Firewater And Love Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Firewater and Love,
unwilling companions,
met at the creek
near the last tipi,
made of the skins
of Campbell River wolves.
The chief himself
was resting there,
with the white squaw,
who had, until
that early morning raid,
been faithful
and closely tied
to a brave man.

They roamed the land,
their covered wagon
filled with anything
an Indian heart
would ever need
or want.
Took furs in payment.

Hoss and his wife
were frugal,
they mostly lived
on Pemmican,
and bits and bites
on offer,
when negotiations
went well.
It was a living,
until now.

Some warriors
had been told
about the white man's
FIREWATER,
and Hoss was
quickly surrounded,
and many bottles
soon changed hands.

Then, before retiring
they counted
all the pelts,
the Grizzly claws
when, with alarm,
strange noises
could be heard
outside the wagon.

It was too late
to grab the rifle,
which was fully
loaded with
buckshot,
and Hoss was murdered,
also scalped.
And, to appease,
the chief was
then presented
with a fresh
and pleasant-looking
squaw.

She often thought
of Hoss
in later years,
and long gone words
would haunt her:
'Let firewater
and love
never be seen
under the sky
of the same moon.'