(1) YAVAPAI PETE Sung by Harry Jackson, accompanied by Pete Seeger. The text of this burlesque ballad about a fictitious would-be Arizona badman was published in Songs of the Sage by Curley W. Fletcher. The tune appears in Curley Fletcher's Ballads of the Badlands. A version by Harry Jackson and Ed Marshbank, entuled "Old lron Pants Pete," with Wyoming place names substituted for Arizona names, is included in Harry Jackson's Folkways album, The Cowboy: His Songs, Ballads & Brag Talk. In the version sung here, the original encounter between Yavapai Pete and a bear has been changed to an attempt at a stage holdup.
Oh, Yavapai Pete was a cowpuncher neat From Arizona's fair clime. He lived in the saddle, and stole all the cattle From here to the Mexican line.
His ridin' was sassy, his ropin' was classy, He liked to mix mingle with maul; Not much of a thinker, was more of a drinker, Could uphold his end in a brawl.
Had a head like a hatchet, a face to match it, And a nose like a pelican's beak, His legs was all bowed and he was pigeon-toed, With a chin that was plumb mild and meek.
Well, he'd been in the weather, his skin is like leather, His hands they's horny and rough; You could spy by his stride he's plumb salty inside And fer hell he was mor'n a mite rough.
Well, a very good hand, with a whole lot of sand, He could lasso a snake at a lope. But too much on the brag, and a-chewin' the rag Brought old Pete to the end of his rope.
He once told a tale of a-hittin' the trail, A-huntin' new ranges to ride; They'd hung up a bounty in Yavapai County Fer whoever could bring in his hide.
Well, he rides o'er a rise and a-battin' his eyes He spied him a gold-laden stage; Then his horse hit a lope and his guns they did smoke And he left them old boys in a rage.
He took all the gold like the robbers of old, Then he high-tailed her south for the line; But to his surprise that old sheriff was wise And he dry-gulched Pete's four-legged mine.
Well, Pete fanned his gun fast but they got him at last, And he died with his boots on his feet. The Wild West was rid of a dangerous kid With the shootin' of Yavapai Pete.
SOURCE: From booklet (p. 59) to The Badmen: Songs, Stories and Pictures of the Western Outlaws 1865-1900 (Columbia Records Legacy Collection L2S 1012, 1963).
(2) YAVAPAI PETE
Now Yavapai Pete was a cowpuncher neat, From Arizona's fair clime. Lived in his saddle and punched most the cattle From here to the Mexican line.
His ridin' was sassy, his ropin' was classy, He liked to mix, mingle, with maul; Not much of a thinker, was more of a drinker, And could uphold his end in a brawl.
A face like a hatchet, a head to match it, And a nose like a pelican's beak; His legs was all bowed and he was pigeon-toed, With a chin that was plum mild and meek.
He'd been in the weather, his skin was like leather, His hands were all horny and rough; You could see by his stride he was just made to ride, And no broncho for him was too tough.
A very good hand with a whole lot of sand, And a voice like a bellerin' bull. Pretty much on the brag, and at chewin' the rag He wa a whole corral full.
He once told a tale of hittin' the trail, A-huntin' new ranges to ride; They'd hung up a bounty in Yavapai County For whoever could bring in his hide.
He rode to a ranch and asked if by chance They needed a good buckeroo. They said he was rough, but not tough enough, As a bronk peeler he wouldn't do.
Then he rode o'er a rise and battin' his eyes A-lookin' down into a swale, He'd come to the lair of a she grizzly bear, And she was a-holdin' the trail.
He took a long strand of barb wire in hand, And crawlin' along on the ground, He made a big scoop with that barb wire loop And they both went around and 'round.
Then he mounted that bear with a handful of hair, For a quirt used a live rattlesnake, He rode with a rush out thru the buck-brush, A-swearin' that beast he would break.
To the ranch they did go where Pete hollered "whoa," Then asked the boss what he'd pay-- "My mount is docile fer I've rode her a mile, And we're a-huntin' a job today."
The boss called his stack, said. "Come to the shack. You look like you might be alright. That growlin' old bear, yure ridin' right there, Eat up my old range boss last night." ................................
Old Yavapai Pete he couldn't be beat At lookin', and shootin', and sin. The chuck-wagon deck was a sorrwful wreck When Yavapai Pete butted in.
He fanned his gun fast but they got him at last, And he died with his boots on his feet. The wild West was rid of a dangerous kid With the passin' of Yavapai Pete.
SOURCE: Curley W. Fetcher, Songs of the Sage (Frontier Publishing Company, 1931, pp. 15-17; without music)