The Legend of Screamin' Bill Wilcox

Screamin’ Bill Wilcox was quite a man, Carved from a block of stone With a face of leather, deeply tanned And a voice you could hear in Rome. A cow hand he was, best with a rop Could ride both bull or stead, Quick with a joke, quick with a laugh Quicker still dealing with thieves. One cold night on old Montana’s plain The heard milled, restless, unsettled Then ray when they heard a lone wolf’s howl, A test to a puncher’s mettle. Screaming Bill road out ahead hollering His voice booming and proud The cattle swerved in a moment’s spell And Screamin’ Bill went down. We found nothing much left of Bill Just his trampled, yellow hat We buried him with it, twas only right Then rode, a herd to catch. Month went by and the job rolled on, Long hours for little pay, And we rode out to green Idaho A new herd to drive away. One gray evening the clouds moved in Lightning crashed across the land, The cattle spooked, into a grand stampede With thundering hooves they ran. And I alone out in the great range Was answering nature’s call, Turned and saw a crush of steers A writhing and churning wall… Just then a men he cut across Hollering out ‘This a-way!’ The cattle turned and charged at him, But he whooped as if at play! The next day found the heard amidst A stretch of fertile grass, Feeding quietly, quite content No thought of the near past. I road along to find the man Who’d saved my life last night, I found only a yellow hat, Glinting in the sunlight. The others they did cross themselves, But on my face a smile played, Because I knew right then, for all of time Screamin’ Bill would ride the plains