In God’s Hands

In God’s Hands
By Rod Nichols
(C)2001 All Rights Reserved

There was laughter and trail talk that evenin’
as the campfire had slowly grown dim,
then the usual joshin’ and grumblin’
as the boys got themselves settled in.

I could see by the small fire still burnin’
that one of the boys was up late,
he was writin’ a letter I reckoned
with his paper laid flat on a plate.

I watched for a spell then I drifted
these old bones just needed to rest,
and I slept through til daylight was breakin’
then washed off my face and got dressed.

Two biscuits and one cup of coffee
some sidemeat and breakfast was done,
a blanket then up with my saddle
firm cinched for a brisk mornin’ run.

The day started off like the others
I’d chased down a couple of strays,
when I spotted some cowboys a-wavin’
so I headed my pony their way.

There’s a hundred bad things that might happen
when a man’s herdin’ cattle it’s said,
and a cowpoke had slipped from his saddle
been dragged, broke his neck and was dead.

There wasn’t much talkin’ among us
we each saw our end in his fate,
then I got a good look at that cowboy
the same one I’d seen stirrin’ late.

I spotted the note he had written
in the dirt by his tattered old jeans,
“What’s that?” asked a hand as I read it
“A poem he’d written it seems.”

“Well read it fer us,” said another
“Jest what did the boy have to say?”
“It ain’t vey much,” I responded
“but I think he would want it this way.”

“There’s a time in each life,” the poem started
“when a cowboy had done all he can,
and it’s then as he faces the long night
he puts all his cares in God’s hands.”

“That’s it?” asked a soft-spoken cowboy
“That’s it,” was my only reply,”
“That’s enough,” said a somber-faced trail boss
“and more when it comes time to die.”

So we buried him there before sundown
with a marker of stone for his head,
the date of his passin’ and three words
“In God’s hands,” was all that it said.