Through the dust and heat and the high mesquite
We rode sorrels and browns and bays,
But we felt the best, as if we’d been blessed,
When we forked those Pitchfork grays.

It was not so strange, on the Pitchfork range
To find gray in a cowboy’s string.
You could always bet he was from the get
Of their stud, Joe Bailey’s King.

Now the gray I rode sure pulled his load,
Not a job he could not do.
I could rope and cut, really crack the nut,
On the gray horse I called Blue.

     In the golden haze of those Texas days,
     When the Pitchfork trails were new,
     We were young and proud, and we bragged out loud
     To be part of the Pitchfork crew.

Well you give your best till it’s time to rest,
You get stiff and your vision blurs,
And you’re past your prime, and you know it’s time
That you quit and hang your spurs.

I felt sad and old, when my bed I rolled
T’was the only life I knew,
But it made my day when I heard them say,
“You done good, just keep Ol’ Blue.”

     In the golden haze of those Texas days,
     When the Pitchfork trails were new,
     We were young and proud, and we bragged out loud
     To be part of the Pitchfork crew.

So I turned Blue loose, ‘cause that good cayuse
Sure deserved to work no more.
He was twenty-eight when he broke the gate
And came up to the big barn door.

He came home to die, how my heart did cry
On that cold and bitter day.
I’m a-tellin’ you that I sure was blue
When I lost my Pitchfork gray.

© by Darrell Arnold.
Used here with the author’s permission.