The Kevin review. [volume] (Kevin, Mont.) 1922-1929, 1922-10-12
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MONTE JONES :
BY JOHN B. RITCH :
By JOHN B. RITCH

BY JOHN B. IT.
Drivers name a Monte Jones,
Not accumulatin' mosses,
Likes his whiskey. loves his hoses
Stagin's bred right in his bones.
Monte yanks us out O. Benton, strings his six across the
Heads EN- down the trail for Billings, sets the gee string
Pulls the hill and makes for Highwood-gad, them
leaders humps and tr0ts. .,,, ~ ! aso.n
Monies t hreSi silk and cussin'. says we're goin' good
Explains that cussin' helps make schedule on most any
six-hoss line.
That big coach just rocks and reels
when his overstay on shore leave
Gets to workin' in his heels,
And she cathops like a bronchO,
Runnin' mostly on two wheels.
Ten big miles on hour we're driftin', amt a boss there
On through rolnn' bunchgrass stretches, long past
Cross the hesi benches to the Judith; here's where nature
Her choice colors IN the scenery like some gorgeous
Monte swears twere fixed and put there for the Benton
six-hoss line.
Saws he'll never understand
How some folks can't see the hand
OF the Master Range Boss smlin'
Like a song all through the land
Al the green and all the t blossoms
Tells me how he's allus staged it,-herded six along the
rails
watched the clouds from off the mountains drive down
Down to where the grass is wavin' and the winds go
Where the nights is filled with echoes of the gray VOLTS
Refused two drinks in all his lfetime-then he tells me,
once a fellow didn't ask him; the other time he wasn't
there.
Times he's heard the stage wheels groan,
And the bosses sob and moan,
Drftin' down before the blizzard
Out there in the night alone,
Fightin' just to save his outfit
Like the DEVILS very own.
Knows stage bosses talk like humans cause he's heard
when the snow whipped down in whirlwinds and death
Every Twin thing that faced it, as it dashed and tore its
When the cold had crushed and dazed him., and he tried
his best to pray 49, 49, i, 49, ~
Something's wrong up there behind us-guess the
drivers drunk again"
Sometimes stage roads seem to him,
As they winds there, long and dim,
On, on, cross the endless benches,
Like the trail on to Forever
Like the last drive, stern and grim.
Then again it seems the waybilrs jest the record ola
OF the tired ones, of the weary, maxim down that hap
To the station cross the ferry, and the outfit hits a
That's a hummer, for no driver wants to make that
And the coach jest chucks and joggles while he drives
Then the thought comes up plump sudden,-that he
never was so dry!
Oh, the Monies that we knew
In the wild, rough days, it's true,
How they drove the pace that does you,
How they liked their skies through;
How they loved their broncs and whiskey,
How they loved the women, too.
Cussin, helped him make his schedule into every mimi
camp,
Every road ranch all through cow-land knew this reck-
less, cheerful scamp,
But his coach has chuckled and joggled on it's last trip
down the line, 84f
For a steam boss pulls the mail sacks and an iron road
finds the mine.
Where the stage road crossed the benchlands wave wide
fields of golden grain,
And the trail is closed to Monte,-hell not pass this way
again.
MRW ME MRMW NMMM EMMMa1