul— Christ seemed nothing in a blizzard As the snow soon took its toll. Hours passed and so did the fire As white snow whirled and then screamed— For a moment he saw a face Or so that old drover dreamed. The blizzard grew stronger that day, The worst in thirty odd years— Covering the whole Mummy Range: A Christmas with joy and tears. With numb hands and ice-cased whiskers, Sly took bullets from his belt, Gently arranged them in the snow To spell out just how he felt. For in those final dear moments, One face appeared in the snow— The face of the Lord of this earth, A face that he would now know. Two months later his friend found it, Next to his rock-frozen hoss— The old drover’s bullets laid out In the rough shape of the cross. Though his saddle and gun remained, There was no trace of old Sly— It was as if he’d been taken Away, far up, in the sky.