Ol’ Blue of the Comstock

Handsome, ain’t he? Reckon there’s no beast ‘round here to beat him.
Ain’t that right, Blue? Ol’ boy, you shine like silver straight from the mountain.
Easy now, steady. Feel that muscle—solid like ore but smooth as silk.
Go on, Buck, lead him out let< folks get a look at a Comstock stallion.
Nevada-bred, sure as dust in the mines—papersright here in my pocket.
Sired by Silver King, and he’s worth every ounce of a thousand.

You know old Tom Driscoll?that claim near Virginia City?
Made his fortune in a blink, then lost it in a game down in Carson,
Left it all behind in the dark, like a miner chasin’ ghosts.
Gone now, but stories like his—well, they linger like gold fever.

Blue’s got spirit, pure grit; folks don’t know a real hoss ‘til they ride one.
Ever see that road up Six Mile Canyon? Steep as sin, slick with shale?
No easy ridin’—even on a calm day, you’re watchin’ every step.
But two months back, me and the sheriff, chasin’ them bandits by moonlight,

Found ourselves on that slope with rain pourin’ like hell’s own flood.
Ol’ Blue here didn’t falter, took the lead on that steep pitch,
Rocks rattlin’ underfoot, water rushin’ wild through the canyon.
He held his line like he had somethin’ to prove, never so much as slipped.

Branches snap like dry bones, and we hit the river, ragin’ high.
Without askin’, he plunged, chest-deep in the black, holdin’ the current,
While I gripped tight, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ it might be my last ride.
But Blue? He was steady as stone, bringin’ me through, straight and sure.

That’s what I call a hoss! Ain’t another like him on the whole Comstock.
Folks talk silver and gold, but Ol’ Blue? He’s somethin’ finer.
The sheriff? Well, he didn’t make it—got lost in the night.
But hosses like Blue? They don’t give up, even when the world says so.