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."

Alferd Packer: Guide from Hell

Alferd Packer, aka Alfred,

alias John Schwartze,

earned his claim ta' infamy

as a mountain guide ta' greenhorns.

Born in Colorado,

with only a smidge of education,

he grew up rude an' crude,

an' all humanity he did scorn.

At first he tried prospectin',

he survived by eatin' game,

but skills fer' findin' precious metal

had never lived within his brain.

He was good at drinkin' courage,

he could talk down tenderfeet,

but when push came ta' shove

he would crack under the strain.

In the early eighteen-seventies,

a miner struck it rich,

which brought a heap a' dreamers

ta' the mountains of Utah.

Yet most who came ta' prospect

were as poor as Packer at it,

they all dreamed of bein' Big Chiefs,

but they labored like a squaw.

In the Fall of seventy-three

Packer changed his way of thinkin',

instead of scratchin' dirt

he would snatch from those who would.

He conned nineteen Eastern lillies

into acceptin' him as guide,

an' they set out in a Winter,

at a time when no one should.

It was record breakin' cold,

an' the game it went ta' ground,

so all these would-be miners had

was carried on their backs.

The days turned into weeks,

an' the weeks they took their toll,

an' Packer could not perform

like the lies he told in shacks.

When the food ran out the party barked,

an' Packer acted squirrely;

he was lost, an' he knew it,

but he wanted his commission.

A stroke of luck while trekking long,

to a friendly tribe they came;

so with a full belly Packer thought

he'd go back ta' his ambition.

Chief Ouray, with wisdom wrought

from survivin' many winters,

told the men ta' turn back now,

or you'll not survive til Spring.

The prospectin' party had a parlay,

an' ten did see the wisdom;

what good is silver, or of gold,

if ta' life they couldn't cling?

A loud-mouthed braggert, Packer was,

he mocked the ten fer' quittin',

but all he really cared about

was the money he would lose.

Salt Lake City was not an option,

Packer knew he could not go back;

back there his debts were high an' wide,

an' this grubstake was all he could use.

So off they tredged within the storm,

ta' find within a few weeks,

the very same dire consequence

that had made them desparate before.

Then bickerin' became the norm,

the party it split again,

to the Los Pinos Indian Agency:

the number ta' go would be four.

The weather was bad,

the directions not good,

only two men ended up where they should:

an' that's after days in the blizzard.

They were gaunt, they were stringy,

they looked like Death come a walkin',

an' both were so hungry

 they'd be happy ta' eat a lizzard.

Though as bad as it was

it coulda' been worse,

they coulda' remained with Packer,

like Swan, Humphreys, Noon, Miller, an' Bell.

Off in the frozen beyond,

in an' abandoned trapper's cabin,

they ate their last meal

an' laid down ta' fight the chill.

From nineteen men ta' five,

Packer saw his profit dwindlin',

so he swore it was the end,

an' took action ta' see it thru.

Single-shots ta' the heads

of all but Miller,

who awoke from the sounds

an' arose fer' a fight.

But alas, he was weak

an' disoriented,

an' Packer caved in his skull:

a ghastly sight.

Then thru the pockets

an' packs he did go,

no food did they have,

just thousands in cash.

Yet that wouldn't do,

he quickly surmised,

an' the obvious

came in a flash.

With knife in hand

he cut an' he sliced,

an' filled his pack

with meat from the men.

A matter of taste,

man breast was his liking;

he judged it quite good,

as he swallowed his sin.

Though at civilization's door

he would toss the remainder away,

an' play the last survivor role

fer' at least a country minute.

He then spent freely

from what he stole,

an' the wise began ta' wonder,

an' Packer knew he stuck his foot in it.

But the biggest 'damn' was yet ta' come,

injuns found them on the way in:

the human jerky he tossed away

this time came ta' bite him.

The jig was up,

his lies unfold,

he would show the law

where the story turned grim.

Yet even then he tried ta' lie,

ta' claim it self-defense;

but with four in bed, with shots ta' head,

it easily broke that spell.

We'll take ya' back an' do it right

the law dogs quoted sternly,

but these five souls will never rest

til yer' shit deep in 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.

Clelland Miller: Misplaced Hero Worship

Missouri born Clelland Miller

was raised in the vicinity

of the notable homestead of Jesse James.

An' like most folks in that territory

he nurtured a hero-worship

for the brothers with the famous names.

He knew of their deeds within the war,

an' revelled in their doings thereafter;

he could pert near quote them chapter an' verse.

But like all who worship the infamous,

an' try their best ta' follow suit,

there's only one outcome when ya' bed the curse.

It took awhile ta' get noticed,

ta' get the nod from Jesse James,

an' become a member of his crew.

He studied the trade,

an' practiced his skills,

an' learned ta' draw fast when he drew.

It's reckoned he went

along with the James boys

ta' a house where a Pinkerton stayed.

The agent was gone,

but the owner emerged,

an' three shots cut him down like a blade.

Mrs. Daniel Askew

alighted the house,

then gazed at the sight, horrified.

She went ta' her hubby,

she tried what she could,

then watched in vain as he died.

When asked who had done it,

she called out three names,

"It was Frank, and Jesse, and Clell."

But they said there was not

enough evidence,

"It was dark, so how could you tell?"

Yet Miller's outlaw days were numbered,

his luck was running out,

though he didn't know it til it actually came.

It occurred September seventh,

eighteen-seventy an' six,

an' Northfield was the name.

Two James boys,

three Younger brothers,

plus Miller, Pitts, an' Chadwell,

all entered the town,

went straight ta' the bank,

until their plan went all ta' hell.

There were three in the bank,

two guarding the door,

an' three at the end of the street.

One teller did con them,

they bought it, then killed him,

when all hell broke loose an' they beat a retreat.

Miller took the next hit,

a shotgun blast ta' the face,

so he blindly fired an' killed an unarmed man.

Then a medical student

repeatedly fired,

ending Miller's days with the outlaw clan.

He died in the dirt,

a broken bloody pulp,

never knowin' the outcome of the raid.

Both Chadwell an' Pitts

would join him in hell,

on account of mistakes that were made.

And all three Younger brothers,

shot up, but survived,

were sent ta' the pen fer' life.

Only the James boys

escaped without wounds,

though their futures were now endless strife.

If ya' could ask

 Clell Miller today,

would ya' still worship Jesse the same?

He'd probably contend

a two-party blend,

both Jesse an' he were ta' blame.

So learn from his life,

an' don't pay the price,

the toll on that road is not cheap.

You'll think ya' can win,

but you'll lose in the end,

when the Reaper is called out ta' reap. 

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.

John "Liver-Eating" Johnson: Crow-Killer

After the trek from Missouri ta' Montana,

John Johnson made a name fer' himself

as both sheriff an' mountain man.

He took ta' the hills an' set his traps;

beaver, deer, bear, an' buffalo,

all sayin' "Catch me if ya' can."

He loved the life,

even took an injun' wife,

who bore him a healthy child.

But while Johnson was away from home

a band of Crow came callin',

an' did things that would make him riled.

They didn't just take what they wanted,

they killed what was left in the end.

So when Johnson came back,

an' saw the aftermath of the attack,

he emotionally went over the bend.

He stayed there alone,

warmed by the hate

that countered the cold of his heart.

His private war had begun,

an' many would fall,

the Crow would pay dearly for their part.

Whenever a Crow came into his sight

it was like steppin' into a killin' zone.

Whether man-ta'-man,

or even outnumbered,

Johnson's skill fer' killin' had been honed.

With rifle or knife,

hatchet or rock,

anything at all could be used.

He would never see a human

when he looked at a Crow,

on account of how his wife had been abused.

He saw only animals,

an' animals were his trade;

ta' be caught, ta' be killed, ta' be eaten.

He even acquired the strange moniker

of "Liver-Eating Johnson"

after a witness saw him kill 'um, cut 'um,

an' then sink his teeth in.

Score upon score of Crow bit the dust,

for ten years his hate found its foe.

Then down from the mountain

ta' carry a star,

Johnson did finally go.

He put on the badge in Coulson, Montana,

an' he ruled with a rifle an' fist.

He never did carry a six-gun,

an' never started a "Dead Man's" list.

With his mountain exploits

an' peculiar peacekeeping,

even Buffalo Bill tried ta' hire him fer' shows.

But Johnson had tired of civilized life,

an' took off ta' where nobody knows.

He had no need fer' fame,

but his legend still grew,

even faster after he up an' disappeared.

"What a crock," he must think,

 of his legend nowadays,

it would be funny if he suddenly appeared.

His name has been changed,

an' facts rearranged,

all fer' the sake of a film.

Just remember what he ate,

after he began ta' hate,

an' he stuck in his knife ta' the helm.

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.

Frazer - Miller Feud: star vs. star

George "Bud" Frazer was born in eighteen-sixty an' four.

He grew up in Texas as the son of a judge.

He learned many lessons from his pa,

an' where he stood on the law he wouldn't budge.

At the age of sixteen he already knew his path,

so he joined the elite Texas Rangers.

He was strong-willed, an' wirey, an' skilled fer' the trade.

Plus fearless enough fer' the dangers.

He caught rustlers, an' bandits, an' horse thieves, and such.

Even some murderers too.

But after ten years of trackin' down scum

he told the top dogs he was thru.

In eighteen an' ninety, down in Reeves County,

he got himself duly elected.

As keeper of peace, with a sheriff's tin star,

makin' criminals feel mighty rejected.

Yet what a shock fer' the rest of the town

when he locked up his own deputy.

His name was Jim Miller, he stole an' he killed,

but the townsfolk let him go free.

It wasn't the first, nor would be the last,

that Miller had scrapes with the law.

Though most folks were honest, there are others who ain't,

an' the system still had its flaw.

Miller bid fer' the star in the next election

but Frazer won out once again.

So Miller popped over ta' Pecos

where they were happy ta' let him wear tin.

The two kept the feud goin' on account of positions,

the law would just have ta' fight law.

Especially when one was a "gun-for-hire" killer,

to Frazer that was the last straw.

The next time they met bullets went flying

an' Frazer emptied his gun.

Pert near every shot hit Miller's body,

so, of course, Frazer thought it was done.

But Miller was wearin' a breast plate of steel,

so four of the bullets bounced clear.

An' of his own shots, only one hit,

an innocent victim standing near.

They both lost their stars during the time of this feud,

although fer' different reasons.

But the feud it kept goin' fer' no other cause

than hate can transcend all seasons.

The next shootin' match, eight months from the first,

turned out pert near the same.

Two bullets in Miller, Frazer unscathed,

but Frazer, this time, caught the blame.

They put him in jail, an' gave him a trial,

then acquitted him of every deed.

Yet when Miller recovered he swore out revenge,

especially once Frazer was freed.

Miller had lost both face-ta'-face duels,

he vowed he would not lose a third.

He'd catch Frazer off guard, like a cow on the range

peacefully strollin' with the herd.

He watched an' waited til the time was right,

then found Frazer at the poker table.

Where one shotgun blast ta' Frazer's face

put an end ta' this feuding fable.

Dick Fellows: Robber with no Horse-sense

They say "there's no accountin' fer' taste."

Perhaps it's the same fer' brains.

Like choosin' a horse bearin' criminal path

while unable ta' control the reigns.

Dick Fellows was just such a fool,

though others would claim he was wiley.

Yet the mistakes he had made were of such a low grade

he would admit them quite rare, an' then only shyly.

Assault an' a robbery had bought him some time,

an' the place he was sent was San Quentin.

Though the time that he got was cut rather short

on account of the faith he was hintin'.

He acted quiet pious, an' bowed ta' his knees,

then quoted a verse here an' there.

A jailhouse conversion of the first magnitude,

with a personal testimony ta' share.

Well, Governor Booth got wind of the change,

"let's cut that poor Fellows some slack."

So they unlocked the shackles an' set Fellows free,

but the guards, they knew he'd be back.

He weren't much of a worker, but wished ta' be rich,

so to crime once more he did turn.

Yet ta' rob a stagecoach he needed a horse,

but horses caused his innards ta' churn.

Fellows went ta' the livery ta' rent a cayuse,

then sought a Wells Fargo stage he did fancy.

But on the way ta' the hold-up, the ridden got wind of the rider,

an' the spirited horse became antsy.

It bucked an' it reared an' thru Fellows down,

then ran off back ta' the livery.

The timing now off, the first got away,

he switched targets fer' the second delivery.

The Bakersfield stage he got ta' hold-up,

then realized he forgot vital tools.

He could not break the locks so he carried the box.

How foolish ta' forget all the rules.

The second horse then took off like the first,

leavin' Fellows ta' hump his own load.

But he'd gone this far, so carry he would,

just hopin' he'd got him some gold.

So he shouldered the box, an' walked in the dark,

then took a near twenty foot fall.

Down the number five tunnel of the Southern Pacific,

where he broke his leg an' wanted ta' bawl.

He drug himself ta' a Chinaman's tent,

an' he found an axe ta' steal.

Made himself a crutch, then chopped open the box,

"Eighteen-hundred, my God, what a deal!"

He then limped along ta' the Fountain Ranch,

where he stole himself a new horse.

Then made his way ta' an abandoned shack,

where he was arrested by detectives, of course.

Fer' the crime he committed the verdict came down,

eight long years he must do.

Though the very next day Fellows could not be found,

a tunnel in the floor he went thru.

He stole one more horse, but had similar luck,

the law caught him before he could run.

Shipped him straight ta' San Quentin, the guards had been right,

he was back there under the gun.

He was freed in five years, instead of the eight,

but quickly forewent honest means.

So he held-up a stage an' got clean away,

but with only ten dollars in his jeans.

Well, he tried it again, but it was worse than before,

the cash box contained a mere letter.

Then the third attempt, after waitin' some time,

had a similar outcome, not better.

Less then a year from the time of his release

back behind bars he did go.

He was sentenced ta' life, at Folsom this time,

yet he escaped once more, don't ya' know.

Though he hadn't learned nothin' in all his attempts,

as he mounted an' grabbed up the reigns.

The horse bucked him off, the lawmen did scoff,

cuz' once more the horse showed all the brains.

Johnny Ringo: Nothing like the legend

We buy fiction over fact,

not just the American way, but a human trait.

Do we think all tales are benign

an' less interesting if we tell them straight?

"Johnny Ringo"

the name befits the legend told.

Chosen instead of his real name,

he was known to his kin as John Ringgold.

So many have claimed

he was the fastest gun of them all.

But when compared ta' facts

none of the claims ever stand tall.

It's assumed he was born in Missouri,

since it's known that's where he attended school.

He could read, write, an' do figures,

which is far more than most gunmen could do.

He even loved ta' quote Shakespeare,

which is quite rare as outlaws go.

So ignorance was not ta' blame

fer' how his life sank so low.

Yet somehow he never learned honor,

he would play both sides of the law.

While wearin' a star, he'd still rustle cattle.

Can anyone claim that's not a flaw?

But his tin time was brief,

it obviously cramped his style.

Cuz' outlaws are the same everywhere,

they lack what it takes ta' go the extra mile.

They want easy pickin's, they don't want ta' work,

an' they'd rather get drunk an' get rowdy.

Pert' near every shot that Ringo did fire

came after his brain was quite cloudy.

Like the bloke with the joke

at the expense of a filly passin' by,

who Ringo pistol-whipped,

than shot in the neck, an' left him ta' die.

We also know of his time with the Clanton's an' McLowery's

durin' the time he was in Tombstone.

Though even then when he used his guns

he rarely acted alone.

It's believed he was one of four men who

bushwacked Virgil Earp, an' perhaps Morgan, his brother.

An' why the famed Wyatt Earp

sought revenge on Ringo, fer' one or the other.

Though history's not clear on the actual demise

of the not-so-infamous Johnny Ringo,

cuz' two others lay claim to what Earp professed,

bringin' down the outlaw with no soul.

Ringo's body was found in Turkey Creek Canyon

in eighteen-eighty an' two.

His scalp was removed, but not by an injun'

which adds ta' the mystery too.

One bit of truth, when Ringo still lived,

that proves he was less of a man,

was the day of his arrest with John Wesley Hardin,

when shock an' fear kept a gun from his hand.

One gimpy ol' Ranger, "McNelly's Bulldog,"

John Armstrong's the title he bore,

held back deputies as he went ahead

ta' take down the outlaw he swore.

The prize was Hardin, but he wasn't alone,

four others around him did sit.

Mannen Clements, Bill Taylor, Jim Mann, an' then Ringo,

all were suppose ta' have grit.

Yet when the proceedings commenced

Hardin jumped first, followed quickly by young Jim Mann.

But Hardin was cold-cocked, an' Mann was shot dead,

while Ringo an' the others just sat on their cans.

Yes, Ringo did nothin', fearstruck it would seem,

he never made a move ta' draw steel.

Yep, this is the true man of legend,

how strange is the American ideal.

Take away the dark nights, an' the backshot advantage,

then pour out the whiskey he drank.

All you'd have left is a boy with a toy,

with no whiskey nerve his quick draw's a blank.

Thomas Hodges (aka Tom Bell): Sawbones to thief

Thomas Hodges was Alabama-born,

though raised in Rome, Tennessee.

His family was rather affluent,

so he was given an' education most folks would envy.

He even mastered medicine,

an' became a surgical Doc,

who went off ta' war ta' do his skillful chore

inspite of the shock.

He had the smarts an' he had the means

ta' take on this challenging career.

But he also had a since of duty,

that's why he joined the Tennessee Volunteers.

He served under Colonel Cheatham,

in the Mexican-American War.

He had ta' hear, an' see, an' do

what you an' I would surely deplore.

Perhaps he heard, an' saw, an' did too much

in that place where death increases ten-fold.

Cuz' upon his discharge he put away his scalpel,

tried ta' make it in California mining fer' gold.

But he was a doctor not a miner,

an' the gold was not his ta' be had.

Sadly, an' empty wallet an' belly

can often turn men bad.

He had the smarts but not the heart

at the start of his criminal charade.

So he quickly got caught an' sent ta' Angel Island

where he learned a lot more of the trade.

Alcatraz, part of Angel Island,

was run by the military back then.

An' when Bell served out his year

he became acquainted with several nefarious men.

These men would help him find others

after their scheduled release.

They would join as a band of outlaws

seekin' valuables ripe ta' be fleeced.

There was English Bob an' Monte Jack,

an' Juan Fernandez, the Mexican killer-thief.

Plus Bill Gristy, Ned Connor, an' of course Jim Smith,

who tattooed his body ta' get relief.

They began their criminal enterprise

in the same locale that Joaquin Murieta had rode.

But they kept ta' the stages an' wagons

since both were easy ta' catch an' unload.

Though unlike Murieta,

who seemed ta' take pleasure in dealin' out pain.

Bein' a "gentleman bandit"

would be Bell's criminal claim ta' fame.

He'd toss victims some coins

ta' get them a drink,

or leave some loosely tied-up

so they could get free in a wink.

A person might argue

Bell wanted ta' be caught.

Stop him from doin' the deeds

which he knew he really should not.

Why else would an educated man

do somethin' so obviously unwise

as to commit dozens of crimes

without even a simple disguise?

He was always identified as a man

with a flat nose an' over six feet,

with blue eyes an' sand hair,

a mustache, an' goatee.

His crew even unwittingly helped the law

by braggin' Tom Bell is our boss.

So give us yer' cash an' all that has worth,

ya' see, our gain is yer' loss.

Bell bribed a few squealers

ta' find out when pickin's were good.

Including his gal pal,

hotel owner, Elizabeth Hood.

The information was legit,

which meant the more cash they did count.

But with bigger rewards

the risks likewise did mount.

An' Bell had held off any bloodshed

as long as he could.

He even convinced a Wells Fargo guard

from ending up in a box of pine wood.

Though the bandits were rich

they were hunted like game.

"Let's take one last big haul

than forego all this fame."

They heard of a chance

fer' six-figures in gold.

It just required the right timing,

an' hearts that were bold.

Rideout, the owner,

would ride point ta' protect his loot.

Bell wanted the element of surprise

so they would not have ta' shoot.

They even had one

of their own men on the stage;

disguised as a miner,

as they rode through the sage.

It was at the California House

that this mole exited the rig

ta' signal Bell an' the others

that the gold was on board, so do the gig.

Back out on the trip

along the wild country road,

the gang rode up ta' the stage,

intent on stealin' the load.

But the driver John Greer

didn't stop, he went faster.

An' the "lesser of evils"

soon became a disaster.

Bill Dobson rode shotgun,

an' he used one quite well.

He killed Juan Fernandez,

then wounded Tom Bell.

No gold was lost an' they made it ta' town,

but the townfolk were soon in a rage.

Cuz' two men were wounded,

an' the barber's wife died on that stage.

When the posse came back empty,

Bell's ego got the best of the man.

Instead of leavin' like they should,

he mocked the law, sayin' "Catch me if you can."

So rewards were quickly posted

 an' they were caught one by one.

The first would squeal on the next,

there was no real honor among these sons of a gun.

It was Gristy who ratted out Bell,

he's at Firebaugh Ferry near the San Joaquin.

An' it was thereabouts they got him,

caught on the trail by a posse he hadn't seen.

The posse that got Bell

was in fact led by a judge.

But when it came ta' the law

this judge was willin' ta' fudge.

The possemen veered off

the upstandin' an' honorable road.

They became vigilantees

an' were willin' ta' bear the guilt load.

Yet Bell did not quiver,

nor shiver, or shake.

It had all been his choice,

so the punishment he'd take.

The posse admired Bell's grit

an' granted him a bit more time

ta' write "Good-bye" ta' his ma,

an' Mrs. Hood, who had helped him in crime.

They even offered Bell a last shot of whiskey,

an' he thanked them like friends.

Then they let him pray,

ta' make personal amends.

Then over the head

the rope he did take.

The horse was slapped once,

Bell fell, an' his neck it did break.

The heroic war doctor who had become a thief

could forget all his sins an' now rest in peace.