Ghosts of the Chisholm

There's a whispering on the night wind along the Chisholm Trail,

The Ghosts of those men who were born to roam.

Who speak of Cattle and Cowboys in rich and rugged detail.

Who never knew of family, farm, or home.

But lives where days are measured, in miles gained and cattle lost.

Their reward was freedom for their soul.

Nature called the cadence with turning leaves and morning frost.

Counting the days 'til they reached their goal.

There's chaos in the current as the river starts to swell.

Fear casting its spell among the herd.

The rising waters are threaten to carry them to hell.

Sounds of prayer without a spoken word.

The river bank moves swiftly by, they fight for the other side.

Muscles muster all that they can stand.

Swimming against the devil's grip, they continue on this ride.

Weary limbs find comfort in the sand.

There's a joy that fills the night air as, the starlight casts its spell.

Rugged faces gathering round the fire

To sing the songs and hear the stories that the journeymen tell.

Above the chorus of the Coyote Choir.

Then they wrestle the ground in hopes of drifting off to sleep

Escaping from the trials of the trail.

Then start again at morning light the schedule that they keep.

Each day moving closer to the rail.