The Grave of Indian Bill
There's a spot above the valley,
Where grass grows on the hill,
Where the wind blows cold and bittersweet
On the grave of Indian Bill.
He was a half-breed Navajo-
His dad had come from Maine
Before the Great War swept the land
And brave men died in vain.
No man stood as proud and tall,
So straight of back and limb,
Nor had the crowd of youngsters
That nearly worshiped him.
Bill, he was a pure man,
Clean of heart and soul;
Never a man he cheated,
Never a horse he stole.
I was the man who brought him in
After the day he died,
And out of a crowd of hardened men
I'm the only one who cried.
Young Ben Sharp was riding out
When his horse it went plumb wild;
It bucked and flung him in the air,
And onto his back he was piled.
It was cold and snowy on the hill,
And Ben was all alone;
When my friend Indian Bill arrived,
Ben Sharp was cold as stone.
Indian Bill did the best he could
To bring the young man in,
But a blizzard welled up from the north,
And the clothes he wore were thin.
He had to leave young Ben Sharp there
And get out of the storm;
He took his horse to get to town,
His coat to keep him warm.
He headed to town to get some help,
Someone to come for Ben;
He needed a hand to bury him
Down in some sheltered glen.
The Murphy boys were riding out,
In search of a wayward cow;
Indian Bill had found it first,
And was bringing it in to them now.
But they came upon Bill on the trail
to town,
Young Ben Sharp's horse beneath;
And with their cow in front of him,
They knew he was a thief.
It didn't matter what Bill said,
The Murphys believed not a word;
Indian Bill, he was no good,
In spite of the things they had heard.
If Ben was dead, as he surely was,
It hadn't been done by mistake;
Surely Bill had killed him
For the buckskin horse and a stake.
So they tied his hands and they led
his horse
To a lonesome old fir on the hill;
They were dead sure convinced that Bill had stole,
For an Indian always will.
Indian Bill was a brave young man,
And he would not beg or plead;
He told them simply how he came by the cow,
How he came by the buckskin steed.
But the Murphy boys were fired up,
And for Bill there was no last request;
His body swung against the stiff breeze
When died the last light in the west.
I found my friend Bill in the morning;
I'd heard the whole tale in town;
I cried o'er his stiff hanging body,
And I cut my poor friend down.
And in Ben Sharp's coat pocket, I
found a small note;
The words, they were dim, but I read:
"I'm in a bad way, my sweet Mary,
And fear that I soon will be dead.
If anyone finds this here message,
Please take it to her so she'll know,
And take this old pony-it's all that I have,
And lay me out here in the snow."
The note was signed by young Ben Sharp,
Signed in a shaky hand;
It told me a tale as true as my friend,
Of his ever-honest brand.
Well, Indian Bill, I reckon you're
gone;
You lie on the hill where it's steep;
And I pray that your God will comfort you,
Deep in the ground where you sleep.
-Kirby Jonas Fall 1994
|
