First One to Daylight
by Hal Swift

Old Harley Oxheart never drinks much.
Oh, now and then, he'll get hazy.
But he'll never get drunk, or get outta hand,
like some old boys who go crazy.

He'll have him a bottle of sasparilla,
when holiday time comes around.
The feller's a dang good cowpoke, y'know?.
He's got both feet on the ground.

Except when he's ridin' his horse, Desert Wind,
that Harley says cannot be beat.
And I reckon he proved it on one Christmas Eve,
with a fellow he happened to meet.

Harley has been in at Shorty's all evenin',
then says his goodbyes to his friends.
About half-way home he hears sleighbells ringin',
and that's when his story begins.

He says east of Nixon, he's dozin' a bit,
kind of dawdlin' along on the way,
when all of a sudden someone's alongside,
and it's Santa, his reindeer, and sleigh.

Harley thinks maybe he's havin' a dream,
like Sunday, right after his dinner.
But it's Santa all right, who hollers, "Let's race!
The first one to daylight's the winner!"

Harley just never thinks twice about it,
he tells Desert Wind to get goin'.
It don't matter to him how cold that it's got,
or how hard that it's started to snowin'.

Santa cracks his whip and his reindeer take off.
Harley says, "Them critturs can fly!"
But that don't stop him.  He tells Desert Wind,
"Go on now--head for the sky!"

Now Santa's not raced with a Paiute cowpoke,
and don't know the things they can do.
And ol' Harley leaves him like he's standin' still,
and to Santa that's something that's new.

"Watay!" yells Harley.  (That's Paiute for "Cool!")
Then Santa yells, "Okay, let's go!"
Them reindeer of his fairly streak through the clouds,
but Harley's directly below.

Santa heads northward towards Mount Saint Helens,
and her fire looks dim through the fog.
But Harley and Desert Wind's already there,
and Santa is plainly agog.

Santa yells, "You kids are pretty dang good!
Let's see just how fast you two are!"
He sprinkles some twinkle dust over his sleigh,
which shoots 'cross the sky like a star.

Harley yells, "Ah-ha!" (That's Paiute for "Yes!")
Then whispers in Desert Wind's ear,
the word that makes a horse go so fast,
that no one can ever get near.

Harley and Desert Wind pass the North Pole,
then south toward Nevada's cold skies.
Santa is still headed north with his crew,
and he gawps open-mouthed in surprise.

"Come on!" Harley hollers, "The sun's in the east!
Your critturs are slowin' their pace!
You got to do somethin', and do it real soon,
or you're gonna be losin' this race!"

Well, Santa agrees, but he's shakin' his head,
because this ain't happened to him.
Racin' this Paiute from northern Nevada
was just an old man's silly whim.

What'll he give this cowpoke for winnin'?
And it looks like this could be the case.
So, he figures he'll ask him to see what he says,
as soon as they're back to his place.

It ain't all that long till they're down on the ground,
and slidin' along through the snow.
Till Harley lets Santa catch up and then says,
"Okay, now, Desert Wind, Whoa!"

"A heckuva race," old Santa Claus says.
That's one goin' horse you got there."

"Thangkew," says Harley.  "We've never been beat.
And we've won every race fair and square."

"I don't think you told me," Santa says with a grin,
"what was it that you'd want if you won."
"I'll tell you," said Harley, "one cold sasparilla,
at Shorty's whenever you're done."

So that's how it happens that Santa's at Shorty's,
as Harley explains to his friends,
"I heard sleighbells last night, about half-way home,
and that's where my story begins."

Well, the folks there at Shorty's enjoy the whole tale.
Santa buys sasparilla for all.
And he says, "You know, I could stay all day,
that is, if my wife don't call.

His wife don't call, but an elf comes in,
to see if the old boy's all right.
"The Missus," he says, "got a look at your reindeer,
and figures you raced 'em all night."

"You can tell 'er," says Santa, "I'm givin' up racin',
I feel like I'm fifty pounds thinner.
I learned m'lesson when I raced ol' Harley,
with the first one to daylight the winner."

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