Beckwith Brothers: wearing tarnished tin

When yer' star doesn't shine

very few will pay you any mind.

Just ask John an' Robert Beckwith,

real brothers, an' brothers in law... the tarnished kind.

Ya' see, they were part of the Murphy-Dolan crowd,

who battled the McSween Regulators in the Lincoln County War.

In fact, both brothers took part in stoppin' an' killin' John Tunstall,

an action any reasonable person would abhor.

That was the action that kicked off the war

an' the bloodbath that followed.

Though there was equal callousness on both sides:

the souls of the combatants had hollowed.

John barely made it passed six months

from that infamous day

before he too felt the sting of hot lead.

Though not from the war,

he surprised John Jones rustlin' his herd,

an' when they both drew, Jones shot him dead.

Yet brother Bob had even gone quicker,

just shy of turning twenty.

The day Billy the Kid an' his crew were hold up in McSween's store

as the bullets were flyin' a' plenty.

In a foolish show of bravado Bob stood in clear sight,

walked ta' the store an' tried ta' arrest them alone.

He died in a hail of gunfire with a shot ta' the eye,

as the Bonney crew charged forth

over his corpse that lay prone.

Though McSween bit the dust

on that very spot as well.

Kind of makes ya' wonder

if they carried on in the after-life,

since they were both shot ta' hell.

Cullen Baker: the Arkansas brigand

This here's the tale of Cullen Baker,

from Weakley County

in the state of Tennessee.

He was born the son of a dirt-poor sod-buster

who up an' moved his family ta' Texas,

with hopes of escapin' their misery.

Skin an' bones was Baker's lot,

an' his homespun pants an' shoeless feet

made him the brunt of many a jokes.

He took it fer' awhile,

but only as a child,

til his mean-streak struck an' he beat back the pokes.

He acquired a hog-leg

at the young age of twelve,

an' practiced daily ta' become a crack shot.

He then got a saddle-gun

an' repeated the routine,

an' he grew a rep backin' down adults more often than not.

He was more mean tempered

than a skunk on its way to a perfume soiree,

an' bullyin' folks just made him frisky.

The rebel in him really kicked up

at the age of fifteen,

when his evil trait partnered with whiskey.

He would drink an' he'd brag

of many deeds that he'd done,

though not one of them deeds were true.

An' when no one tried ta' stop him,

it just urged him on,

until he bullied most folks that he knew.

Baker went way beyond mean,

he was downright sadistic,

like thinkin' it's funny ta' chase an old man out of town.

Then at the age of nineteen,

after startin' kids in a mock battle,

he was conked on his noggin' an' nearly put six-feet down.

Laid up fer' weeks

on account of the blow,

most folks prayed it knocked in some sense.

He said he'd reformed

an' got himself hitched,

but the calm wouldn't last cuz' he was too dense.

He forced other teens

ta' carry his weight,

jabbed them with knives, or pistol-whipped them instead.

He'd tell them one thing,

then change his mind,

yet still bully them fer' not doin' what he said.

Stallcup, an orphan,

was lashed with a whip,

so bad that his guardian took Baker ta' court.

Where a witness named Bailey

testified fer' the youth,

but he shouldn't have stayed, he should've rode fer' the Fort.

Cuz' Baker weren't sent-up

he was given a fine,

then went fer' his horse with one place ta' go.

There had ta' be payback,

an' it had ta' be quick,

though his rep was intact, his ego said, "No."

So he rode like the wind,

than dismounted his steed,

an' called Bailey out; time ta' settle the score.

Bailey's kin said, "Stay here."

But he grabbed a gun an' stepped out,

only ta' be hit with two shots an' sent back thru the door.

Baker jumped in the saddle

an' off he did run,

just ta' play hide'n'seek with the law.

He left Cass County,

went ta' seek relatives,

way over the border in ol' Arkansas.

But mean is as mean does

an' Baker could not stop the doin',

he stabbed a feller' ta' death over some horses.

Yep, one thing's fer' certain

back in the old west

they never heard of anger management courses.

So he hightailed it to Cass,

figuring two years was plenty,

they'd forget all about his earlier sin.

But to his shocked dismay

he still was quite wanted,

in fact, many folk wanted ta' see him brought in.

So he turned on his heels

an' he ran like a sissy,

right back ta' Perry County ta' keep on a hidin'.

Just a drinkin' an' brawlin',

with his relatives supportin',

an' old west deadbeat with his time he was bidin'.

Now after four years

Baker finally decided

ta' go get his little girl an' his wife.

But this new arrangement

 lasted less than two years,

the misses passed away an' he left his child fer' life.

Now the slow movin' law in Perry

finally decided ta' charge Baker

fer' the stabbin' death a few years before.

Yet word reached him again

before they could clap him in irons,

an' he fled back ta' Cass County once more.

Now the officials in Cass

fell flat on their ass,

they dropped the Bailey murder charge, which is downright silly.

An' Baker repeated the claim

that he'd reformed once again,

then married himself his second young filly.

But soon he was conscripted

into the gray coat Confederates,

an' sent ta' serve with a company in Little Rock.

But Baker was a spoiled brat

in an' adult body,

so army discipline gave him a shock.

He oft times went AWOL,

til he never went back,

he got him some acres an' started a farm.

Growin' corn fer' the confederacy,

or so he would claim,

but it was really the rules that caused him such alarm.

Ironically, the area he chose

was under Union occupation

in the Spring of sixty-four; most of which were black.
Baker's hatred was universal,
he'd hurt anyone an' cared not a wit,
but his bias fer' coloreds was at the head of the pack.
One day, three black soldiers
an' their sergeant did appear
in the Spanish Bluffs bar where Baker stood drinkin'.
They saw his "Johnny Reb" hat
an' started towards him;
it was four-to-one, so they didn't do much thinkin'.
The Sarge said, "Gimmee yer' papers,
let's see who ya' are."
So Baker drew steel, pulls the trigger an' shoots.
The sergeant went down,
an' then the three others,
all four hit the floor, an' died in their boots.
He was now a man without a country,
sought by both sides,
as deserter by the gray, an' killer by the blue.
So he fled ta' Little Rock
an' hid in plain sight;
he figured if blacks could be Yankees, he could too.
But this plan that he thought
was truly fool proof,
got the best of him inspite of his lies.
Cuz' they gave him a blue coat,
then put him in charge
of an entire company of those colored guys.
Thus up he did flee,
he deserted again,
back down ta' Texas to his uncle, Tom Young.
Well Texas was chalk full
of freebootin' deserters
with their paths leadin' toward a place ta' be hung.
Course, Baker fit right in
with a group of these bandits,
an' as mean as he was he soon took the lead.
They stole from the farmers,
then looted the ranchers,
took anything of value, from stock ta' the feed.
Mrs. Drew, a ranch owner,
once even paid Baker
ta' return the herd his own bandit crew took.
Unaware as she counted
the cash ta' his hand,
that he was the low-down rustlin' crook.
Now when the war ended
Baker hightailed it again,
afraid that the law might focus more on him then.
So he ran the Line Ferry,
returned ta' his second wife,
an' acted as if he would now fit right in.
Wife number two died
while under his care,
an' some say his reality went further astray.
He made a lifelike effigy of her,
adorned with her clothes,
an' put it on the porch til townfolk urged it be taken away.
But if he was so much in love
why did he then
propose ta' her sixteen-year old sister?
Though she spurned his advance,
an' went fer' the school teacher,
which irritated Baker like a big pus-filled blister.
Thomas Orr had a bum arm,
an' he was a bookworm not a fighter,
but it didn't stop Baker from crackin' his head with a stick.
An' when he recovered
an' back ta' school went ta' teach,
Baker bullied him there in front of the kids: how sick.
Baker was so insecure
that it wounded his pride,
that any girl would choose a cripple over him.
It's amazin' Orr survived
a year's worth of bullyin'
without the church choir singin' his last hymn.
Then Baker took off,
he returned ta' Cass County,
where he began, once more, his evil ways.
He robbed the Rowden store,
then later killed Rowden,
cuz' the shopkeeper told him ta' pay.
But just as before
the law moved too slow,
it took days ta' mount a posse ta' ride.
 So Baker sent word back ta' town,
he threatened death ta' all comers,
cuz' this time he chose not ta' hide.
Sadly, the townfolk gave in,
said let the soldier boys do it,
so a patrol of troops was sent out ta' look.
Two bluecoats came upon Baker
while he was at Pett's Ferry,
an' he lied about his name but they saw thru the crook.
Though it did them no good,
Baker shot the sergeant on his horse,
with four shots in him he was dead in the saddle.
So the private lost heart,
whipped at his horse,
he figured it was best ta' skedaddle.
Baker fled ta' Bowie County,
where he was surrounded by troops,
but he hollered "Charge them, boys!" A straightout bluff.
But the soldiers fell fer' it,
they all ran off in a panic,
until their superiors growled in a huff.
Then Baker killed another trooper,
an' awhile after that
he put the driver of a supply wagon in his grave.
His rep was a risin',
despised by most all,
a thousand dollar reward was put up fer' this misbehaved.
He was tracked down again,
til Baker did the Captain in,
an' fled off once more durin' the confusion.
He formed another bandit crew,
took ta' stealin' an' robbin' once more,
then killed two government men durin' an unlucky intrusion.
Then when tracked by a swarm
he stole an officer's uniform,
cuz' he knew what ta' do with the disguise.
He'd ride ta' the ranches,
an' ride ta' the farms,
in order ta' ask an' receive a heap of supplies.
With lawmen an' troopers
all after his hide
he foolishly went back ta' the girl who snubbed his advance.
She was married ta' Orr now,
which made Baker madder,
he got ta' the point he was near in a trance.
He told his ex-father-in-law
ta' send out the cripple,
an' the callous old-fool did it.
"We won't hurt him none,
jus' send him on out,"
then they fixed up a noose an' stuck his neck in it.
Hung from a tree,
but somehow he survived,
it was the costliest mistake Baker had done.
That mild-mannered teacher
grew a backbone of iron,
recovered from the injury, then strapped on a gun.
It was January sixth
eighteen-sixty an' nine,
when Baker an' a pal were found by three others an' Orr.
Trailed them back to a hideout
in southeastern Arkansas,
an' they looked all around ta' see if there were anymore.
The two were alone
an' as they squat by the fire
Orr an' his men came in blastin' lead.
No words ta' alert,
no stoppin' til done,
they kept on shootin' til both bandits lay dead.
On closer inspection
they'd made the right choice,
cuz' Baker alone was a walkin' arsenal.
Four six-guns, three palm-guns,
an' a half-dozen knives,
an' a double-barrelled scatter-gun showed Orr made the right call.
So the man Baker tormented
an' claimed he could do anythin' to,
was the man who finally tracked him down an' done him in.
The man with the ego
tryin' ta' be the legend,
lay dead with newsclippings calling himself "the Arkansas brigand."
It makes ya' think once,
perhaps even twice,
about what really gives a person his worth.
But at least in this case,
though, sadly, not always
the meek did inherit the Earth.

John Armstrong: One of the Good Guys

John Armstrong, middle-name Barclay,

born in McMennville, Tennessee in January, eighteen-fifty.

The son of a dentist, who took ta' travelin'

he was sort of a drifty;

leavin' home at an early age

in a quest ta' check out the southwest.

Points here, an' points there,

til he found himself in Texas:

Austin ta' be exact.

Then he picked up a wife,

as a matter of fact,

an' began a new life as a rancher,

who would raise himself up a seven heir brood.

Now young John, who was just twenty-one

in eighteen an' seventy-one

was a stickler fer' law an' order.

So he joined the paramilitary Travis Rifles:

a group that didn't look at rampant lawlessness

in Texas as mere trifles.

This union lasted til seventy-five

when he opted ta' strive

in a different way ta' bring about some peace.

Though his personal peace was sacrificed

in a job involving many dangers.

An' I doubt that he knew when he joined

he'd become one of the most famous Texas Rangers.

Initally servin' under L.H. McNelly,

with "excellent service" written in the log.

Armstrong was a fearless foe of outlaws,

quickly promoted ta' sergeant,

an' respectfully dubbed "McNelly's Bulldog."

On the first of October of seventy-six

he found himself doggin' some rustlers

alongside other men of the star.

They cornered them near Espinoza Lake,

with most of 'um tryin' ta' make a break,

'cept four who foolishly tried ta' shoot it out.

So out they went from this world ta' the next.

One second, pullin' a gun,

the next second, shakin' hands with the Devil;

cuz' Rangers like Armstrong know

ventilatin' outlaws is a necessary evil.

In fact, two more of them rustlers would soon bite the dust

at the hands of a small party under Armstrong's command.

Of course even the best lawmen don't always get roses

after spreadin' fertilizer on the ground.

There was the time when Armstrong

an' his partner Leroy Deggs

were told ta' fetch in a murder suspect

who didn't have ta' be found.

A rancher named John Mayfield,

with a hefty price on his head.

So the two rangers went out ta' his spread

in Wilson County,

an' confronted the yahoo out by the corral.

Well upon bein' arrested,

Mayfield jus' sorta' flipped his lid,

cuz' he laughed an' went fer' his gun.

Which, of course, was the last thing he did,

cuz' both rangers drilled him.

Then a dozen ranch hands come a runnin'

an' made their intentions clear:

"You ain't collectin' no reward,

cuz' you ain't takin' the body,

an' if you try, you'll never get out of here."

So with caution the better part of valor,

an' with more smarts than the one they jus' done in,

the two badge toters wisely withdrew.

Of course the cowboys took the corpse

an' buried it secretly, where no one else knew.

Another desperado Armstrong took after

was none other than John Wesley Hardin.

The fastest an' most feared gunslinger fer' a spell.

At the time there was a $4000 reward on his head fer' murder.

Thus Armstrong was set on bringin' him in

or sendin' him ta' hell.
Well the task was formidable right from the start.
With this match-up no gambler in his right mind
would take his wad an' lay it all on the law.
After all, it was a rancher turned ranger
goin' up against a spiteful, mean fightin',
greased lightnin' son of a gun:
though Armstrong surely had the heart.
Yet when days of trackin' turned ta' weeks,
an' weeks ta' months,
I'm sure even the well-wishers
wished fer' another wish.
But Ranger Armstrong wasn't called a bulldog fer' nothin':
truly there had been many good men with a star,
but very few were as tenacious.
A character trait highly prized when trackin'
someone as elusive as Hardin;
not ta' mention audacious an' contumacious.
Now ya'll may scoof
but the tenacity paid off,
allowin' the rangers ta' locate Hardin
an' the train he was a ridin'.
So Armstrong boarded it in Pensacola
along with his deputies,
though his deputies were nervous an' felt like hidin'.
Yet they followed their boss
as he marched through the coaches,
ever alert, lookin' fer' his prey.
An' sure enough, today was the day;
August 23rd, eighteen an' seventy-seven,
when the big burly ranger with steely eyes
an' uncompromisin' nature
caught up with the infamous badman.
Hardin was spotted in a seat
next ta' a gang member, Jim Mann.
While three other associates sat nearby,
all of them packin' plenty.
Ironically, as luck would have it,
an earlier mishap by Armstrong,
while cleanin' his weapon he plugged his own leg,
which forever left him gimpy.
Yet this stifled Hardin's normal suspicions;
so much so, in fact,
that there must've been a touch of elation
as Armstrong sat down right across from the outlaw pair,
while the train was still at the station.
Now ever aware, an' unlike the hare,
Armstrong eased out his forty-five,
an' placed it on his lap,
as if gettin' comfortable ta' rest.
Then up quick he stood,
aimed the pistol toward his prey, an' said,
"I'm a ranger an' yer' both under arrest."
Now Hardin cocked his head back,
muttered some words then went fer' his gun.
But tryin' ta' draw while tryin' ta' stand
from an awkward an' cramped position
caused one problem after another:
Hardin definitely weren't havin' no fun.
While Hardin's gun was caught in his suspenders,
Mann, jus' nineteen, drew his an' fired,
but only shot the stetson off the ranger.
Then found out ta' his dismay,
that even a wobbly legged ranger
still presents danger,
especially if ya' take yer' shot an' miss.
So with a cane in one hand,
his six-gun in the other,
Armstrong calmly squeezed the trigger,
an' blew a hole into Mann's chest.
The young outlaw dove head first out the window,
no doubt filled with fear an' dread.
He got ta' his feet an' took a few steps,
then fell ta' the platform dead.
Well, by then Hardin was up,
though his pistol was still tangled.
So in frustration he sent Armstrong flyin'
back down the aisle with a kick.
Which only pissed the ranger off,
it's time he got in a lick.
So up he rose, an' jumped forward,
bringin' a gun-butt down on Hardin's hard head,
again an' again,
til he was plum' out on the floor.
The three other outlaws still sat in their seats,
perhaps they were stunned by what jus' took place before 'um.
They handed up their hardware without a fight,
a much more civilized decorum.
So Armstrong took five, the Hardin gang zero,
when tallyin' up the final score.
An' it all took jus' a few minutes.
Oowhee! What a sight.
Armstrong took them back ta' Texas
an' collected his reward,
which set him up with a fifty-thousand acre spread.
He coulda' retired
but elected not to,
he kept catchin' criminals
an' rose ta' the rank of Captain instead.
Then after a star-studded career
he finally gave it up in eighteen an' eighty-two.
He spent the remainder of his days overseein' the ranch,
as rigidly as he had the law.
Which nearly became his downfall
when a cowhand took offense at a harsh command
an' put a bullet in him in nineteen ought eight.
But Armstrong survived
while prison was the cowpoke's fate.
Eventually, Armstrong died peacefully in bed.
It was May 1st, nineteen an' thirteen.
A wealthy rancher,
a famous ranger,
a survivor who succeeded,
an' most times made it look routine.

Joseph Allen's Anger Done Him In

Some folks say, "don't let the Sun set on yer' anger,"

          cuz' only bad things will happen if ya' stay mad.

But there'll always be those who won't harken ta' the danger

          like a rebellious pup, or dimwit dingo,
          with a stubborn streak iron-clad.

Well, Joseph Allen was such a one, he failed ta' learn that truth,

          he took offense at A.A. Bobbitt the cattle baron,
          an' they began a feud.

Most likely began over somethin' simple, somethin' said,
          or without proof.

          But still the hate did agitate enough ta' fume an' brood.

Allen partnered in a saloon an' cattle ranch with a feller'
           named Jesse West.

          They did O.K. in terms of pay, an' shoulda' played it square,

But with beef baron Bobbitt always a bestin' their best

          they took it ta' heart, got themselves frazzled,
          an' forgot the meanin' of fair.

Took some of their money, tainted it red on account of
          a polk named Jim Miller.

          He made him a name with a gun in his hand,
          not as a ridin' cow-herder.

They say scores of names of deadmen he carries,
          cuz' he's a professional killer.

          An' the only reason ta' have him around is if ya'
           contract fer' a murder.

The beef baron's body was found in ought-nine,
          February twenty an' six.

          The corpse was ventilated with bullets a'plenty,
           records claim it was riddled.

But the feud was well-known, so Allen an' West were
          stuck in a bit of a fix.

          With them were Miller an' another feller' Berry Burrell,
           each on the proverbial griddle.

Arrested an' shackled an' placed behind bars in Ada, Oklahoma.

          So Allen opened his billfold again, an' hired the four a law talker.

Moman Pruiett, an' attorney with "rep," it equates ta' a foul aroma.

          His murder record stood at 303 set free,
          a mighty convincin' squawker.

When word of this legal ringer spread the townfolk
           didn't like the score.

          The thought of the Texas killer for hire, an' those payin'
          blood money ta' bring him

Gettin' set free on account of legalities after
          such a horrific chore

          sparked talk like "vigilante," then talk became action,
          "Let's get a rope an' string 'um."

A mob of more than forty a strode ta' the gray bar motel.

          They broke out the four accused, a worse fer' wear
          as they drug 'um ta' the stable.

Allen an' friends appealed with squeals, 'cept Miller
          who put on show'n'tell.

          He confessed ta' fifty-one killin's, but thought it
          more important ta' die with his hat on, if able.

I suppose Allen might wonder as he sweats the fires of Hell,

          how no vigilante came ta' be arrested fer' doin' him in.

"Well didn't they do what I hired ta' be done?,"
          ya' might hear him ask.--- Well, do tell.

          But perhaps he shoulda' checked his own temper,

          quit feedin' the feud an' takin' ta' whimper,

          so each of them might've jus' kept on a livin'.

So let me iterate... it just don't pay ta' hate.

Zenogalache: the Apache Kid

In eighteen an' sixty-seven a young boy

was born into the tribe of the Apache.

He would later be known as the Apache Kid,

aka the Crazy One;

though his given name was Zenogalache.

He was the son of a chief, Toga-de-chuz,

who was killed so's a rival could bed his squaw.

The same squaw the Kid called "Ma."

An' the Kid waited years, til he grew,

then exacted revenge on his father's killer,

in the style of Apache law.

He was still young when orphaned,

so he was taken to San Carlos,

where he schooled by Al Sieber,

the legendary calvary scout.

It was military learnin',

ya' know, weapons an' such.

An' was the Kid good?

Well, ta' that there's little doubt,

he liked it very much,

since Sieber had him appointed

First Sergeant of the Apache Government Scouts.

However, Sieber became concerned

upon learnin' the Kid had already killed,

an' decided it would be best jus' ta' order him in.

So in he did come --- that is,

him plus ten.

Each of them fully packin'.

Well, both sides took ta' jawin',

one side hemmin', the other side hawwin',

til Sieber said the guardhouse would be their new home.

Thus, the Kid barked an order,

an' their guns sparked fire,

an' Sieber's leg caught a bullet.

So the Kid an' his band made good their escape,

an' soon began ta' roam, like there was nothing to it.

Yep, from that day forward

there was a price on the Kid's head,

the same ol' "alive or dead" standard.

So the army took ta' lookin',

along with scouts an' gunmen too.

Even the famous Tom Horn.

An' though the band increased in number,

at least times three,

most of the chasers invariably

chased shadows;

then returned empty-handed ta' face the scorn.

Now ya'll would figure most on the run

would try ta' keep a low profile,

so I guess the Crazy One's style

sprang forth from other thoughts.

Cuz' they stole a horse herd from the Atchley Ranch,

over near Table Mountain.

Then they killed themselves a loner,

an' left him ta' rot in his cabin,

a trapper named Bill Diehl.

An' then the desperadoes,

while movin' ever southward,

chose ta' add ta' their disgrace,

by torturing, then murdering, the rancher Mike Grace.

Down ta' ol' Mexico they rode,

then back again,

fer' two years the Apache Kid remained free.

But eventually

his spree was cut short,

he was captured an' clapped in irons.

Then a quick day in court fer' both he an' his men.

The sentence was "death"

but the Kid wouldn't die,

it appeared he had "friends" in high places.

His innocent pleas

of the dirty deeds

would soon add ta' the White House disgraces.

Ya' see, President Grover Cleveland

granted the Apache Kid a pardon,

an' set him free ta' go kill again.

Though this time instead of takin' herds

he took ta' stoppin' wagons,

killin' the drivers an' taken the freight.

Now I want ya'll ta' get this straight,

they weren't no redskin Robin Hoods

a' stealin' from the rich ta' give ta' the poor.

An' they sure didn't kill in self-defense,

they killed cuz' they thought it felt great.

Per chance a hero stepped forth in the form of a sheriff

Glen Reynolds of Gila County, Arizona,

who took a posse after the Kid an' caught him.

Though hindsight suggests

instead of playin' "Oops, I'm caught again"

they each should've picked a target an' shot 'um.

Cuz' they received a pitiful seven year sentence,

then never served a day;

they killed their guards on the way ta' Yuma Prison,

followed by a quick getaway.

Sadly, one of them guards was Reynolds.

In the hunt that followed

six of the Kid's band were captured.

Though only two were hanged.

The other four decided ta' do themselves away,

strangled with their own loincloths.

So like moths ta' the flame,

with the price on his head an' reputation growin',

the Kid an' his men began a murderous rampage.

The Apache Kid's rage needed targets,

an' there were targets a' plenty,

several settlers quickly bit the dust.

Gee, I wonder how much trust

President Cleveland retained in the Kid,

after hearin' how the Kid took out a prairie schooner

with a mother, young son, an' a babe?

Thank God the infant survived,

found alive near its kin that were dead,

cuz' in the eyes of the Apache Kid

 infants don't rate the cost of lead.

Now this reign of terror by Zenogalache

made him history's second most feared Apache;

second only ta' the famous Geronimo.

So both the army an' civilians wanted him dead,

with hundreds setting out ta' hunt him down.

Then, in a quirk of fate

while upon a trail in the Catalinas

the Apache Kid was found

by Dupont, a lone scout.

But they both carried rifles that were single shots,

an' neither wanted ta' fire, possibly miss,

an' be at the mercy of the other.

So they slowly dismounted,

sat themselves on some rocks,

an' waited out the long hot day

with eyes glued ta' one another.

Til finally at dusk, up rose the Kid,

he grunted, "Me leaving"

then mounted his horse

an' did in fact leave.

Of course Dupont heaved a sigh,

completely relieved.
Well, the years came an' went,
an' the renegades kept on raidin'.
No ranch or frieght was safe from the band,
at least not in New Mexico or Arizona.
And they hid out in the Sierra Madre land
south of the border
with a bit less law an' order.
Course here we go again,
like many a legends,
the end of the Apache Kid is in question,
cuz' history often has more than one recollection.
There is the claim of Edward A. Clark,
a rancher who'd been raided often by the Kid,
who recollects the final raid
in eighteen an' ninty-four.
With his new partner John Scanlon,
and an English visitor named Mercer,
they were besieged by the Apache band,
an' they fired back from the windows an' door.
Then came night fall, when Clark slipped out,
a workin' his way ta' the corral,
where he spotted two injuns a leadin' away his favorite horse.
So the logical course
of action was ta' aim an' fire.
Clark did, an' he did again,
but he waited til the end of the strife,
awaitin' til mornin' light ta' verify
that the one body found was a squaw.
It was the Apache Kid's wife.
An' near where her body lay,
a blood trail led away.
It was trailed by Clark til it petered out
high in the rocky hills.
An' Clark claims that it was the Kid,
an' he went off ta' die;
which seems ta' be supported by the fact
that there were no more raids an' kills.
No more ranchers raided,
no settlers or frieght drivers died.
An' with two witnesses
an' the corpse of the Kid's wife,
it appears that Clark hadn't lied.
Yet, without a body it was still bound ta' be
that other tales would sprout.
Just folks tryin' fer' a smidge of fame,
hopin' somebody might remember their name;
but fer' history they only add confusion an' doubt.
Such as the account of Mrs. Tom Charles,
claimin' the posse led by Charles Anderson
trapped the Apache Kid over near Kingston.
Insistin' they shot him dead
on Spetember tenth, nineteen-ought-five.
An' there always seem ta' be some
who prefer the bad guys actually win:
ta' getaway an' retire
in order ta' live out their days
unpunished fer' their sin.
So later reports of the Apache Kid
have us hearin' of his death again;
seems he was a cat with nine lives,
dyin' peacefully, or as peaceful as dyin' can be,
of consumption
at his Mexican hideout in nineteen-ten.
Unfortunately, as ya'll can see,
sometime history remains a mystery.