They came west to avoid the snow.

It was a warm and sunny day

On a typical trail ride one could say.

Up on Picket Post Mountain

Too far south to see the Fountain.

Ben and Delores they said their name

Good folk I thought, part of their fame.

Buckskins they rode, a fine looking pair

Sweating a bit with their winter hair.

Gypsy the mother, Bucky the son

Owners and horses enjoying the fun.
 

Three years later and many rides too

We are riding a wash like we usually do.

Wes up front riding his black

Ten more along Sam at the back.

Further a long wash runs out

We will try the ridge I hear Wes shout.

Then I hear Bud, there is Cholla up there

The kind of stuff I don't want to wear.

I move careful, taking a bead

Can't see now whose in the lead.

I stop Smokey and turn around

Up front I hear an awful sound.

Whinning horses, is all I could tell

Horses bucking, it looked like hell.

Wes is hurt and maybe Lefty too

I didn't know first what to do.

Al runs to Wes who is in the deep draw

I look up at Ben and what I saw.

A Buckskin down in a hell of a fix

Horses and Cholla sure don't mix.

Ben leads her out of the mess she is in

Time is the essence, the job must begin.

Ben and I on either side

Pulling the thorns from Gypsy's hide.

Rarely ever have I heard a horse groan

Hurting bad she'd give out a moan.

To her we talked as gentle as we could

She's sweating lots where she stood.

My bond to her is knitting well

She was listening I could tell.

Oh Gypsy you fine little mare

More thorns in you than you have hair.

Keep standing little girl you are doing well

You know we are helping you can tell.

Ben your master is there with you

And your new friend Bill, he is there too.
 

God willing next year if I am lucky

I'll see you and your son Bucky.

So to your owners and until then

Adios my friends Delores and Ben.
 

Bill McLaughlin