Page:Slabs of the sunburnt West.djvu/90

76 Good night; on the big sky blanket over the Santa Fe trail it is woven in the oldest Indian blanket songs. Buffers of land, breakers of sea, say it and say it, over and over, good night, good night. Tie your hat to the saddle and ride, ride, ride, O Rider. Lay your rails and wires and ride, ride, ride, Rider. The worn tired stars say you shall die early and die dirty. The clean cold stars say you shall die late and die clean. The runaway stars say you shall never die at all, never at all.