Deadwood Hill

(At Wild Bill Hickok’s Grave) Those bold Black Hills of South Dakota, Darkly murmur of all your Badlands— You have left now like the Lakota— On that hillside your monument stands. Hills pulse under Ponderosa pines— Strong night breezes have yet much to say— Legends linger on lips and pale shrines— They know that Wild Bill once passed this way. You sleep long in this last resting place, That now overlooks sinful Deadwood— It is here that we still see your face, Yet ponder if you were bad or good. They moved your petrified form it’s said— Casket opened, though some thought it wrong— Your dark face yet perfect, though long dead— Your fair hair still so flaxen and long. Jane Cannary lays mute beside you— A calamity that is no more— As you study those cards in the blue— Play that dead man’s hand from a far shore. Saffron leaves and stern winds shape your grave— And your name’s one that we all know still— As you raise dark death’s ante and save, One last red ace to trump Deadwood hill.