Singing of the Great West

Bruce Brockett, Verde Valley cowboy and poet. Singing of the Great West

Bruce Brockett is a cowboy. He is now an owner and operator of an outfit known as the V Bar V on Beaver creek and has a large summer range atop the Mogollon Rim. Bruce is a big fellow. He stands no less than six feet one inch and crowned with a Stetson, appears still taller. He isn't overweight but has enough flesh to pad his bones. His many years as a cowhand have disciplined his body, and mellowed his life. Any cowman that can rope, throw and brand a yearling on the open range, who will think enough of a little mongrel kitten with a broken leg to take it fifty miles to a veterinarian is the kind of man of which a country has need strength and action melded with gentleness and concern.

Bruce came of age in Montana where he had long been accustomed to the saddle while riding range in the Powder River country. He was for many years in the employ of John Kendrick, former United States Senator from Wyoming, from whose outfit he went to join the United States Marines during World War I. After this interruption in his cowman's career, he went to the employ of the Eaton Brothers, cattle growers and guest ranch operators in Wyoming. During these years with the Eatons, Mary Roberts Rhinehart was a guest at the ranch at various times and her encouragement gave Bruce some confidence in his own ability and many poems of range life from his pen were published in reputable magazines.

When the Eaton brothers decided to open operations in Arizona, Bruce Brockett came to the Verde Valleythat was in 1928. In time he was to go on his own and thus today he with the great help of "Fritzie" operates the V Bar V cattle outfit embracing 100,000 acres of land.

I have known the Brocketts and the location of the headquarters but I had not been apprised of Bruce's poetry writing qualities. One day while talking with a friend and discussing the need of a certain type poem, he said, "What you want is one of Bruce Brockett's poems." After some inquiry I started out in early evening to go fifty miles to see Bruce. When I arrived it was rather late but I found Bruce and confronted him with my problem. After talking about cattle, horses, politics, the weather, and Bruce's saying some things about my friend who had started me out, he finally produced the sought after manuscripts and trusted them to my care. I had found what I wanted the whimsical, reflected mood of the cowboy of days that had passed. Since then Bruce has permitted me to share some of his other verses and in my reading recently I came upon a volume containing one of his poems "The Passing of the West" that I dare say he does not recall having had used. Personally I have a fondness for the lines titled "Fenced Trails."

FENCED TRAILS

The trails are fenced that we used to use In the days when I was young. The chuck wagon's gone where the longhorns went, And the cowboy's song is sung.

The round-up grounds, where the dust clouds rolled From the stamp of a million feet, Are plowed and watered, and every year Raise crops of whiskered wheat.

The world will go on the same as before And progress her motto will be; But I wonder if ghosts won't haunt those ol' trails Like the memories are hauntin' me.

I wonder if herds won't swing along When mists are hangin' low, Pointed by cowboys from the Great Beyond Who were here so long ago.

The fact that some of Bruce's poems were written in younger years on a Wyoming ranch doesn't matter much, because the quality of cowboys is much the same throughout the range country and Bruce is of the range. In his poems he has captured the thoughts of all the cattle folks who have seen the ranges fenced, who have been line riders, known the isolation of a line camp, or the refreshment that comes from sleep after a hard day's work. In complying with this most recent request for his verses Bruce wrote me"Enclosed are poems that are the best I can do at this time, they are very old and more or less written by a very young boy."

Included in the collection were the following:

COWBOY SENTIMENT

When the herd's uh grazin' good And your pardner's gone to sleep And there's nothin' much to do but lay around, It's then you think about the future, The present and the past When you're layin' there uh dozin' on the ground.

You think about some gal you met A month or so ago, And the thoughts of her they kinda make you dream, Then you wish you wasn't quite so slow Or that wimmin were Exactly what they seem.

You think about a little home Just big enough for two, You can see her there uh smilin' all the time, With just uh little bit uh work to do Such as sweep the floor And cook you somethin' fine.

And you won't be uh punchin' cows You'll quit it all for good, You'll get a place and settle down for life, And there won't be nothin' much For you to do, Only just to love and please your little wife.

Then all at once you hear a whoopin' And you know it's the relief, You can see him comin' toward you in a run, Pretty soon you see it's Shorty, Just a common ole cowhand But he's like all the others-full uh fun. Then you realize his comin' Means that you can go to camp, And that supper's ready for you when you do, Then all your towers have crumbled With the comin' of relief, And this cowboy life means everything to you.

You jump up quick like a relay man And hit your pony down the thigh, You're just uh common ole cowhand And you'll be one when you die.

And also this very refreshing verse that will be dear to the thoughts of any man who has been really tired:

COCKTAIL

After supper's over and you've let the herders go A whippin' off to camp for beefsteak and sour-dough, You get off your horse and look around, you build a cigarette, You're sleepy, and you'd like to sleep, but nothin' doing yet, The herd's down there a grazin' on their way to the old bedground And, bein' as things are peaceful, you kinda look around. You can hear the bells uh tinglin' on the ponies in the draw And the way they're scattered minds you of some pictures that you saw You can see the wrangler nappin' in the shade his pony makes, Not uh carin' what'll happen when the leaders hit the breaks. Then farther up the coulee where the spring comes bubblin' out Sets the wagon and its trappin's with the hands all round about. Some are straightenin' out their soogans in their little roundup rolls, Some are shakin' out their teepees or cuttin' teepee poles. A few are just uh settin' there, arguin,' while they smoke, The cook's uh peelin' taters and puttin' beans to soak. Then as the sun starts sinkin' you see a livlier sight The night-hawks startin' out to the ponies for the night First guards kinda saunterin' off to where their ponies' staked And for just a little while the whole camp seems awake. But you can't stop to look no more 'cause the herd's uh beddin' fast And your four hours of cocktail are over with and past. First guards' already got 'em and uh singin' so they'll lay And you're gain' off of the best watch of the day. Then you're in your soogans, the stars are all out bright, You count 'em 'til you're drowsy-the wonders of the night. You can hear the nighthawks whistlin' an old-time Southern tune And somewhere way off yonder coyotes barkin' at the moon. You can hear the tinglin' of the bells, the guards uh singin' too, Then you trail off to Dreamland, a long hard day is through. Bruce sings in the saddle and his singing makes music. Music that is from the depth of feeling and life of the range and of the great West.