Death Rides A Horse


The warrior
counted coup
stripping his enemies
lives away
like so many leaves
on the ground,
slashing through
flesh and bone
till they lay dead
and stacked
all around.

A dead one here
a dying one there,
his war cry
curdled blood,
raised hackles
and hair
as he fought
with a fierceness
never seen before,
as if the devil
gnawed
at his core.

Tall,
bronzed,
covered in blood,
he blocked a lance,
parried a knife,
grunted in pain,
drove his blade home;
the last one standing,
tall and alone,
he clutched
at the wound
high in his side,
went to his horse,
and mounted to ride.

Far
from his teepee,
his wife,
his kind,
head down,
back bowed,
the proud,
mighty warrior,
gasping from the wounds
treacherous bite,
grimaced and said,
"Death rides a horse this night".


W. James Beard, Jr.