Johnathon Weatherby

The wind was blowin in our face,

The Snow coverering our tracks leavin no trace,

My body was almost frozen to the core,

Getting through that storm was a chore,

Each step we took through the snow was a fight,

We needed to find a place warm and dry for the night,

My horse was starting to stumble,

My belly was starting to rumble,

Through the trees and across the meadow,

I saw a dark shadow,

My hands were becoming numb,

I pulled my flask and took a shot of rum,

The cold wind was blowin hard in our face,

The snow was covering out tracks leavin no trace,

Through the trees, across the meadow,

There stood an old cabin not a shadow,

The boards were all weathered and worn,

In the windows were some old curtains tattered and torn,

The front door looked closed nice and tight,

The chimney was not lookin quite right,

As we walked around back,

Found a small barn for my horse and tack,

Through the deep snow went,

My horse was about spent,

The cold wind was no longer blowin in our face,

Our tracks were covered by the snow leavin no trace,

unsaddled my pour old horse, watched him tremble and shake,

Was not sure how much more of the cold he could take,

just enough grass inside to give him something to eat,

Where I could remove the snow from his feet,

I grabbed by saddle bags and bed roll,

The cold was starting to take its toll,

To the old cabin I went,

Cold and wet this old cowboy was spent,

I opened the door,

There was a rickety old table, stove, old bed, sittin on the dirt floor,

No longer was the snow blowin in my face,

Snow covered our tracks leavin no trace,

Built a fire from the wood of rickety old table,

Found a little black book with no label,

Upon the stove I threw some beans and meat,

The old cabin was holdin some heat,

Lit an old oil lamp,

This was this old cowboy’s camp,

Listenin to the wind blow,

The old stove was beginning to glow,

My belly was well fed,

That old stove was glowin red,

In the morning when I woke it was as silent as can be,

A white world surrounded me,

I picked up the little black book,

Figured what the hell I'll take a look,

Inside it was dated July, twenty fifth, eighteen sixty-three,

By a man Named Jonathan Weatherby,

Mr. Weatherby talked about the days that went bye,

How the deer ran across the meadow, and the eagles in the ski,

The gold mine that he was workin on the north face,

My heart started to race,

The story how his wife and son died,

How for days he cried,

The morning was as silent as can be,

My old horse in the barn was lookin at me,

Time for some coffee, dried fruit, and a biscuit,

Drinkin my coffee thinkin about the black book, wonderin if I should risk it,

My mind wondering what this adventure would bring,

I heard the horse neigh, a wolf howl, and the birds start to sing,

The only clue I had was the mine was on the north face,

In the snow there was no trail to trace,

From the front door I started to look around,

Up on the left ridge guess what I found,

The sun beating against a pile of rock that was mile high,

This was the place I was going to try,

The morning was no longer silent as could be,

Once again it was my horse and me,

Up the face was a slow and slippery go,

My old horse having trouble keeping his footing in the snow,

As we came to the base of the rock a mile high,

I started to cry,

Right before me was the gold mine,

Untouched by the seasons of time,

Just inside I found Jonathan Weatherby layin at rest,

Two arrows had gone through his chest,

There lying under his skeleton hand,

A bag of gold laying in the sand,

The morning started out as silent as could be,

That black book took me to Johnathon Weatherby,

That Gold I took to the bank,

Where that banker put twenty grand in my hand, I had Johnathon Weatherby to thank,

By days end I had bought up that land,

With that money that was in my hand

I returned back to that little old cabin,

I brought Jonathon back off that mountain again,

I put his black book upon his chest,

As I laid him to rest,

Underneath that big old pine tree,

With his little family.