"I admit it's unusual, but it won't give him trouble"
On the baby's face, with a red ochre tint
Was the small and faint outline of a horseshoe print
"He should be quite something, as he grows older"
He packed up his bags and then shrugged his shoulders
"I've got this feeling," he said and he pondered
This little one here, he could be a wonder
And then just before leaving, he stopped and came close
He looked at the horsehoe, there by his nose
a brand, an odd mark, an impression, tattoo
He smiled and he thought of the luck he'd accrued
"I'll be back here next month or over the winter,
and check back him then," he said, twisting his whiskers
he hopped in his carriage and with clicking and whacking
the horses feet struck the stones with a clacking
The mother squinted her eyes, looking real close
she gazed at the baby; what she wanted the most
was for him to be healthy, true, brave and safe
with eyes closed she whispered, "You'll always be Rafe."
And Rafe, as he grew, she adored and admired
and the marks on the wall climbed higher and higher
he grew out of his levis and snap buttoned wear
as fast as his mother could buy them each year
His interest in cowboys appearded from thin air;
he was drawn to the stables, the tack and the gear
and old leather boots that made his feet sore
that his mother had bought from a second hand store
He read tattered old versions of western town stories
of purple sage hills, war cries and gun glories
of driving the cattle and building the rails
cheap dime store books of cowboys and trails
And before long his mother sent him to school
to learn history and English, of mathmatical rules
to learn from the nuns at St. Mark's on the hill
but no rules or detention could make him sit still
He fought with the bulllies, they teased him and worse
they laughed at his jeans and pocket flap shirts
but he was an old soul, with no compromise
so he bested them all, most twice his size
Sister Melinda wrote to his mother
she told her the trouble and great strain she was under
for keeping him there would be out of the question
it was impossible for him to keep up with confessions
His mother taught him at home then, until he was older
then her health faltered, "consumption," they told her
"You need a dry climate, the air high and clean"
So they moved out to Tuscon when Rafe was fifteen
In Arizona they settled, near the canyons and passes
and he worked on a ranch in between classes
Among tall green saguaro, red rock and high ridge
he felt his soul stir, and his horseshoe mark twinge
He learned more of horses and mastered the branding
Practiced his shooting on tin cans left standing
And he read and he read, the novels and stories
and lived cowboy life in canyon and quarry
Rafe's mother passed when he was nineteen
and they buried her there, in a sage swept ravine
They spoke from the bible, the psalms and the words
amidst the scrub and cholla, the lizards and birds
His mother at peace in air high and clear
the mark on his cheek was streaked with dried tears
With bandanna and hat, a roll for his bed
he drifted and camped, and he read and he read
He came to a town, San Pedro del Sol
a small border town, just north of Cristol
His mark twitched again, buzzing and warm
The sky clouded over, black with great storms
He got off his horse and walked through the streets
with nowhere to go and no one to meet
and the rain started down, plopping in dust
and on iron lamp posts, washed of their rust
His eye caught a sign, a faded old shingle
it said Last Stand Saloon like some old cowboy jingle
a storm refuge site, it was that and much more
Rafe's soul was drawn through old batwing doors
The room spun and it twisted; he fast grabbed a chair
through blinking and blurring, a man standing there
He saw him yet didn't - but his soul knew this place
He squinted his eyes - his soul knew this face
The bearded old man smiled as he spoke,
"It's me, Smoke McClinton," and he spoke like a ghost
"You said you'd come back and I knew it was true,
I stayed here in San Pedro, waiting for you
"It's been fifty years of growing this stubble
but I can say now
it's been worth the trouble
"You fought off the Kiowa when they attacked
stood on high ground as the others fell back
defiant and brave, with your rifle on shoulder
we remembered with pride, as we got older
Our last time together, we prayed to St. Thomas
as you were dying, you made me promise
to wait for you here, I don't know how long
that sooner or later you'd come back along
Smoke finished speaking,
Rafe stood by his side
he hugged his friend then,
and the storm passed outside
with thunder and lightning and skies dark and leaden
"Well I got here at last
and this feels just like heaven"
"The sheriff left these," said Smoke through the rain
Rafe rubbed his eyes, and he saw them again
There, an old Stetson, a gun and tin star
sat waiting for him on the end of the bar
Rafe picked up the gun and pinned on the star
redeemed with his karma
returned from afar
His horseshoe-like mark, which he'd had since the cradle
it shimmered and brightened, a gift from the angels
He turned to Smoke then
and Rafe surely felt it
Smoke faded away
and then he melted
*****
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