They Hung Him Twice

William Wilson was a gunman,
          the lowest kind of all:
A no-account bushwacker,
          who shot his ex-boss from behind a wall.
They hung him once and cut him down,
          he awoke and said, "I survive."
So they hung him again and he woke up in Hell
          claiming, "Hell, I'm burning alive!"

Ison Dart: cowboy to cattle rustler

Ison Dart was one of the rare
          black gunmen in the west.
But he had the misfortune
          to cross paths with one of the best.
From cowboy to cattle rustler,
          near a part of Wyoming called Brown's Hole.
But when Dart and the gang stepped out
          one morning to checkout what they stole,
Two shots rang out
          and tore open Dart's head;
A gruesome sight to see
          as he lay there dead.
The gang coward back in the cabin,
          and abstained from gun play,
As Tom Horn, who took the shots,
          casually mounted and rode away.

Killing Gunman Bill Dunn

Bill Dunn was a hunter of men.
Hunting bounties was the trade of he and his kin.
Calvin, George, Dal, and Bee,
Brothers in a bloody family.
They spent most of their time engaged in some sin.

A road ranch was owned by the Brothers Dunn.
It was sometimes used by men on the run.
The men would salivate
Over teenage Rose, the bait,
Til each of her brothers came with a gun.

When Charley Pierce and Bitter Creek Newcomb came to spend the night,
They were caught by surprise like a deer in the light.
As a matter of course
Each stabled their horse,
Then were waylaid with an ambush done right.

When loading the bodies for a trip to town,
Newcomb -- thought dead -- started coming around.
No thought of their sister,
Just "a glass of water, Mister,"
But they sent him to Hell where no water is found.

Bill Dunn was with the posse that dropped Bill Doolin the same way.
But the townsfolk started wondering about their sense of fair play.
Bill tried to shift blame,
Using Frank Canton's name;
But his mouth charged a debt his body would have to pay.

Deputy Sheriff Canton faced Dunn on the streets of Pawnee.
And Dunn drew first for all witnesses to see.
But Canton was faster
To trigger his blaster,
And a head shot sent Bill Dunn to Death's mystery.

Hang the Archer Gang

The Archer Gang was a set of four brothers,
Who took after the Reno's and a slew of others.
Their reign of crime
Spanned decades of time
And they share the blame with moral-less fathers and mothers.

The Archers robbed stagecoaches, travelers, and trains.
Then they hid among kin like wheat among grains.
The Dalton's and James,
The Fords and other lames,
Had similar families with outlaw-like brains.

They played the "good neighbor" until money ran low,
Then they grabbed pistols and shotguns and got up to go.
They roamed far and wide
To fleece others then hide,
But their years of success just darkened each soul.

After years on the run a mad posse came callin'.
And when their women-folk heard they all started bawlin'.
Tom, John, and Mort,
Vigilantes did abort
With nooses 'round necks that sparked caterwallin'.

The youngest brother Sam made it to trial,
And was quickly convicted and lost his smug smile.
A noose was soon fetched
And Sam's neck was stretched,
And the townsfolk commenced to party awhile.

History records the Archer Gang with one of the longest crime waves.
But the end was still the same: it sent them to their graves,
Where the outlaw soul
Has one place to go,
To Hell's deepest hole with the volcanic caves.

The Head and Heart of the "Oklahoma Guardsmen."

Some men who wore a star were as bad as those they trailed.
But others had integrity and felt all law breakers should be jailed.
Evett Nix was one
Who used brain before gun,
And wished all outlaws, instead of victims, wailed.

Nix was Marshal over the Oklahoma Territory.
It was a vast expanse known for gore and glory.
Nix was spread too thin
So he hired more men:
Each of them top lawmen with a better story.

Frank Canton was associated with the Johnson County War.
And Chris Madsen had fought with Garibaldi on a foreign shore.
But the two known best
For their deeds in the West,
Were Thomas and Tilghman for their blood, guts, and gore.

Nix was the first marshal to ever deputize Heck Thomas.
'Cause he was good with a gun, had grit, and showed promise.
When settling the West
You go with the best,
'Cause justice works better with a law make, not a law miss.

When Bill Tilghman came from Dodge City he was a gunman feared.
But when he brought in Bill Doolin five thousand townsfolk cheered.
In the badge wearin' game
Tilghman earned fame;
Til shot dead by Wiley Lynn, a drunkin' coward who sneered.

When Nix' Oklahoma Guardsmen took control
The territorial crime wave began to slow.
All that was needed
Was for the law to be heeded,
When tough honest men bring their guns to the show.

Colorado Bill and the Hanging Judge

William Elliott, also known as "Colorado Bill;"
He didn't grow up a real man, just one who knew how to kill.
Four dead in four states
While Justice just waits,
And Bill stayed in the Choctaw Nation for a spell.

Then Bill killed David Brown and his soul became darker.
But the law ran him down and sent him off to Judge Parker.
Fort Smith's "Hanging Judge,"
On the law he wouldn't budge,
So Bill was hung and buried with a two-bit marker.

Sent to his Maker by a Preacher's Son

Cassius "Cash" Hollister -- once a mayor, but often a lawman --
Had a raucous temperament, more fitting to an outlaw clan.
But outlaws were bust,
Cash earned the town's trust
In the kill or be killed peace officer plan.

Cash was once fined for assaulting Frank Hunt.
With temper in check, lawbreakers took the brunt.
Then came a surprise,
To hear of Cash's demise,
Shot twice by the gun of a preacher's naughty runt.

Dynamite Dick Dead in the Dirt

Daniel Clifton, also known as "Dynamite Dick,"
Cattle rustling and bank jobs were his chosen shtick.
With his criminal resume,'
He joined Bill Doolin's "Oklahombres,"
With pistols and black powder his favorite tricks.

But an outlaw career can be boom or bust.
It ain't no position to instill some trust.
Yer' pals are all varmints
Who wear blood-stained garments,
And when you retire it's face down in the dust.

While the Doolin Gang took the bank in Southwest City,
They killed J.C. Seaborn, and it wasn't pretty.
Doolin and Clifton were jailed;
Bribed a guard: the system failed,
But the posse that followed had sand and were gritty.

"Every man for himself" is the fugitive code.
Find a place to hole up and drop all yer' load.
Clifton was found on a farm,
Tried to escape without harm,
But he was shot on the run and lay dead on the road.

Lawmen and Liquor Don't Mix

George Flatt was a lawman in Kansas,

who also co-owned a saloon.

They said he had grit,

was as tough as they get,

and his six-gun could carry a tune.

On July the seventh,

in eighteen-seventy-and-nine,

Jake Adams and George Wood

were up to no good,

just drinkin' and shootin'

and thinkin' it's fine.

Now Constable Kelly and Deputy Wilson

with Flatt and Kiser by their side,

came in for a gander

and up went their dander

as bullets whizzed by close and wide.

Wilson was wrist-shot,

and Kiser was head-shot.

Thank God it was only a graze.

And Flatt killed both outlaws:

Adams and Wood.

I think he just earned him a raise.

Flatt became marshall and upheld the peace,

but he had him a habit to drink.

Bending the elbow

and tipping the mug

can be just as bad as the opium drug;

just try them and then try to think.

Well, Flatt had a few,

and then a few too many;

some might say he was "dead drunk."

But he got up and staggered

and tried to get home,

too wasted to smell a near skunk

He was shot from behind,

it severed his spine

right at the base of his skull.

Two men were suspected,

Horseman and Hunt,

but the Hangman never would pull.

They say justice failed

'cause neither suspect was jailed.

But I say, if you think they got away

think again.

'Cause ol' Frank and Bill

are roasting in hell,

since crime unrepented is sin.



Lynching Robert Lacy

Have you heard 'bout Robert Lacy, the outlaw, gunman, and gambler?
Shot several men down New Mexico way, roamin' the state like a rambler.
Some say he had a death omen
So he headed north to Wyomin'
And supported himself as a cheatin' card handler.

Up in Rawlins he continued the shady play.
Tapping out the citizens: several suckers a day.
But the town grew wise.
It sparked fire in their eyes.
And shouting vigilantes soon led the way.

They stormed the saloon where Lacy played draw and stud.
They grabbed him and his pal: another card sharping crud.
Both were dragged out
Amidst bellow and shout,
Then noosed and lynched, and cut down with a thud.

Gunfighter: Jim Riley

Gunfighter Jim Riley was slow to gall.
But don't be fooled, he was quick on the draw.
There ain't much about him in western folklore,
Except one event with blood, guts, and gore.

Minding his business, just sipping his brand,
When in walk three 'pokes with pistols in hand.
The one in the lead stomps up to his friend,
And barks aloud like a stinkin' gut wind.

All hell broke loose when triggers were pulled,
And Riley's blood boiled as if it were brewed.
The first thing he did was lock the front door
Before he began to settle the score.

First, another friend gave it a go.
Got gut-shot instead, a death painful and slow.
When Riley took aim and let bullets fly,
Most hit their mark, and more men did die.

Two to the legs and the instigator fell.
Riley's first regret: not sending him to hell.
But the other two had no such luck,
They took lead in the chest: forgot to duck.

Blood was still pumping, Riley was hyped.
Confusion took over, common sense wiped.
Riley turned and saw a man by the door,
Raised his six-shooter and fired once more.

The man was unarmed, just trying to vacate.
He should've stayed low, and not tempted fate.
Some say he was lucky not to have died,
But the rest of his life he wanted to hide.

The bullet tore off the tip of his nose.
The poor guy had nothing to hold when he blows.
Riley regretted mistake number two;
Leavin' him noseless, he felt like a fool.

Now the Newton General Massacre's known far and wide;
Second only to Tombstone, where bodies abide.
But Riley would fade from gun play and history,
Adding to the truth -- an air of mystery.

Outlaw and Unlucky Lover: James Jenkins

James Jenkins was an outlaw,
A profession he adored.
It's said that he killed ten red men,
With eight white men also scored.

Some died in Missouri,
And some down Texas way,
Others were killed in Iowa
And Cal-i-for-ni-a.

In the latter state,
Over in Napa City,
Jenkins gave his black heart
To a gal he thought was pretty.

The couple came together,
Even though she was a Misses.
He knew he had to have her;
Her heart is as dark as his is.

The unsuspecting hubby,
The poor slob, Patrick O'Brien,
Was befriended by Jenkins,
But was clueless 'bout his lyin'.

Then Jenkins let the Misses
Put him on the spot.
He would be the killer
In her murder plot.

She wanted her hubby gone.
In reality she said,
"Pull your pistol, Lover,
And shoot that bastard dead."

So Jenkins drank his courage
And did the dirty deed.
But he was caught and hanged,
While Mrs. O'Brien was freed.

A Lawless Lawman: Jack Helm

Jack Helm was a racist S.O.B.
Who wore the grey and favored slavery.
He even did wrong
Over a Yankee song
That a black man whistled with bravery.

And when there was no Civil War,
You could find him with a star that he bore
In the great state of Texas
Where he hated the Mex's,
And everyone else that's for sure.

Helm got caught-up in the Sutton-Taylor feud;
The type of duty that befit his evil mood.
A prime instigator,
He was head regulator,
And the days he didn't kill he'd sulk and brood.

His body count raised his reputation.
The Governor even gave him a new station.
But when deeds come to light
Causing citizens fright,
He's sent back to DeWitt for the duration.

John Wesley Hardin was one of Helm's foes:
A kin to the Taylor's, or so the story goes.
Several times they met,
Their back-ups vented and wet,
Yet Hardin and Helm escaped the death throes.

But in eighteen-seventy-three, in the month of July,
The two evil rivals would have one more try.
Helm came from the rear,
Hardin turned with a sneer,
To blast Helm with buckshot: his day to die.

John X Beidler: voracious vigilante

Some say that German-born Beidler, John X,

would rather have a good fight than bad sex,

an' I suppose many men might say the same.

But his vigilante ways

in the wild west days

are the reason you an' I might know his name.

When the law was non-existent

Beidler was insistent,

an' never feared an outlaw face-ta'-face.

He'd take 'um one-by-one,

or with a group he'd share the fun,

an' never did he end up in disgrace.

He first plied this trade in Kansas

when cowboys over-stepped their chances:

they were boozin', breakin', an' shootin' up the town.

Their actions stuck in Beidler's craw,

who used a small Howitzer ta' draw,

an' turned every cowpoke smile into a frown.

It was loaded with printers type,

an' caused some media hype,

as he single-handedly sent them on the run.

The cowboys had fits,

fer' weeks they plucked out bits,

fer' gettin' out of hand with their fun.

From then on the high-brow ta' shanty

would be touched by the vigilante,

if any of them did what they shouldn't do.

To Montana he took his trade,

without a mask an' never afraid:

he dared outlaw's kin to come after him too.

But he never had no takers

from kith an' kin of law-breakers:

they all had heard tell of his reputation.

Beidler was squat an' he was mean,

with a walrus mustache an' a loyal team,

an' he kept his rifle closer than any female relation.

Some folks even said

he took the rifle ta' bed,

an' he knew how ta' shoot it...

of that there's no denyin'.

Beidler was a distractor

fer' the lesser criminal factor,

but desperadoes kept pushin'...

an' ended up dyin'.

When badmen stole hope,

an' good folks couldn't cope,

Beidler an' his crew would answer the call.

They never would mope,

they'd bring their own rope,

an' dish out some vigilante law.

But when a police force was hired

Beidler an' his crew retired,

they were happy ta' let progress have its day.

Yet they had done much

fer' towns in the clutch

 of badmen goin' further astray.

Sweet memory divine

of towin' the line,

an' never steppin' over the bounds.

Many criminals were pinched,

about half of them lynched:

sent down ta' be chased by hellhounds.

Malachi Allen: lost temper, lost arm, lost life

Have ya' heard of Malachi Allen?

He was just another foolish felon

who thought pure cussedness would serve him well.

He swore his life was goin' ta' Hades,

as a gunman in the eighteen-eighties,

but if it was... his choices paid the bill.

He quarreled with Cy an' Shadrach

over a saddle an' tack,

an' shot them both dead in the Chickasaw Nation.

It was the fifteenth of July

when he done in Shadrach an' Cy,

proven he cared not a wit fer' human relations.

A posse was assembled,

of his peers it did resemble,

an' Deputy Marshall McAlester led the way.

They cornered the desperado,

but peacefully he would not go,

so they fought a vicious gun battle that day.

Malachi came ta' harm

with a bullet in his arm,

he tried ta' fight but could not pull the trigger.

So he was apprehended,

his futile flight up-ended,

the posse saw the irony an' snickered.

To Fort Smith they all came,

where Isaac Parker gained fame,

as the judge who loved ta' hang 'um high.

Malachi's arm they did amputate,

another casualty of his hate,

but it did not stop his appointed day ta' die.

On the gallows he heard townfolk jest,

as they watched in their Sunday best,

cuz' a hangin' party was a big event.

Now too late ta' be undone,

the cruel acts he did fer' fun,

one final drop an' he would be Hell bent.

Erastus Yager: confession is good for the soul

Erastus Yager, aka Red,

earned his bounty with fear an' dread,

as an outlaw with the Sheriff Henry Plummer Gang.

They called themselves the Innocents,

though they'd never be mistaken fer' country gents,

cuz' they were meaner than a wounded polecat bearin' fangs.

They robbed the town of mucho money,

they killed fer' sport, an' thought it funny,

an' Yager figured he'd always have it made.

Yager wanted ta' live life large,

an' thought he could do it with Plummer in charge,

an' he'd do what he was told ta' make the grade.

He'd rob an' he'd steal,

an' shoot hot lead from cold steel,

as long as there was money fer' the takin'.

He even had no qualms

of takin' kids from moms,

if a ransom from the kin could be shaken.

But meanness trumps not intelligence,

which was lacking in most Innocents,

something Yager found out way too late.

Yager was sent with the dispatch

with the plans Plummer did hatch,

but vigilantes there did lay in wait.

In December they did hold him,

fer' his crimes they did scold him,

but they let him live while he squealed on others.

His meanness shrank away,

the coward squealed fer' days,

he blabbed non-stop about his outlaw brothers.

Fer' fear of the hangman's noose

Yager's tongue was really loose:

he spilled his guts in every conceivable way.

Twenty-six key members of the gang

were revealed when Yager sang,

an' vigilante justice was about ta' have its day.

The members fell one-by-one,

they danced in the air or dropped by the gun,

living large cost all of them their breath.

An' in Stinking Valley on January 4th,

in eighteen-sixty an' four,

Erastus Yager had his date with death.

I'm sure that Yager thought

with squealin' he had bought

his freedom from the hands of the vigilantes.

But the consequence of sin

had finally done him in,

an' he couldn't help but piss his man-size panties.

It's said, "confession is good for the soul,"

but the only ones that would know

find it hard ta' turn back an' tell.

Cuz' they're the good or bad,

the happy an' the sad,

who have already gone ta' heaven or hell.



The Blevins Brothers

In the eighteen-eighties

in the state of Arizona,

the Blevins brothers

earned their fifteen minutes of fame.

They were ranchers, yet rustlers,

horse-thieves, and hired-guns,

who, with cousins an' in-laws

did earn all their shame.

They lived lives of spite,

their actions were petty,

but crimes an' status increased

durin' the Graham-Tewksbury Feud.

The ranchers with cattle

hated ranchers with sheep,

so they took ta' name callin',

an' flat out actin' rude.

But names didn't phase 'um,

an' rude acts were shunned,

so they up an' took stock,

an' began ta' shoot guns.

The death toll was mountin'

since both sides had dug in,

an' the townfolk were frettin',

the merchants had the runs.

It was truly unpleasant

in Pleasant Valley those days,

when hogs, sheep, an' cows

weren't the only things slaughtered.

The feud was nourished

with hate an' with malice,

an' the land quenched its thirst;

with blood it was watered.

Now Andy an' John,

Hampton an' Charles,

were heavily involved,

unlike little brother Sam.

But the deeds they were doin'

came with costs ta' be paid,

an' Hampton paid first

durin' a lead-belly jam.

The shootout took place

on the Middleton ranch,

it was August the tenth,

eighteen-eighty an' seven.

Yet the sins were a mountin',

the collector would call,

in less than two months

there'd be little left of clan Blevins.

But first came a crime

so heinous in nature,

it is hard ta' believe

it was humans, not dogs.

When Andy led the raid,

killin' John Tewksbury an' Bill Jacobs,

he then kept Tewk's wife at bay,

an' fed the bodies ta' the hogs.

Two days later

Sheriff Perry Owens came callin'

at the Blevins ranch near Holbrook,

with a posse an' a warrant fer' Andy.

Owens was known

fer' unwavering honesty;

a crackerjack shot:

with both rifle an' six-gun he's handy.

He rode up ta' the house,

found Andy on the porch,

an' told him ta' give up,

he was under arrest.

Andy ran fer' the door,

an' fired a shot,

then Owens cut loose,

an' tore a hole in Andy's chest.

Andy reeled from the shot,

pitched backward an' then

lay dead in the arms

of his fear-sticken mother.

Owens leapt from the porch,

just as John fired a round,

so Owens fired again;

down went another Blevins brother.

Then quick as a wink

Owens turned an' flung lead,

right into Mose Roberts,

one shot ta' the head.

It made such a mess,

it splattered his brains;

this brother-in-law

was the second one dead.

A split-second more,

comin' out thru the door,

little Sam Houston,

with six-gun in hand.

But Owens cut loose,

four fer' four was his count,

as he sent the teen boy

to a spirit-filled land.

In a matter of seconds

three dead an' one wounded:

John was the only one

lucky enough ta' keep livin'.

Cuz' his last brother Charles,

bit the dust three weeks later,

in a gunfight with a lawman

who was better at givin'.

John learned from the lesson,

the close call he had,

he cleaned up his life

an' put on a star.

He would hunt down the villains

that lived as he had;

provin' some men do change,

an' become better by far.

William "Old Bill" Miner: the high life brought him low

William Miner from Jackson, Kentucky

got himself a taste of the high life.

An' from that point on nothin' else would do,

even when getting it caused him nothin' but strife.

While still in his teens he went west ta' California,

ta' be an Army messenger durin' the Apache Indian War.

But there was profits ta' be made,

as long as ya' thru ethics, morals, an' integrity out the door.

Like goin' ta' the folks in wartorn San Diego

an' deliverin' their mail at $25 bucks a letter.

But the war would end, an' he squandered his money,

an' sought another way ta' get back ta' livin' better.

In eighteen-sixty an' nine he held-up the Sonora Stage,

but all he got was two-hundred for the trouble.

But the posse got him quick, an' he stood trial,

an' they gave him fifteen-years; which popped his dream bubble.

He only did a dime of the time they did give him,

an' out he came with a bigger thirst than before.

An' legit wouldn't do, cuz' legit wouldn't pay,

he took up crime again an' sought another score.

Miner partnered with Bill LeRoy up in Colorado:

they held-up both stagecoaches an' trains.

One night the posse cornered them; Miner shot his way free,

he left three deputies in the dust, too bloody ta' hold the reins.

But LeRoy was nabbed, the posse was mad,

an' the law made sure he did hang.

Then Miner skedaddled, ta' Europe he went,

he became part of a slave trading gang.

The trade was a boomin', but it weren't his thing,

so he soon tried gunrunnin' fer' size.

But within a year he was back in the states,

he still sought the high life, with his eye on the prize.

He went back ta' the beginning, the Sonora Stage he took;

but this time three-thousand was the purse.

Then a bank in Illinois, another stage in Colorado,

his quest fer' the high life was officially his curse.

Now once more ta' California,

the Sonora Stage again;

but they caught him like the first time,

to San Quentin he did go.

He was suppose ta' do a quarter,

but they let him out in twenty,

believin' he was just too old an' slow.

He was now in his fifties, an' tried ta' go straight,

but two years of it was all that he could take.

So he robbed a train in Oregon,

then another north of the border,

in British Columbia he got himself ten grand.

It helped him pass as wealthy,

a retired rancher he would say,

but in just two years all that money left his hand.

So he robbed another train,

still up north in Canada,

but the Mounties pursued an' took him down.

He was sentenced ta' life in prison,

but only served a year before

he escaped by tunneling underground.

With Mounties an' Pinkertons after him now,

he found himself hunted on both sides of the border.

They figured Old Bill an' his addiction ta' high life

was tarnishing the rep of law an' order.

He stayed on the run fer' several years,

it helped ta' take a bank fer' twelve grand.

But two years later while robbin' a train, they claim

 he could barely hold the six-gun steady in his hand.

Yep, that was the last, they ran him ta' ground,

they found him camped out in the hills.

He was sixty-two at his last arrest;

there would be no more high life an' thrills.

"I'm really getting too old for this sort of thing,"

Miner told a lawman at the pinch.

Old Bill robbed like a rascal,

an' spent like a king,

but don't be fooled into thinkin' it's a cinch.

He spent over half of his life behind bars,

an' at sixty-six he died in the pen.

Instead of the high life, a good life is best,

with no obligation ta' answer fer' sin.

John McCall: little coward, big mouth

John McCall never accomplished much

he couldn't even hunt buffalo alone;

his worth was less than a shattered gem.

Ever wonder where a coward came from?

Well, this one came from Kentucky,

though Kentucky probably wishes it could disown him.

The only thing he's known for

is one of the most despicable acts of the old west:

the cowardly backshootin' of Wild Bill Hickok,

puttin' Hickok's seatin' fears ta' the test.

He then ran like a rabbit chased by the fox,

they found him cringing in the barber shop.

They clapped him in irons an' took him ta' jail,

but Deadwood justice turned out ta' be a flop.

McCall piled lie upon lie, an' judge an' jury bought it,

not one smart enough ta' investigate.

On the day Hickok was buried McCall was acquitted,

not one lie did he have ta' corroborate.

Scared fer' his life, fearin' Hickok's friends,

McCall hopped in the saddle an' fled.

Off ta' Cheyenne an' Laramie, ta' bask in his freedom,

an' drink away the guilt, fear, an' dread.

But men with little deeds need ta' talk big,

an' whiskey helps loosen the lips.

Then a deputy marshall overheard the boast,

an' clamped the "little-big man" in irons again.

An' the Deadwood verdict was dismissed,

cuz' justice was waitin' fer' him in Yankton.

McCall had talked himself right out of his lies,

he left himself without a defense.

Which made it easy fer' this jury ta' see

it was McCall who initiated the offense.

"Guilty you were, an' guilty you are,

an' guilty you always will be."

Then McCall appealed ta' President Grant,

"Please pardon an' set me free."

The President said, "I will not intervene...

You made yer' bed...

It's time you laid in it an' slept."

So with the appeal denied, an' hanging date set,

McCall uncontrollably wept.

Eighteen-seventy an' seven, the day was March 1st,

McCall to the gallows did go.

He cried an' he quaked, trembled an' begged,

he showed all his cowardly soul.

He then shouted, "Oh, God!" as the trap was released,

an' before God he would surely then stand.

Where he'd try once more ta' lie his way free,

it's the mark of his cowardly brand.

But God is not mocked, McCall is then shocked,

eternity is the price of the bill.

His cowardly act of killing Hickok

bought him his ticket ta' hell.

Another Sheriff vs. Deputy Dispute

Down in Arizona lived a man named Peter Gabriel,

who chose one day ta' accept the wearin' of a star.

It was back in the eighteen-eighties,

in a place called Pima County.

Though some were against it, others were not,

an' thought the badge might take him quite far.

But as it turned out some things were askew,

involving one of his deputies, Joe Phy.

His conduct was unbecoming an' his record rather poor,

an' his guilt was such a burden he couldn't look ya' in the eye.

Then fer' bein' drunk an' disorderly

Gabriel gave Phy the boot.

An' followed that by arrestin' the ex-deputy

in Casa Grande fer' assault: he was bein' a brute.

Yet with the townsfolk torn between loyalties

they simply added fuel ta' the fire.

So Phy was cut loose, then made a bid fer' election;

ta' take Gabriel's star was his only desire.

Five years of feudin' an' Phy failed again,

it seemed Lady Luck bid adieu.

So Phy figured he'd make his own luck now,

an' guarantee that Gabriel was thru.

It started with drinkin' ta' get up the nerve,

then he sought his arch enemy out.

In the town of Florence, the day was May 3rd,

he found him at a bar an' gave out a shout.

"Come face me now, if ya' got the nerve.

Yer' day of comeuppance is here."

Inside the saloon the sheriff stayed calm

as he gulped down the rest of his beer.

He then stepped thru the door, an' into the street,

an' the two commenced ta' throw lead.

Eleven shots fired between the two,

but only one ended up dead.

Gabriel took one ta' the chest an' one ta' the groin,

quite painful, but still he did live.

Yet he put several shots into Phy

who died like a bloody sieve.

When Gabriel recovered they put him on trial,

an' found it was pure self-defense.

Phy pushed fer' the play, he sought only revenge,

but was given his own death sentence.

No tears were shed fer' the ex-deputy,

he died like he lived, just a fool.

On the other hand though, Gabriel carried on many years

with the badge and the gun as his tools.