Sung by: Mrs. Alice Isringhouse
Recorded in Holly Grove, AR 6/15/59

Click here to listen to the original recording

Well, mates, I don't like stories,
Nor am I going to act.
This part around the campfire,
It's not the truthful fact.
So fill your pipes and listen--
I'll tell you, let me see--
I think it was in '50,
From that to sixty-three.

You've all heard tell of Bridges;
Well, I used to run with Jim,
And many a hard day's scouting
I've done alongside of him.
Well, once, near old Fort Reno,
A trapper used to dwell.
We called him old Pop Runnels;
The scouts all knew him well.

One night in spring of 'fifty,
We camped on Powder River.
We killed a calf of buffalo,
And cooked a slab of liver.
While eating, quite contented,
We heard three shots or four;
Put out the fire and listened;
We heard a dozen more.

We knew that old Pop Runnels
Had moved his traps up there;
So picking up our rifles,
And fixing on our gear,
We mounted quick as lightning--
To save was our desire.
Too late--the painted heathens
Had set the house on fire.

We tied our horses quickly,
And waded up the stream,
And close beside the water,
I heard a muffled scream;
And there among the bushes,
A little girl did lie.
I picked her up and whispered,
"I'll save you, or I'll die."

Lord, what a ride;
Old Bridges covered my retreat.
Sometimes the child would whisper
In a voice so soft and sweet,
"Poor Papa, God will take him
To Mama up above.
There's no one left to love me.
There's no one left to love."

All Songs Recorded by John Quincy Wolf, Jr., unless otherwise noted

The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection
Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas
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