Halloween Special - Ghost Riders in the Sky: The Legend of Stampede Mesa
- Jody Slaughter
- Oct 10, 2024
- 19 min read
Updated: Nov 4, 2024
Ghost Riders in the Sky is one of the most popular Country songs of all time. But did you know it was inspired by events right here in West Texas? Join us as we take a spooky look at the Legend of Stampede Mesa. Just don't listen before bed...
Also available on your favorite podcast platform by searching "WTX Podcast"!
(Ghost) Riders in the Sky lyrics:
An old cowboy went riding out
One dark and windy day
Upon a ridge he rested
As he went along his way
When all at once a mighty herd
Of red eyed cows he saw
Plowin' through the ragged skies
And up the cloudy draw
Their brands were still on fire
And their hooves were made of steel
Their horns were black and shiny
And their hot breath he could feel
A bolt of fear went through him
As they thundered through the sky
For he saw the riders coming hard
And he heard their mournful cry
Yippie-yi-o
Yippie-yi-yay
Ghost riders in the sky
Their faces gaunt
Their eyes were blurred
Their shirts all soaked with sweat
He's riding hard to catch that herd
But he ain't caught 'em yet
'Cause they've got to ride forever
On that range up in the sky
On horses snorting fire
As they ride on, hear their cry
As the riders loped on by him
He heard one call his name
'If you wanna save your soul
From hell a-riding on our range
Then, cowboy, change your ways today
Or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the devil's herd
Across these endless skies
Yippie-yi-o
Yippie-yi-yay
Ghost riders in the sky
Ghost riders in the sky
Ghost riders in the sky
Further Reading
Credits:
Writer: Jody L. Slaughter
Producer: Jody L. Slaughter
Editor: Jody L. Slaughter
Engineer: Jody L. Slaughter
Ghost Riders in the Sky covers (in order of appearance):
All music copyright to the respective authors/performers. Presented under Fair Use provision, sec. 107 of the Copyright Act of 1976.
Contact:
Email: lubbockistATgmail.com
Twitter: @Lubbockist
Listen on:
Thanks for listening, and so long...from West Texas.
FULL TRANSCRIPT
s01 Halloween Special - Ghost Riders in the Sky: The Legend of Stampede Mesa
Crosby County, Texas, 1889. The White River slices through the featureless caprock, carving the deep, Blanco Canyon. Towering mesas rise 100 feet into the air like ancient sentinels. Almost 20 years ago, Col. Mackenzie fought Quanah Parker and the Comanche in these very canyons. But now, the Comanche are gone, and all that remains is the wind and the river — a rare, life-giving vein of water on the dry South Plains.
Sawyer knows this area well. He's driven cattle through here before, but this is different. This time, he's trail boss — responsible for 1,500 head of his boss's cattle, and tonight, they're looking for a place to rest.
They're headed north to Kansas. This is their last chance for water before they reach the Red River, 100 plus miles away. After that, it's a long trek to Tascosa on the Canadian River, where Sawyer’s men can finally relax — a hot bath, a stiff drink, maybe a game of cards before pushing on to Dodge City, Kansas. But that’s a long way off. For now, Sawyer’s focus is keeping on schedule, and keeping the boss happy.
He remembers a trick from his last trail boss: a nearby mesa has a shallow slope on one side, easy enough to drive the cattle up. The other sides drop off in 100-foot cliffs, forming a natural fence — perfect to keep the herd safe for the night. No need to worry about them drifting off into the valley below. It’s an ingenious setup, one that'll save them hours of chasing strays come morning.
The evening light is beginning to fade when they finally get the herd to the top of the mesa. But something’s wrong. A thin wisp of smoke curls up from a tiny, one-room dugout — something that wasn’t here last year.
“Daggum nesters,” Sawyer mutters to to his ramrod, a seasoned drover named Levi. The two men stare at a few unknown cattle that are already grazing at the far end of the mesa.
“Should we turn 'em around and head back down?” Levi asks, glancing nervously at Sawyer.
Sawyer hesitates, squinting at dark clouds piling up on the western horizon, their edges glowing with the fading sun.
“Naw,” Sawyer says, “We’re committed now. Push 'em on in and let's set up camp.”
The cowboys’ whistles and the crack of leather echo down the canyon as they move the herd. Sawyer dismounts and tends to his horse. He gathers some mesquite wood and starts a fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows on the ground. He sits down, pulls off his boots, and rubs his aching feet, watching the shadows grow darker and the wind pick up.
It’s not long before he hears it — hoofbeats, rapid and angry, pounding through the stillness. This isn’t one of his boys. It’s the homesteader.
The rider pulls up in a cloud of dust, his horse skidding to a stop. The nester is an old man, at least twenty years Sawyer’s senior, with wild, white hair that shoots out in every direction. No hat, no shirt, no pants — just a pair of dirty union suit underwear and well-worn boots. The man looks as wild and untamed as the land around him.
“What the hell do you boys think you’re doin’ bringing this damn herd onto my ranch?!” the nester growls, his voice as cutting as the river below.
Sawyer looks him over, unfazed. “Your ranch?”
“You’re damn right,” the nester snaps. “I’ve been set up here more’n eight months!”
Sawyer shakes his head, smirking. “This land ain’t belong to nobody but the Almighty. But you got no cause for concern. We’re just here to rest the herd, and we’ll be on our way come morning.”
By now, the rest of Sawyer’s cowboys have ridden up behind him, their hands resting near their holsters, relaxed but ready.
“Oh, I’m sure you boys are planning on leavin’ in the mornin’... and takin’ my herd with ya!” the nester spits. “Y’all ain’t nothin’ but rustlers, far as I can see.”
Virgil, the youngest of the crew, can’t hold back any longer. “Rustlers? We ain’t no rustlers, you sonofa-”
“Virgil, you keep quiet boy,” Sawyer cuts him off, his voice low and dangerous.
He turns back to the old man, his patience wearing thin. “Listen here, old timer. I don’t know what herd you’re talkin’ about. I ain’t seen more’n a dozen head up here. But we ain’t come up here to steal nothin’. We’ll cut your ‘herd’ outta ours before we leave. You got my word on that.”
The nester’s eyes narrow. “You’ll cut ‘em out now, son.”
Sawyer’s jaw tightens. He rises to his feet, pointing to the storm clouds swallowing the last of the daylight. “You’re crazy if you think we’ll find one of your mangey steers before dark. And unless you got a pistol hid somewhere in them skivvies, I don’t reckon you’re in any position to be tellin’ us any damn thing.”
The other cowboys look at each other nervously. Sawyer’s voice drops to a cold whisper. “Now, if you’re smarter than you look, you’ll git back to that hole in the ground you call a ranch and leave us be.”
The nester glares at Sawyer, pure hatred burning in his eyes. He spits on the ground and mutters something under his breath before growling, “I’ll see you boys bright and early. And if you even think about runnin’ off with my cattle in the night, I guarantee I’ll see ya all hanged.”
He whips his horse around and disappears into the growing dusk. The wind is stronger now, the clouds swirling higher and darker, forming a massive anvil in the distant Western sky.
Sawyer watches him go, feeling the weight of the coming storm pressing down. Minutes pass in uneasy silence, the cowboys keeping to themselves — tending to their horses, feeding the fire, or nibbling on stale biscuits. Virgil fusses with his new spurs, proud of the way they catch the light. "A gift from my pa," he says with a grin, showing them off to the other cowboys by the fire. The silver shows brightly in the flickering flames, a little too fancy for a trail hand, but the other cowboys are too tired to tease him. The distant rumble of thunder grows louder.
After a while, Sawyer pulls himself away from the fire's warmth and walks over to Levi.
“I reckon we ought to have someone sit with the herd tonight,” Sawyer says.
Levi nods. “Yeah, I think we’d better.” He gestures toward the young cowboy. “Virgil, saddle up. You’ve got first watch.”
Virgil hesitates for a moment and then nods. He climbs up into the saddle and spurs his horse, his figure quickly swallowed by the night as he rides off towards the herd.
Sawyer watches him go, still muddling over the nester’s threats.
A crack of lightning rips across the sky, briefly illuminating the landscape. Sawyer’s gaze shifts to the cliffs surrounding them — the jagged edges of the mesa, the steep drop into Blanco Canyon.
He walks back to the fire, but his mind is elsewhere. Had they made a mistake coming up here? The wind whistles low through the canyon, like a distant cry. The fire sputters, the mesquite wood crackling in protest as the wind sends embers drifting over the flat prairie like fireflies.
Sawyer drops down on a rock beside the fire, pulling his coat tighter against the wind. He stares into the flames, his thoughts drifting back to the nester. Something about the man’s eyes—a wildness, yes, but something darker, something Sawyer can’t quite shake. And then there was the way the old man had spat into the dirt, and said something…like a curse.
Another flash of lightning splits the sky, followed by a deep rumble. Sawyer looks toward the herd again, just as Virgil briefly comes into view, a small dark figure moving along the edge of the mesa. He seems calm enough, but the storm... it's rolling in fast now, and every instinct Sawyer has is telling him the night is about to turn.
He tries to shake it off, but the feeling lingers.
"Storm's gonna be a hell of a thing," one of the older cowboys mutters, pulling his hat low over his eyes. "Reckon the herd’ll get spooked?"
Sawyer doesn’t answer right away, his eyes still locked on the mesa’s edge. "They'll hold," he says finally, but the words don’t come with much conviction.
The wind howls louder, and far off in the distance, there’s another sound — a shriek in the night, like a banshee, or was it just the wind. Sawyer frowns and stands again, scanning the horizon. The cry echoes down the canyon.
One of the cowboys sitting near the fire stirs. "That didn’t sound like one of ours."
“No.” Sawyer nods slowly. "...it didn’t."
Minutes drag by like hours, and the storm finally arrives. The first fat drops of rain slap against the dry earth, followed by a gust of wind that sends dust swirling around the camp. Lightning tears through the sky. The horses snort and tug restlessly at the reins binding them to mesquite trees.
Sawyer stares out over the dark mesa, where the herd should be huddled together. Another flash of lightning casts the landscape in a brief, blinding light. For just a second, Sawyer swears he sees movement — something dark and fast — skirting along the far edge of the herd. But before he can get a proper look, darkness returns, thicker than before.
"Levi!" Sawyer yells over the rising wind. His voice gets swallowed up by the storm, barely carrying beyond the fire. He waves his ramrod over. "Go check on him. Make sure he’s keeping the herd steady."
The cowboy nods, quickly pulling his hat tighter before mounting up and riding off. Sawyer watches him vanish into the night, the clopping of hooves fading into the wind. The fire flickers violently, threatening to die out with each gust.
He sits back down, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Another distant screech, this time louder, closer. It’s the same eerie cry that had set his nerves on edge earlier. Sawyer’s hand rests on the butt of his revolver, though he’s not sure why. It’s not like he can shoot at the wind — or whatever it is making that sound.
The rain comes down in driving torrents now. The cowboys rush for cover beneath the sparse shelter of a mesquite tree, huddling together as the wind howls around them. But when a lightning bolt rips through another tree nearby, they scatter in panic.
And then, they hear it — a low rumble in the distance, like a departing freight train. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble.
“Twister!” one of the cowboys shouts, his voice barely audible over the storm. He unties his horse and leaps into the saddle, spurring it back down the way they came and disappearing into the canyon.
But Sawyer knows better. He drops to one knee, pressing his ear to the ground. His eyes widen as realization dawns. “That ain’t no twister,” he mutters to himself.
He springs to his feet, yelling into the storm. “STAMPEDE! STAMPEDE! To your horses!”
In an instant, Sawyer is in the saddle, his heart pounding in time with the thunder that crashes overhead. The wind is howling now, almost drowning out his shouts to the others. “We gotta turn ‘em before they hit the cliff!”
As the storm rages, Sawyer hears it again — that eerie, unearthly cry cutting through the chaos. It’s unlike anything he’s ever heard before, sending a chill down his spine, deeper than the cold rain ever could.
Lightning rips across the sky, illuminating the mesa in an instant. Sawyer strains to see through the storm, just barely making out Virgil and Levi out in front of the herd, desperately trying to turn them. The herd surges forward, barreling toward the cliff. In the next flash, Sawyer thinks he sees a third figure — riding behind the herd with something massive, flapping like a ship’s sail in the wind. But then darkness swallows everything again, and when the lightning strikes once more, the figure is gone.
Sawyer shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the vision. Just his eyes playing tricks in the storm, he tells himself. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it now — there’s a herd to save.
Sawyer pushes his horse to its limit, heart hammering in his chest as he closes in on the rear of the stampeding herd. He’s close now — so close he’s pelted by the mud kicked up by the terrified cattle making it even more difficult to see.
“Turn, damn you!” he shouts into the storm, his voice inaudible over the thunder and pounding hooves.
He rides up alongside the herd, desperate to get them under control, to push them away from the cliff. But before he can make his move, one of the steers crashes into him, its massive body slamming into his leg. Sawyer’s horse rears back, caught off guard by the impact. He pulls hard on the reins, but it’s too late.
Another steer veers into them, and this time, the force knocks him clean out of the saddle.
Sawyer hits the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The world spins around him as the storm rages overhead. His horse gallops away into the darkness, and the last thing he sees before his vision fades is the herd surging forward, unstoppable.
The sound of hooves — thunderous, relentless — fades as Sawyer’s consciousness slips away…
### The Next Morning
Sawyer stirs, his head pounding and his body aching. The storm has passed, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. The air smells of wet earth and…something else that he can’t place.
He blinks against the light, wincing as he struggles to sit up. His body protests, bruised and battered from the fall. Slowly, painfully, he pulls himself to his feet and surveys the mesa. His horse is gone. The land is silent. And the herd — there’s no sign of it. His mind reels for a moment before it all comes back — the stampede, the cliff, the frantic chase. His chest tightens.
Wiping the caked mud from his face, Sawyer stumbles toward the edge of the mesa. When he reaches the precipice and looks down, his stomach turns. Below him, the remnants of the herd are scattered across the canyon floor, broken and twisted, their bodies lying in grotesque, unnatural angles.
He turns away from the sight, swallowing hard. His gaze drifts across the open prairie, where the herd should be grazing in the morning light. Instead, the nester’s dugout sits alone, silent except for the thin wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, curling lazily into the sky.
Sawyer turns back to the mangled remains of the cattle. Then he sees it — something glinting in the sun. A flash of silver catches his eye.
What is that?
He squints, his heart sinking as realization creeps over him. It’s a boot, half-buried in the pile of broken cattle, and attached to it...a spur. A shiny, silver spur.
His stomach drops like a stone. “Virgil...” he mutters under his breath, his voice hoarse, as if saying the name aloud will make it less real.
The sudden pounding of hooves snaps him out of his thoughts. He looks up as one of the cowboys rides up fast, pulling his horse to a stop beside him. Behind him, riding hard and fast, is the nester.
“Boss!” the cowboy shouts, breathless. “Where the hell you been? We thought you’d gone over too.”
Sawyer’s throat tightens as he tears his eyes away from the cliff. “Where’s Virgil? Where’s Levi?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart pounds but he already knows the answer.
The cowboy’s face goes pale, the words sticking in his throat. He takes off his hat, eyes darting toward the cliff but not daring to look over. “No- no one’s seen ‘em, boss...” His voice falters. “We thought... maybe they were with you.”
Sawyer stands there, silent, the weight of the morning’s truth pressing down on his soul. The pounding of hooves draws his attention back to the approaching rider. The homesteader rides up hard, his face flushed with anger, his horse splashing through a puddle as he reins it in sharply.
“Now that you’re finally up,” the nester barks, “we got business to settle.”
Sawyer, still dazed by the sight of Virgil’s boot in the pile of cattle, barely registers the nester’s tone. His gaze remains fixed on the edge of the cliff, his thoughts elsewhere.
The nester doesn’t wait for a response. “Your damn stampede took my cattle, and I expect to be paid for every last one of ‘em.” His voice is tinged with greed. “I already told your boys back at camp — I had thirty head in there, and I’ll be damned if I walk away empty-handed.”
Sawyer doesn’t move. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides as he tries to hold back the surge of anger rising in his chest. He turns slowly, eyes locking on the nester.
“You’re worried about a few bum steers?” Sawyer’s voice is low, thick with disbelief. “I just lost two men.”
The words hang in the air, cutting through the tension like a knife. The nester’s bravado falters, confusion flickering across his face.
“Two men?” The nester blinks, the color draining from his cheeks. “I... I didn’t know...” His eyes dart between Sawyer and the cowboy, as if searching for some kind of explanation.
Sawyer’s chest heaves with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You didn’t know, did you?” he spits, his voice sharp. He steps closer. “That what you’re saying?”
The nester recoils slightly, caught off guard by Sawyer’s intensity, but he holds his ground. “Why…you don’t think I had something to do with the stampede do ya? I was trying to sleep back at the house. When I heard it, I come out just like the rest of you.”
Sawyer’s mind starts racing back to the night before. The third rider. The figure he thought he saw in the lightning. And then, his eyes fall on something else — something fluttering in the wind behind the nester’s house.
A pale sheet, on a clothesline, snapping in the morning breeze.
Sawyer narrows his eyes, a memory surfacing. The sail. That ghostly figure he thought he’d seen driving the herd. His heart pounds in his chest as the pieces start to fall into place.
“That sheet,” Sawyer says, nodding toward the house. “I don’t remember it hanging out there yesterday.”
The nester follows Sawyer’s gaze, glancing back at the sheet, then turns back, his face twisting in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Sawyer steps closer, his voice tight. “I saw something last night in the storm...something big. Flapping like a sail, spooking the herd. And I heard things. Sounds that weren’t natural.” His words hang heavy. “You knew damn well what you were doing. You waved that sheet, made those noises, and drove the herd right off the cliff. All so you could squeeze some money out of us for your sorry steers.”
The nester’s eyes widen, he looks genuinely shocked. “What in the hell are you talking about son?” He shakes his head, raising his hands defensively. “I ain’t done no such thing. The roof sprung a leak in the storm — right over my bed. I hung that sheet out to dry this morning. That’s all it is.”
Sawyer’s gaze hardens. “Pretty convenient timing, don’t ya think? Right when the herd spooked. Right when I thought I saw someone ridin’ behind ‘em.”
“I swear on my momma!” The nester’s voice trembles now. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that stampede! I was in the house all night. My roof’s leaking like a sieve, and I just needed to dry the damn thing.”
Sawyer’s hands twitch at his sides, his mind torn between his grief and suspicion. The nester’s story makes sense, but something about it gnaws at him, digs under his skin like a grassburr.
Sawyer stares at the sheet, flapping in the morning breeze, remembering the unearthly cries, the eerie figure he thought he saw.
“Is that really all it is?” Sawyer mutters, more to himself than to the nester.
The nester swallows hard, his face pale. “That’s all it is. I swear to you. You saw that storm. Them steers didn’t need my help to get spooked.”
Sawyer gives a slow nod, a flicker of understanding passing between them. For a moment, the tension eases. He turns away, back toward the cliff’s edge. The spurs catch the light again, gleaming brighter than before, a cruel reminder of what’s been lost.
That flicker of understanding begins to fade, slowly replaced again with rage. Sawyer’s jaw clenches as the heat rises in his chest. When he turns back to face the nester, his pistol is already drawn, leveled at the man’s head, his eyes burning with fury.
“Get off your horse,” Sawyer growls.
The nester freezes, his face going slack with fear.
Sawyer turns to the cowboy, not taking his eyes off the nester. “March him up to that house. Find a shovel,” Sawyer says, his tone like ice. “Then bring him back to camp.”
###
No one wants to do it, but it has to be done. They can’t leave their friends down there for the coyotes and buzzards. The morning sun rises ever higher in the sky as the cowboys set to the grim task at hand. The work is slow, backbreaking, and every movement feels like a cruel punishment. The ground beneath them, still wet from the storm, clings to their boots as they drag the broken remains of Virgil and Levi from the tangled mess of steers. The smell of death and sweat hangs heavy in the air. No one speaks.
Sawyer watches from a distance, his expression hard, unreadable. His eyes never leave the two bodies as they’re carried up the mesa and laid on the ground, side by side.
Meanwhile, the nester digs.
His hands work the shovel into the damp earth beneath one of the mesquite trees. One of the cowboys stands watch, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the homesteader.
The nester’s thoughts race with each shovelful of dirt, but amid the panic, a small wave of relief begins to wash over him.
Two graves.
He’s only digging two. A thin sheen of sweat covers his face as he works faster, his breath coming in shallow bursts.
If they were going to kill me, they’d make me dig three, wouldn’t they?
The graves are finally dug, and the two men placed inside, then covered. The cowboys gather, forming a loose circle around the two mounds of dirt. Their faces are etched with fatigue and grief. Hats are removed, held against their chests, heads bowed in silent reverence.
It’s a short, somber affair. There are no words to be said — nothing that would be enough.
One by one, the cowboys look to Sawyer, waiting for a word, a gesture — anything. But Sawyer just stands there, eyes fixed on the ground, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The nester wipes his brow, it’s finally over. He swallows hard, his throat dry as he looks to Sawyer, waiting for him to say something — waiting for him to let him go.
But instead, Sawyer nods to one of the cowboys. “Tie his hands.”
The nester freezes. “Wait... what? No! I told you — I had nothing to do with this!” His voice rises in panic as they tie his hands tightly behind his back. His protests fall on deaf ears.
They lift him onto his horse. His heart pounds as he tries to twist his wrists free, but the ropes hold firm. “Please!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “You can’t do this! I swear, I didn’t spook that herd!”
Sawyer ignores him. He grabs a piece of leather tack and blindfolds the horse. He keeps another piece in his hand. The nester’s breath comes in ragged gasps, disbelief and terror flooding his veins.
“You can’t... You can’t!” the nester screams, thrashing against the bindings as Sawyer leads the blindfolded horse toward the cliff — toward the very spot where the cattle plunged to their deaths. The other cowboys cautiously follow. Looking at each other for reassurance that this is right.
Sawyer stands beside the horse at the cliff’s edge, calm, unflinching. The nester’s pleas become more frantic, more desperate, but Sawyer doesn’t look at him. “I swear, I didn’t do it! You know I didn’t! Please! You can't do this!”
Sawyer’s face remains stone. Without a word, he raises the small piece of leather and snaps it across the horse's haunches. The crack echoes off the canyon walls as the animal startles, jerking forward in a blind rush, towards the mesa’s edge and the abyss below.
The nester lets out one final scream, as horse and rider vanish over the edge. A few seconds later, the distant thud of their bodies hitting the pile below. The valley and mesa go silent again.
Sawyer doesn’t move. The other cowboys stand stunned, exchanging uneasy glances, but no one dares question him.
Finally, Sawyer turns to them, his voice flat. “This drive’s over. Head back home.”
The cowboys hesitate, unsure if they should speak, but one by one, they mount their horses and turn toward the trail back down the mesa. No one dares say anything when Sawyer doesn’t join them.
They ride south, down the river valley, still unspeaking. The only sound is that of the rushing river waters and a few circling birds overhead. One of the cowboys chances a glance back at the mesa. It’s hard to see through the afternoon haze, the heat distorting the horizon, but he’s almost certain he can make out Sawyer — still standing there, alone, at the edge of the cliff. A solitary figure, motionless against the vast backdrop of the endless Texas sky.
None of them ever saw Sawyer again. But the mesa didn’t keep its secrets.
###
It wasn’t long before stories began to spread. The mesa, now known as Stampede Mesa, gained a reputation among trail drivers and settlers passing through the area. Some claimed that on stormy nights, you could hear the rumble of hooves, like a herd of cattle driven to the edge. Others swore they’d seen ghostly cowboys, riding hard through the dark, forever chasing the herd they’d lost.
Riders told of lightning flashing across the sky, revealing shadowy demonic figures cast on the canyon walls. Those who dared pass through after dark whispered of spectral cattle, their eyes glowing in the night, driven by cowboys who were never meant to leave that mesa.
It's said that every herd that's tried to graze Stampede Mesa since that night has stampeded. The popular stopping point for trail drivers soon became known as a cursed place, with none but the most foolish taking their cattle up there, and always regretting that they had.
Some say it’s the two dead cowboys up there (their real names are lost to the ages), still driving their lost herd — cursed to repeat the stampede again and again for all eternity. Others say it's the nester. Condemned for what he did to the herd and those two cowboys. Others say Sawyer never left the mesa and still roams it, lamenting his unforgivable loss.
The tale became so widespread, it eventually inspired the iconic Western song “(Ghost) Riders in the Sky,” written by Stan Jones in 1948 and becoming perhaps the most covered song in Country music history since. The song tells the story of spectral cowboys endlessly driving their herd across the night sky, cursed for their misdeeds, always chasing but never catching. It’s through the song that the legend continues to echo through time, much like the howling winds over Stampede Mesa.
If you’re ever driving on Highway 114 between Crosbyton and Dickens, or maybe fishing White River Lake, take a look down Blanco Canyon and see if you can spot Stampede Mesa. And if you listen closely enough, when the wind howls through the canyon and the sky flashes with lightning, you might just hear them. The ghostly cries of the cattle, the eerie whistles of the cowboys chasing their ghostly herds across the sky – forever riding, forever lost — cursed to roam the West Texas plains for eternity.
Happy Halloween from the West Texas Podcast. I've been Jody Slaughter.
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