The Two-Fisted Marshal: Thomas "Bear River" Smith

As a cop in New York on a tough Bowery beat,
Thomas "Bear River" Smith learned to never retreat.
He headed out West before
The tragic Civil War:
At first hauling freight before cleaning the street.

He took to cleaning when they gave him a star.
It weren't always easy, not easy by far.
In one vigilante rattle,
Fourteen died in the battle,
And it caused Smith to carry a deep unseen scar.

He still carried his pistol, but more often used skin.
He was a bare knuckle brawler with a sure knack to win.
From Bear River to Kit Carson,
And to Abilene like a parson,
He fought to keep peace when he brought outlaws in.

A brother lawman asked Smith to bring in two prey.
He took after Andrew McConnell and Moses Miles right away.
But Smith was waylaid,
And ax-chopped with a blade.
A sad tragic end to his legacy that day.

Hard Headed or Brainless: Outlaw Marvin Kuhms

"J.W. Wilson," the alias of Marvin Kuhms
Was most likely born under a whiskey moon.
Bank robber and thief,
Ten years spreading grief,
With the big bully style of a modern-day goon.

Instead of caressing curvaceous buns,
Kuhms was known to sleep with two guns.
So the posse he'd meet
Came in with stocking feet
And surprised him like a bad case of the runs.

Marshall Laird told him not to draw,
And waved his six-shooter close to Kuhms jaw.
But the ornery cuss
Did what he must,
Only to be shot in the head by the law.

Somehow Kuhms survived his foolish attempt,
And was sent to the pen with indignant contempt.
So when Kuhms made parole
He again chose to go
And steal for himself the life that he dreamt.

He figured he'd have to put in some hustle
To make up lost time, so he started to rustle.
But another brain fart
Doomed his plan from the start:
A farmer shot him dead when fearing a tussle.

Lincoln County War Survivor: Jim French

Jim French took part in the Lincoln County War.
From regulator to outlaw to settle a score.
Thought he flipped his lid
After joining Billy the Kid,
And nearly dying at McSween's general store.

French was there when Brady raved and cussed,
Just before he and Hindman bit the dust.
But the McSween episode
Turned his blood ice cold,
So he headed for "obscurity or bust."

Cyrus Skinner: He lived cruel, he died a coward

Have ya' heard tell of Cyrus Skinner?

He was a loser,

not a winner,

though he did have his way a time or two.

With swinging double-doors,

an' sawdust on the floors,

whiskey flowing freely,

an' fantan tables too,

Skinner was a proprietor

of a couple unlucky saloons:

unlucky for patrons that is.

For most customers

the whiskey was watered,

the fantan was rigged,

an' the poker decks were marked.

The saloon girls were dirty,

the barkeep was squirrely,

an' they all looked for purses ta' pinch.

They'd take paper money,

they'd crave silver coins,

they'd sweep up the gold dust,

an' palming nuggets was a cinch.

Skinner's business sense was fair,

though in practice

not fair at all.

His tarnished rep began ta' grow

an' a certain someone came ta' call.

Sheriff Henry Plummer,

whose star was just as tarnished

as Skinner's reputation,

said, "Come out ta' Bannack,

a town in Montana,

where you will serve more than libation."

He'd serve ta' spy

on the drunk an' the high,

the miners who had information.

With whispers or shouts

they'd give up the routes,

as long as the alcohol flowed.

When there were shipments in wagons,

or stagecoach strong-boxes,

the Plummer's gang always showed.

Plummer mocked the law

by wearing a star,

an' he called his gang Innocents.

Skinner was cut from the very same cloth,

he cared not a hoot nor a holler.

He would never repent

or give recompense,

his only care was to steal his next dollar.

Skinner rarely rode with the outlaw band,

cuz' he was the inside man.

The info was key

so he had ta' stay free,

but sometimes the word came too late.

One day came the call

for a really big haul,

an' Skinner took it as fate.

He enlisted Bob Zachery,

another bad hombre,

the two of them held-up the stage.

They came down with gold fever,

they murdered the driver,

an' the townfolk heated with rage.

Two-hundred an' fifty-thousand in gold!

Neither had seen so much loot.

They were tempted ta' hide it,

an' tempted ta' run,

but they chose not ta' feel Plummer's boot.

The gang did divide it,

then kept stealin' more,

they felt unstoppable

with the "law" on their side.

Their acts became bolder,

their attitudes meaner,

killin' with sick twisted pride.

Skinner was there when a Bannack was killed,

his pal took him down in cold blood.

Then Skinner skinned the scalp off the redman

ta' place within his bar.

He didn't even clean off the crude.

But the Plummer gang had run its course,

their cruelty fueled a fire.

Vigilantes ran them down:

justice was their desire.

Plummer was caught,

then he was lynched

on the tenth of January,

in eighteen and sixty-four.

The gang tried ta' run,

but was caught one-by-one,

an' the citizens swore

this was the end.

Skinner believed there was no evidence

that linked him to the Innocents,

so he brazenly stayed at the bar.

But when men are about

ta' have their necks stretched

they'd even sell out their mothers.

Skinner's name

was attached ta' much blame,

thanks ta' his outlaw "brothers."

He was given a gift

on the twenty-fifth,

a necktie made out of hemp.

He broke free an' did run,

he begged, "Please shoot me with yer' gun."

He cringed in fear of the noose.

His captors said, "No.

You chose this show.

Your cruelty cooked yer' own goose."

Jim and John Reynolds: Good men to Bad men

If ya' push men far enough,

they just might break.

Arrest good men on false charges,

they just might take.

Jim and John Reynolds

from down Texas way,

traveled North ta' Colorado,

near Bayou Salado,

'bout eighteen-sixty an' three.

They were a dandy pair,

had money ta' spare,

yet no visible means of support.

Of course, that's what the townsfolk say.

There weren't a speck of evidence

ta' prove the claim, "they're highwaymen."

But they did -- apparently --

commit the crime of coming from Texas.

Lone Star boys

with Confederate noise

found themselves interred

in this Northern Territory.

Shipped away ta' Denver

as Southern sympathizers,

their money taken by the town collaborators,

or "justified" legalizers.

The brothers hated lock-up,

so bust out they did...

and skedaddled.

Back home ta' the Lone Star.

They weren't Confederate,

but now they are:

signed on as irregulars.

The Colorado Yankees

with their legal hanky-panky

had no notion

that they're about ta' get the spurs.

Like burrs beneath a saddle,

or snakes that slither and rattle,

the Reynolds Brothers recruited a gang.

Well, back North they did ride.

They did plan ta' hit and hide.

Their first hit took down

forty-thousand in gold.

The brother's claimed it for Jeff Davis:

the South needed the loot.

But a dozen members of the gang

chose dollars over loyalty:

took a share and did scoot.

Legend has it,

the brother's buried the rest.

And they would add

a lot more to the cache.

Hatred hollowed out their hearts

over the way they were mistreated.

A string of robberies followed,

it eased their pain a pinch...

like another pinch of gold dust --

ten thousand dollars worth.

But like any other gamble

luck would run its course,

and cards were dealt

that turned a losing hand.

In the Spring of sixty-four

one member was no more:

sent before his Maker with hot lead.

Jake Stowe and Brother John

still free ta' mosey on.

Yet Brother Jim

and four more men

were caught,

convicted,

and sentenced ta' life.

Some Yankees felt justice was ill-served.

They felt that Johnny Rebs

should rate a rope.

Colonel John Chivington,

of the 3rd Colorado Cavalry,

stepped in

an' gave Southern haters hope.

He convened a second (secret) trial

that lasted just a little while

an' off ta' Ft. Leavenworth he sent the five.

The chosen troops

or guardians

came right back in a few days...

on a trip that should have lasted weeks.

Captain Cree and his troops

said the Rebs did try escaping.

They shot them down when they were on the run.

But their story had some holes,

some rather gaping,

the famous scout Dick Wooten

found the prisoners were killed for fun.

The cons were lashed ta' trees,

near a ghost town,

Russelville.

The bodies were shot ta' hell,

laden down with lead.

The order came from Chivington,

but the people had their doubts.

A fine upstanding officer,

even a Methodist minister.

"No," they said,

"He's not a man ta' fear."

But three months later

Chivington was responsible

for the infamous Sand Creek Massacre --

which changed the minds of many

over the earlier affair.

Although,

still,

nothing was done.

Brother John stayed away

for seven long years.

He came back North

for the cash that he did stash.

But he tried ta' make another killing,

a few more robberies ta' be filling

his coffers up as high as they would go.

Til bullets finally found him,

he went like Brother Jim:

down ta' Hell ta' be reunited.

But they say as John lay dying

he told a drunk a secret:

he told him where ta' seek to an' fro.

But the piss-poor outlaw,

a fellow named Brown,

drank away his memory.

He never found the cache,

an' the legend was bound ta' grow.

So if ya' crave an' adventure,

an' ya' want ta' find some gold,

cruise up ta' Handcart Gulch an' Spanish Peaks.

There's a hefty treasure waiting,

though it might cost ya' yer' soul --

like it cost the Reynolds Gang,

an' those damned Yankees, don't ya' know.