THE BRONCO TWISTER’S PRAYER, by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)

by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)

It was a little grave yard
on the rolling foot hill plains:
That was bleached by the sun in summer,
swept by winter’s snows and rains;
There a little bunch of settlers
gathered on an autumn day
‘Round a home made lumber coffin,
with their last respects to pay.

Weary men that wrung their living
from that hard and arid land,
And beside them stood their women;
faded wives with toil worn hands.
But among us stood one figure
that was wiry, straight and trim.
Every one among us know him.
‘Twas the broncho twister, Jim.

Just a bunch of hardened muscle
tempered with a savage grit,
And he had the reputation
of a man that never quit.
He had helped to build the coffin,
he had helped to dig the grave;
And his instinct seemed to teach him
how he really should behave.

Well, we didn’t have a preacher,
and the crowd was mighty slim.
Just two women with weak voices
sang an old time funeral hymn.
That was all we had for service.
The old wife was sobbing there.
For her husband of a life time,
laid away without prayer.

She looked at the broncho twister,
then she walked right up to him.
Put one trembling arm around him and said,
“Pray. Please won’t you Jim?”
You could see his figure straighten,
and a look of quick surprise
Flashed across his swarthy features,
and his hard dare devil eyes.

He could handle any broncho,
and he never dodged a fight.
‘Twas the first time any body ever saw
his face turn white.
But he took his big sombrero
off his rough and shaggy head,
How I wish I could remember what
that broncho peeler said.

No, he wasn’t educated.
On the range his youth was spent.
But the maker of creation
know exactly what he meant.
He looked over toward the mountains
where the driftin’ shadows played.
Silence must have reined in heaven
when they heard the way Jim prayed.

Years have passed since that small funeral
in that lonely grave yard lot.
But it gave us all a memory, and a lot
of food for thought.
As we stood beside the coffin,
and the freshly broken sod,
With that reckless broncho breaker
talkin’ heart to heart with God.

When the prayer at last was over,
and the grave had all been filled,
On his rough, half broken pony,
he rode off toward the hills.
Yes, we stood there in amazement
as we watched him ride away,
For no words could ever thank him.
There was nothing we could say.
Since we gathered in that grave yard,
it’s been nearly fifty years.
With their joys and with their sorrows,
with their hopes and with their fears.
But I hope when I have finished,
and they lay me with the dead,
Some one says a prayer above me,
like that broncho twister said.

…from Bruce Kiskaddon’s “Rhymes of the Ranges,” 1924

Bruce Kiskaddon’s poems are among the most recited works at gatherings. Kiskaddon worked as a cowboy from the time he was 19 until a serious accident about ten years later put an end to his riding. When he turned to writing he became known for his realistic works about cowboy and ranching life. Frank M. King, editor of The Western Livestock Journal, where many of his poems were printed, asserted that Kiskaddon was “the best cowboy poet who ever wrote a cowboy poem.”

Watch top cowboy poet Waddie Mitchell and outstanding balladeer Don Edwards perform the poem along with “Amazing Grace”in a 2013 performance at the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering here.

Texas writer and reciter Linda Marie Kirkpatrick recites the poem on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Three (2008) from

“The Bronco Twister’s Prayer” was recited at Kiskaddon’s own funeral. Find the entire poem and features about Bruce Kiskaddon at

This 1940 photo by Russell Lee is titled “Grave on the high plains. Dawson County, Texas.” It’s from the U.S. Farm Security Administration (FSA)/Office of War Information Black & White Photographs at The Library of Congress. Find more about it here.

Russell Lee taught photography at the University of Texas, Austin, from 1965-1973, and is best known for his FSA photos. Find more about him at Texas State University’s Russell Lee Collection.

(This poem and photograph are both in the public domain.)

SADDLIN’ UP TIME by Andy Wilkinson


by Andy Wilkinson

I never looked forward to the end of the day;
Or to evening, drab and melancholy-gray,
Or to featureless shadows of purple-to-black,
Or to work finished-up or simply put back
While the business of living slowly unwinds;
I was always awaitin’ for saddlin’-up time.

I slept of necessity, not pleasure and not
For the comforts of night, when the bosom of God
Cradled mortality in immortal dark,
Nor for the shroud of cool starlight whose spark
Like the lamp of the firefly silently chimed;
I took my pleasure in saddlin’-up time.

And I worried the hectic commotion of morn,
The commerce of mercantile and courthouse lawn,
The meetings and greetings on sidewalk and street
Where horseback-opinions and auguring meet,
And I argued their rhythms, swore at their rhymes,
But was playful as a pup, come saddlin’-up time.

For ’twas then before ever light angled to fill
The round corners, we’d clamor like wolves at the kill
With horse-talk our yap, with our nip and our bite
Latigo leathers snapping cinchas down tight
In the summer’s wet dew or the winter’s sharp rime
As we readied our horses at saddlin’-up time.

When the morning night air was marble we breathed,
Heavy and smooth and as cold as the breeze
That skitters across the new snow-covered plains,
One hand on the horn and the other, the reins
We stepped aboard stirrups, young bucks in our prime,
Salty as the Pecos at saddlin’-up time.

Though I’ve lived for this moment most all of my life,
Beginnings, not endings, put the edge on my knife;
And I’ve cursed too damn much and I’ve never prayed well
And it may be God figures to send me to Hell,
Riding drag for the Devil to pay for my crimes,
But I’m damned if I’ll go ‘fore saddlin’-up time.

© 1994, Andy Wilkinson, used with permission


This poem by respected poet, songwriter, singer, playwright, teacher, and editor Andy Wilkinson is a part of his “Wrangler award-winning Western folk opera of the dreams and visions of the legendary cowman, Charlie Goodnight” (titled Charlie Goodnight). His great-grandmother’s great-uncle was Charlie Goodnight. The late J.B. Allen recites “Saddlin’ Up Time” on the album.

Andy Hedges has his own fine recitation on the current “Cowboy Crossroads” podcast, with an extended interview with Andy Wilkinson, filled with engaging history and thoughtful, interesting stories about Charlie Goodnight and his times. Find the podcast and the previous gems of interviews of “music, poetry, and culture from the working cowboy West and beyond” here.

Another outstanding recitation of this poem, by Jerry A. Brooks, appears on her Shoulder to Shoulder CD and on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Seven.

Andy Wilkinson dazzled his audience with his keynote address at the 2017 Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. The presentation, which focused on the gathering’s theme of storytelling, was a celebration in brilliant poetry, with a few musical interludes. View a video to see why there was a clamoring for a printed version.

Now, the piece, Storyline, has been published by John Dofflemyer  at Dry Crik Journal. Find more, including Andy Wilkinson’s introduction and order information here.

Find more about Andy Wilkinson at and at his web site,

This 1939 photo by Russell Lee (1903-1986) is titled, “Cowboy throwing saddle onto horse on cattle ranch near Spur, Texas.” It’s from the Farm Services Administration (FSA) collection at the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. Find more about it here.

Russell Lee taught photography at the University of Texas, Austin, from 1965-1973, and is best known for his FSA photos. Find more about him at Texas State University’s Russell Lee Collection.

For more on FSA photographs, see Charlie Seemann’s recent book, WAY OUT WEST: Photographs from the Farm Security Administration 1936-1943.

WHAT’S A BRONCO by S. Omar Barker


by S. Omar Barker

They asked me “What’s a bronco!”
since they seemed to crave to know.
I kinder chawed it over,
then I fed it to ’em slow.

“A bronc,” I says, judicious,
“which is what you mean, no doubt,
Is an equine son of cyclones
with the hairy side turned out.
His soul is filled with cockleburs,
and when this inward itch
bursts forth in outward action,
he is said to buck or pitch,
Which means he comes unraveled,
paws the moon to make it spin,
and agitates his muscles
like he aimed to quit his skin.

“One jump he views his belly,
and the next he chins the stars.
Was you ever kicked by lightnin’?
That’s the way his landin’ jars.
His color may be anything
from black to flea-bit roan;
a sorrel, bay, or chestnut,
he is still the devil’s own
until he’s been unspizzled
by some hairpin on his back
with two prongs hung acrost him
and their juncture in the kack.

“A pinwill or a r’arback
or a circlin’ pioneer,
The bronc’s a welcome widow-maker
when he throws himself in gear.
Though he’s the toughest red meat
you will ever come across,
If you’re man enough to ride him,
then you’ve got yourself a hoss!”

…by S. Omar Barker, from “Rawhide Rhymes; Singing Poems of the Old West,” (1968); reprinted with the permission of the estate of S. Omar Barker

Cowboy, poet, songwriter, and yodeler Gary McMahan does a great recitation of “What’s a Bronco” on the forthcoming double CD of S. Omar Barker’s poetry from (April 2018).

S. Omar Barker, as described in Cowboy Miner Productions’ collection of his work, “…was born in the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains of northern New Mexico… a rancher, high school teacher, college professor, forest ranger, soldier, outdoorsman, and legislator…” He was one of the founders of the Western Writers of America, Inc. and many of his poems were published by Western Horseman.

Find more about S. Omar Barker at

The photo above is among those you’ll find in a new book, Way Out West: Photographs from the Farm Security Administration 1936-1943, Charlie Seemann, retired Executive Director of the Western Folklife Center.


See our review here.

This 1940 photo by Russell Lee from FSA collection at The Library of Congress is titled, “Quemado, New Mexico. Bronc busting at the rodeo.” Find more about it at here.

THE ZEBRA DUN anonymous



We were camped on the plains at the head of the Cimmaron
When along came a stranger and stopped to arger some.
He looked so very very foolish that we began to look around,
We thought he was a greenhorn that had just ‘scaped from town.

We asked him if he had he been to breakfast; he had n’t had a smear;
So we opened up the chuck-box and bade him have his share.
He took a cup of coffee and some biscuits and some beans,
And then began to talk and tell about foreign kings and queens,

About the Spanish War and fighting on on the seas
With guns as big as steers and ramrods big as trees,–
And about old Paul Jones, a mean-fighting son of a gun,
Who was the grittiest cuss that ever pulled a gun.

Such an educated feller, his thoughts just came in herds,
He astonished all them cowboys with them jaw-breaking words.
He just kept on talking till he made the boys all sick
And they began to look around just how to play a trick.

He said he had lost his job upon the Santa Fe
And was going across the plains to strike the 7-D.
He did n’t say how come it, some trouble with the boss,
But said he’d like to borrow a nice fat saddle horse.

This tickled all the boys to death; they laughed ‘way down in their sleeves–
“We will lend you a horse just as fresh and fat as you please.”
Shorty grabbed a lariat and roped the Zebra Dun
And turned him over to the stranger and waited for the fun.

Old Dunny was a rocky outlaw that had grown so awful wild
That he could paw the white out of the moon every jump for a mile.
Old Dunny stood right still–as if he didn’t know–
Until he was saddled and ready for to go.

When the stranger hit the saddle, old Dunny quit the earth,
And traveled right straight up for all that he was worth.
A-pitching and a-squealing, a-having wall-eyed fits,
His hind feet perpendicular, his front ones in the bits.

We could see the tops of mountains under Dunny every jump,
But the stranger he was growed there just like the camel’s hump;
The stranger sat upon him and curled his black moustache,
Just like a summer boarder waiting for his hash.

He thumped him in the shoulders and spurred him when he whirled,
To show them flunky punchers that he was the wolf of the world.
When the stranger had dismounted once more upon the ground,
We knew he was a thoroughbred and not a gent from town;

The boss, who was standing round watching of the show,
Walked right up to the stranger and told him he need n’t go–
“If you can use a lasso like you rode old Zebra Dun,
You are the man I’ve been looking for ever since the year one.”

Oh he could twirl the lariat and he did n’t didn’t do it slow;
He could catch them fore feet nine out of ten for any kind of dough,
There’s one thing and a shore thing I’ve learned since I’ve been born,
That every educated feller ain’t a plumb greenhorn.


One of the oldest cowboy songs, “The Zebra Dun” is sometimes known as “The Educated Fellow.” The author is unknown. When Jack Thorp collected the song, he noted that he “first heard the song sung by Randolph Reynolds, Carizozo Flats, in 1890.”

Cowboy and singer Jules Verne Allen (1883-1945) recorded “Zebra Dun” in 1928, the first known commercial recording. Listen to a great version by Cisco Houston (1918-1961) here from Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.

Many others have recorded “Zebra Dun,” and Don Edwards has an outstanding version on his “Saddle Songs” album that you can listen to here.

Find more in our feature about Jack Thorp’s 1912 Songs of the Cowboys.

This 1940 photo of a cowboy at the Quemado, New Mexico rodeo by Russell Lee (1903-1986) is from the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. Find more about it here.


WHEN YOU’RE THROWED by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)



by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)

If a feller’s been astraddle since he’s big enough to ride,
And has had to throw a saddle onto every sort of hide;
Though it’s nothin’ they take pride in, most of fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin’, has at various times got throwed.

It perhaps is when you’re startin’ on a round up some fine day,
That you feel a bit onsartin’ ’bout some little wall eyed bay.
Fer he swells to beat the nation while yore cinchin’ up the slack,
And he keeps a elevation in your saddle at the back.

He starts rairin’ and a jumpin’ and he strikes when you git near.
But you cuss him and you thump him till you git him by the ear.
Then your right hand grabs the saddle and you ketch a stirrup too,
And you aim to light astraddle like a wholly buckaroo.

But he drops his head and switches and he gives a back’ards jump.
Out of reach your stirrup twitches and your right spur grabs his rump.
And, “Stay with him!” shouts some feller. But you know it’s hope forlorn.
And you feel a streak of yeller as you choke the saddle horn.

Then you feel one rein droppin’ and you know he’s got his head,
And your shirt tail’s out and floppin’ and the saddle pulls like lead.
Then it ain’t no use a tryin’ for your spurs begin to slip
Now you’re upside down and flyin’ and horn tears from your grip.

Then you get a vague sensation as upon the ground you roll,
Like a vi’lent separation twixt your body and your soul.
And you land again a hummick where you lay and gap fer breath,
And there’s sumpthin’ grips your stummick like the awful clutch of death.

Yes the landscape round you totters when at last you try to stand,
And you’re shaky on your trotters and your mouth is full of sand.
They all swear you beat a circus or a hoochy koochy dance,
Moppin’ up the canon’s surface with the busom of your pants.

There’s fellers gives perscriptions how them bronchos should be rode.
But there’s few that gives descriptions of the times when they got throwed.

…by Bruce Kiskaddon

Kiskaddon can certainly paint a picture with words.

This poem was printed in Kiskaddon’s 1924 book, Rhymes of the Ranges, and John Lomax included a version of it in 1919 in Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp.

As we’ve told many times about Bruce Kiskaddon, he worked for ten years as a cowboy, starting in 1898 in southeastern Colorado’s Picketwire area. He published short stories and nearly 500 poems. His poems are among the most admired and the most recited classic poems.

Much of what is known about Kiskaddon and his work comes from Open Range, Bill Siems’ monumental collection of Kiskaddon’s poetry. Bill Siems also collected Bruce Kiskaddon’s short stories in a book called “Shorty’s Yarns.” Find more in the Kiskaddon features at

This 1940 photograph by Russell Lee (1903-1986) is titled, “Cowboy being thrown from bucking horse during the rodeo of the San Angelo Fat Stock Show, San Angelo, Texas.” It’s from The Library of Congress U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Black & White Photographs collection. Find more about it here.

Find a feature about noted photographer Russell Lee and a gallery of photographs at the University of Texas at Austin.

THE CARLSBAD by Floyd Beard


by Floyd Beard

A short introduction:

The prospectors headed westward,
In search of the mother lode.
They endured the broiling sun and soaking rains.
JB Stetson saw their plight,
So he invented for them a lid.
The first style was known as the Boss of the Plains.
Though the miners took right to it,
The cowboy also saw its worth.
But they rolled the brim and creased the dome a tad.
Then they proudly wore their Stetsons,
The former Boss of the Plains.
For the new crease was know as the Carlsbad.
Many, many decades later
Hollywood made a film,
Lonesome Dove, and it created quite a fuss.
In it a cowboy proudly wore his Stetson.
So now the crease called Carlsbad
Is known by everybody as “The Gus.”


It had hung there in the corner
T’was its place for 50 year,
On the old tarnished coat rack by the door.
Inch wide ribbon made of satin
Once did proudly wrap the sphere,
Though sweat stains bleached its glory long before.

But each stain holds a story
Memories the felt holds tight,
Of a life with a cowboy it could tell.
There were times it filled with laughter,
There were times as dark as night.
Each memory, every stain, it knew them well.

It could recall in days of young
When it proudly rode the range.
T’was a crown upon a young cowboy free.
On the wind they rode together.
And to some it might sound strange,
But a cowboy’s hat is all it wished to be.

Now the grease and stains hold stories
Of the rim rocks that they rode,
Of rains as thunderstorms discharged their lights.
Grand horses beneath the leather;
Freezing rides on nights it snowed;
Every trial, all their rituals and rites.

Of the time it turned a cow,
Slapped her fully in the face.
Broke her challenge and sent’er on her way.
The times it caught rainwater.
Times it urged a faster pace.
Times it twirled when he was sociable ‘n gay.

It was with him as a young man,
Bold and strong their wanderlust.
The grasslands and the mountains wore their track.
It rode with him every outing
Through each whelm and sun baked gust,
As their circles took them out then brought ’em back.

Yes, and how he loved the horses;
Beauty, strength, astounding power.
With fervor he looked forward to their ride.
Rocky trail or through a tempest
Nor did matter time nor hour,
His accomplice that hat he wore with pride.

Now his hands are scarred and buggered
And arthritis call them home.
His bones recall each bad wreck with a sigh.
And the hat is bent and dusty
With salt stains that ring the dome,
A tribute to the miles that have gone by.

Yes, it is a JB Stetson
With a crease of Carlsbad,
The old satin band now frayed with fuzz.
It still hangs there in the corner.
It belonged to my granddad.
I pray I might be half the man he was.

© 2017, F. E. Beard
This poem should not be re-posted or reprinted without permission

Colorado rancher and poet Floyd Beard tells this poem was inspired by his grandfather, Earl Case, “who loved horses, riding, working and ‘messing’ with them all his life. His old black Stetson hung on the coat rack by the door all of my early life. The hat was lost when the old homestead house burned down in the 1980s.”

Floyd told us that he won the 2017 Western Music Association (WMA) Cowboy Poetry contest with this poem. He was also named 2017 Top Male Poet by the WMA.

You can catch Floyd at the Colorado Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Golden (January 19-21); the Cowboy Poetry and Western Music Event in Lawler/New Hampton, Iowa (January 26-27); the Cochise Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Sierra Vista, Arizona (February 3-4); and the Texas Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Alpine (March 2-3).

Find more about Floyd Beard at; at his web site,; and on Facebook.


This 1940 photograph by Russell Lee (1903-1986) is titled, “Cattleman with his grandson at auction of beef steers and breeding stock at the San Angelo Fat Stock Show. San Angelo, Texas. The Stetson hat, leather coat and boots are standard everyday wear of  ranchmen. There is an old saying in Texas that a man never buys but two Stetsons, one when he gets married and the other when his oldest son gets married.”

It’s from The Library of Congress Farm Service Administration collection. Find more about it here.

Find a feature about noted photographer Russell Lee and a gallery of photographs at the University of Texas at Austin.

THE GOOD OLD COWBOY DAYS by Luther A. Lawhon (1861-1922)



by Luther A. Lawhon (1861-1922)

My fancy drifts as often, through the murky, misty maze
Of the past—to other seasons—to the good old cowboy days,
When the grass wuz green an’ wavin’ an’ the skies wuz soft and blue,
And the men were brave an’ loyal, and the women fair an’ true!
The old-time cowboy—here’s to him, from hired hand to boss!
His soul wuz free from envy and his heart wuz free from dross,
An’ deep within his nature, which wuz rugged, high and bold,
There ran a vein uv metal, and the metal, men, wuz, gold!

He’d stand up—drunk or sober—’gin a thousand fer his rights;
He’d sometimes close an argument by shootin’ out the lights;
An’ when there was a killin’, by the quickest on the draw,
He wern’t disposed to quibble ’bout the majesty uv law,
But a thief—a low down villain—why, he had no use for him
An’ wuz mighty apt to leave ‘im danglin’ from a handy limb.
He wuz heeled and allers ready—quick with pistol or with knife,
But he never shirked a danger or a duty in his life!

An’ at a tale uv sorrow or uv innocence beguiled
His heart wuz just as tender as the heart uv any child.
An’ woman—aye, her honor wuz a sacred thing; and hence
He threw his arms around her—in a figurative sense.
His home wuz yours, where’er it wuz, an’ open stood the door,
Whose hinges never closed upon the needy or the poor;
An’ high or low—it mattered not—the time, if night or day,
The stranger found a welcome just as long as he would stay.

Wuz honest to the marrow, and his bond wuz in his word.
He paid for every critter that he cut into his herd;
An’ take your note because he loaned a friend a little pelf?
No, sir, indeed! He thought you wuz as worthy as himself.
An’ when you came and paid it back, as proper wuz an’ meet,
You trod upon forbidden ground to ask for a receipt.
In former case you paid the debt (there weren’t no intres’ due),
An’ in the latter—chances wuz he’d put a hole through you!

The old-time cowboy had ‘is faults; ’tis true, as has been said,
He’d look upon the licker when the licker, men, wuz red;
His language weren’t allers spoke accordin’ to the rule;
Nor wuz it sech as ye’d expect to hear at Sunday school.
But when he went to meetin’, men, he didn’t yawn or doze,
Nor set there takin’ notice of the congregation’s clothes.
He listened to the preacher with respect, an’ all o’ that,
An’ he never failed to ante when they passed aroun’ the hat!

I call to mind the tournament, an’ then the ball at night;
Of how old Porter drawed the bow and sawed with all his might;
Of how they’d dance—the boys an’ girls; an’ how that one wuz there
With rosy cheeks, an’ hazel eyes, an’ golden, curly hair;
An’ I—but here I’m techin’ on a mighty tender spot;
That boyhood love, at this late day, had better be forgot;
But still at times my heart goes back agin’ and fondly strays
Amidst those dear remembered scenes—the good old cowboy days!

The old-time cowboy wuz a man all over! Hear me, men!
I somehow kinder figger we’ll not see his like agin.
The few that’s left are older now; their hair is mostly white;
Their forms are not so active, and their eyes are not so bright
As when the grass wuz wavin’ green, the skies wuz soft an’ blue,
An’ men were brave, an’ loyal, and the women fair an’ true,
An’ the land wuz filled with plenty, an the range wuz free to graze,
An’ all rode as brothers—in the good old cowboy days.

…by Luther A. Lawhon from “The Trail Drivers of Texas”

Those fortunate enough to have have heard Oklahoma rancher and poet Jay Snider’s ( recitation of “The Good Old Cowboy Days” on his CD, The Old Tried and True or at the National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo or the Texas Cowboy Poetry Gathering or the Westernfolklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering or other events have experienced a fine performance of a little-heard poem. Jay Snider brought the poem to our attention, and he recites on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Three and it is included on Volume Ten “best-of-the-best” double CD.

Listen to Jay Snider recite the poem on YouTube.

The poem was written by Luther A. Lawhon and is included in The Trail Drivers of Texas, a book best described by its subtitle, “Interesting Sketches of Early Cowboys and Their Experiences on the Range and on the Trail during the Days that Tried Men’s Souls—True Narratives Related by Real Cowpunchers and Men Who Fathered the Cattle Industry in Texas.”

Lawhon worked in newspapers and was involved in local politics, as a congressional candidate.

The book, with over a thousand pages, was originally published by the Old Time Trail Driver’s Association, where Lawhon served as Secretary. An article by Lawhon, “The Men Who Made the Trail,” is also included in the book.

There were at least four editions of the book published before a 1925 edition that was reprinted in 1992 by the University of Texas Press and includes an introduction by B. Byron Price and a full index. The early editions of the book are rare, as are copies of Lawhon’s other collections, which include Songs and Satires (1901) and Cactus Blossoms (1905).

Read more about the University of Texas edition of The Trail Drivers of Texas, and read B. Byron Price’s introduction and view the table of contents at the university’s site.

This 1939 photo by Russell Lee 1903-1986 is titled, “Old-time trail driver in front of kitchen cabinet. Crystal City, Texas.” It is from The Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division. Find more about it here. There are other photos of the same man, and the captions note that he lives “…alone in quarters furnished by the town. He also receives sustenance from town. He is an old-time trail driver.”

Find a feature about noted photographer Russell Lee and a gallery of photographs from the University of Texas at Austin.