Winds blow down dark canyons
With a scary, earie moan
If you're out there at night
It seems like you're not alone.

Its not just the timber wolf
With his lonesome lonely cry
There's a sound on the wind
Like a spirit that refuses to die.

It's the ghost of many men
Who came this way long ago
They crossed dry dusty plains
And mountains covered with snow.

They forded rivers and blazed trails
For those who followed behind
They were looking for something
That few would ever find.

Up in the high lonesome peaks
Are ghosts of mountain men
They lived and trapped way up there
Where few have ever been.

Sometimes when the winds just right
You can smell a fire of mesquite wood
Or hear ghostly sounds like distant drums
Where an Indian village once stood.

These are sounds of ghosts of the West
Men who came this way and then were gone
Their bones have now turned to dust
But their spirits will forever live on.

Ghosts of the West by Joel T Bailey