Lasca

Anonymous

I want free life, and I want fresh air;

And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,

The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,

The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads

That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;

The green beneath and the blue above,

And dash and danger, and life and love.

And Lasca!

Lasca used to ride

On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,

With blue serape and bright-belled spur;

I laughed with joy as I looked at her.

Little knew she of books or of creeds;

An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;

Little she cared, save to be by my side,

To ride with me, and ever to ride,

From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.

She was as bold as the billows that beat,

She was as wild as the breezes that blow;

From her little head to her little feet

She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro

By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,

That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,

And wars with the wind when the weather is rough

Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat,

Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;

But once, when I made her jealous for fun,

At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,

One Sunday in San Antonio,

To a glorious girl on the Alamo,

She drew from her belt a dear little dagger,

And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger!

An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,

And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;

But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound

Her torn rebosa about the wound,

That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown—

Her hair was darker than her eye;

And something in her smile and frown,

Curled crimson lip and instep high,

Showed that there ran in each blue vein,

Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,

The vigorous vintage of old Spain.

She was alive in every limb

With feeling, to the finger tips;

And when the sun is like a fire,

And sky one shining, soft sapphire,

One does not drink in little sips.

The air was heavy, the night was hot,

I sat by her side, and forgot—forgot

The herd that were taking their rest,

Forgot that the air was close opprest,

That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,

In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon—

That once let the herd at its breath take fright,

Nothing on earth can stop the flight;

And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,

Who falls in front of their mad stampede!

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord

Of my swift mustang without a word.

I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard

And never was steed so little spared;

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;

There was one chance left, and you have but one,

Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;

Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance,

And if the steers in their frantic course

Don't batter you both to pieces at once,

You may thank your star; if not, good-by

To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,

And the open air and the open sky,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt

For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,

Down came the mustang, and down came we,

Clinging together, and—what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my breast.

Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,

Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;

Then came thunder in my ears,

As over us surged the sea of steers,

Blows that beat blood into my eyes,

And when I could rise—

Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,

And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;

And there she is lying, and no one knows;

And the summer shines and the winter snows;

For many a day the flowers have spread

A pall of petals over her head;

And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,

And the sly coyote trots here and there,

And the black snake glides and glitters and slides

Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree;

And the buzzard sails on,

And comes and is gone,

Stately and still like a ship at sea;

And I wonder why I do not care

For the things that are like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?