Here's a little diddy 'bout Jack Almer;
AKA Jack Averill, an' Red Jack.
Leader of the Red Jack gang.
Though obviously not much of one
when ya' consider the fact
that they didn't last too long.
In fact, just a couple years in the early 1880's:
goin' after them strong ---
boxes hauled on stagecoaches
down in Arizona.
Mostly 'round the river San Pedro.
An' they could of done better
if they took ta' driftin'.
However, to be fair,
they weren't always predictable.
A Wells Fargo guard found that out
atop the Globe stage,
the tenth of August of eighty-three.
"There ain't no loot," he kept insistin'
in his attempts ta' keep resistin'
who held 'um up outside Riverside
ta' take their bounty.
Then what a sight ta' see
when a female passenger alighted the stage,
lifted her skirts,
an' bellowed like a town crier.
But with a voice so bass,
it turned out ta' be Red Jack in a dandy disguise
who was callin' that guard a liar.
Cuz' in that feminine get-up, awaitin' the ride,
he'd seen the gold stored,
they'd placed it right under the seat.
That's why he'd signaled his boys
with the gesture they'd planned,
in order ta' come in an' pick-up their treat.
But that was their last payday,
in the gang's short heyday:
twenty-eight hundred in bills an' gold.
Cuz' entered Sheriff Bob Paul,
who answered the duty call,
with a large posse, strong an' bold.
They took ta' the trail with a passion.
An' with the fleein' gang separatin',
they hunted them down one-by-one.
Kept the ol' pressure on,
made them son of a guns run,
cuz' they knew it would lead ta' their downfall.
An' down each one went,
to the dirt with blood spent,
til it finally came ta' Red Jack's call.
They unearthed the ol' boy
a hidin' near Wilcox,
the 4th of October of eighty-three.
They shot him ta' pieces,
they filled him with lead,
cuz' he was dumb enough ta' try ta' shoot his way free.