Go softly, you whose careless feet
Would crush the sage brush, pungent, sweet,
And brush the rabbit weed aside
From burrows where the ground squirrels hide,
And prairie dog his watch-tower keeps
Among the ragged gravel heaps.
Year long the wind blows up and down
Each lessening mound, and drifts the brown
Dried " wander-weed " there at their feet —
Who no more wander, slow or fleet.
Sun-bleached, rain-warped, the head-boards hold
One story, all too quickly told:
That here some wild heart takes its rest
From spent desire and fruitless quest.

Here in the grease-wood's scanty shade
How many a daring soul was laid!
Boots on — full-garbed as when he died —
The pistol belted at his side;
The worn sombrero on his breast —
To prove another man the best.
Arrow or knife, or quick-drawn gun —
The glad, mad, fearless game was done.
A life for stakes — play slow or fast —
Win — lose — yet Death held trumps at last.

Some went where bar room tinsel flared,
Or painted dance hall wantons stared; —
Some, where the lone, brown ranges bared
Their parched length to a parching sky;
And God, alone, might hear the cry
Of thirst-dried lips that, stiff and cold,
Seemed still to babble: " Gold, gold, gold! "
Woman or wine or greed or Chance; —
A comrade's shot — an Indian lance;
By camp or canon, trail or street —
Here all games end — here all trails meet.

The ground squirrels chatter in the sun;
The dry, gray sage leaves, one by one,
Drift down, close-curled, in odorous heaps.
Above, wide-winged, a wild hawk sweeps;
And on the worn board at the head
Of one whose name was fear and dread,
A little, solemn ground owl sits.
Ah, here the Man and Life are Quits!
Go softly, nor with careless feet —
Here all games end — here all trails meet.