The grass fire swooped like a red wolf pack,
On the wings of a west wind dry.
Its red race left the scorched plains black
'Neath a sullen, smoky sky.

And the wagon boss of the Bar-Y-Cross
He rallied his roisterous crew.
" Boys, shoot some steers, and hang the loss,
An' split them smack in two! "

They split six steers, with the blood side down,
They dragged them to and fro.
But the grass fire laughed like a demon clown
At a devil's three-ringed show.

The flame draft drove like a wind from hell,
Across the drags they drew.
" It's no use boys! " came the foreman's yell.
" She's roarin' right on through. "

They scattered, then, from the headfire's path,
To close in from the sides,
And some stayed on to fight its wrath,
Some fled to save their hides.

Now one who stayed was the Wrangler Kid,
His whisker fuzz scorched black,
And he battled hard, as the others did,
But the fire still pushed them back.

It pushed them back as the wind veered round,
Till trapped, they faced its sweep,
At the edge of a gully that split the ground,
Too wide for a horse to leap.

'Twas down from the saddle dropped boss and men,
And into the gully they fled.
Safe now the men, but their horses then
Were left to the grass fire's hell.

What! lives there a man who loves life less
Than the dumb-brute horse he rides?
The Wrangler Kid stayed shelterless
On the bank at the horses' side.

And he cut them free from the drags they drew,
Through the flames he spurred alone.
To-day the Kid bears scars, 'tis true,
Brands of the Red God's own.