James Copeland: land pirate

James Copeland the outlaw was known as a "land pirate"
Led a gang in Mississippi that were mean and irate
Adding to the gravity
He was known for depravity
And he did to the law what ladies do while they gyrate

He had rich benefactors, the family Wages
With dealings more "heathen" than painted Osages
They paid him to kill
But he never would tell
So he finally got the noose after nine years in cages

Benjamin Bickerstaff: rebel soldier, rebel rouser

Benjamin F. Bickerstaff,

better known as "Ben,"

got his start in Sulphur Springs in the Lone Star State.

When the Civil War commenced,

Ben's kind were incensed

ta' find out killin' was their fate.

With well-trained guerrillas

Ben killed the blue-coat fella's,

an' found he didn't mind at all.

So come the end of the war,

with a chance ta' be poor,

he chose instead ta' be an outlaw.

He went back ta' Sulphur Springs

ta' do his dirty things,

cuz' he reckoned local folk would protect him.

They were rebel sympathizers,

blue-belly despisers,

an' would never back a Yankee on a whim.

When Ben met a freed slave

he sent him ta' the grave,

an' cared not a wit who knew the fact.

He rounded up near twenty men

ta' raid supply depots of the Union:

no wish ta' defend... he chose ta' attack.

In fair weather or muck an' mud

they'd steal the wares an' spill the blood:

they were an itch the Yankees couldn't scratch.

Losses put the Yanks out of sorts,

so they built-up several forts,

with three full companies ta' help with the catch.

The local folk stayed mum,

or simply acted dumb,

many were convinced Ben was a hero.

They thought he fought a cause,

an' gave him their applause,

until they found out Ben was just a zero.

When Yankee pickin's got harder

he considered himself smarter,

an' took his gang ta' the town of Alvarado.

He figured that the bounty

taken from a different county

would not cause local favortism ta' go.

He didn't take into account

when they charged in on their mounts

that the folks in Alvarado had a say.

The citizens were warned,

an' they came out fully armed,

an' several rebels bit the dust that day.

He had conned the local folk,

since his "cause" was just a joke,

he had always been in it strictly for the money.

But the locals came out smilin'

when Bickerstaff's riff raff were dyin':

somethin' they were told sounded funny.

Ben's criminal prank

was met point-blank,

the blast nearly took off his head.

Double-ought buck ta' the face

ended Ben's life in disgrace,

an' the locals were glad he was dead.



Bascom Affair: the case of the wrong Apache

If somethin' happens to ya'

don't let the situation fool ya'

an' make sure ya' get the facts straight from the start.

Too many times we've seen it happen,

when the tongue begins its flappin',

that the truth an' what is said turn out ta' be quite far apart.

There's an Arizona case

which became a big disgrace,

cuz' two men went about it both half-cocked.

Johnny Ward's adopted son

an' some cattle were on the run,

they were took right off his land an' left him shocked.

So he mixed up some facts

on which Apaches left the tracks,

an' he told this tale of falsehood to a Second Lieu:

George Bascom was the name

of the Second Looey who would gain "fame"

cuz' he didn't wait ta' find out what was true.

Ward said it was Cochise

that shattered his family's peace,

by absconding with his boy, an' his beef.

So Bascom had a message sent,

come sit an' talk within a tent,

yet it was only a trap ta' catch the chief.

But Cochise could not be grabbed,

yet six braves of his were nabbed,

so the chief set his tribe on the warpath.

First, Cochise tried an exchange,

Bascom refused... mighty strange,

since it sparked a twelve-year war: a real bloodbath.

In just one week fer' sayin' "no"

sixteen whites to death did go,

an' Bascom hung the six braves in reply.

From eighteen-sixty til seventy-two

this war would not be through,

an' a heap of lives were lost over a lie.

Major General Howard,

quite the opposite of coward,

came out ta' see if he can bring some peace.

So he met with the chief,

it was time ta' end this grief,

an' he bound the promise with the great Cochise.

The poor abducted boy

faced a life without joy,

he'd been taken by a different Apache band.

He resurfaced ten years late,

with a life he learned ta' hate,

he was the symbol of the tension in the land.

Felix Tellez had been his name,

it was changed ta' hide the shame,

the moniker he chose was "Mickey Free."

Though years beyond his return

the anger still did burn,

cuz' no one gave Cochise an apology.

Rattlesnake Dick or Brainless Barter?

The son of a British officer,

Richard Barter was his name,

though he answered most ta' Rattlesnake Dick.

Though he was schooled when he was young,

an' weren't no pauper's child,

his choices seemed ta' come from a brainless hick.

He took off ta' California

for ta' pan himself some gold,

but found out it were too much work fer' nothin'.

When he struckout with the mining

he still had a get rich itch,

an' decided ta' scratch the itch with a little rustlin'.

But no fortune did he make

when he chose that law ta' break,

just a two-year stint a sittin' in a cell.

Yet upon his release

he quickly crossed the line,

an' charted him a path straight on toward hell.

He formed himself another gang

with some others,

like the outlaw brothers Cy an' George Skinner.

With thoughts of leavin' rustlin' behind

with dreams of movin' up,

convinced his plan was a 24-carat winner.

They learned from a drunk,

a big mouth mining engineer,

about large shipments of Trinity Mountain gold.

So Barter sent George Skinner,

accompanied by a trio,

figuring one hold-up would get them a Mother Lode.

Well, Skinner did his part,

takin' the mule-train outside Nevada City,

an' comin' away with $80,000 in gold ore.

So off they rode ta' rendezvous

with his brother Cy an' Barter,

but soon discovered their good luck was no more.

Barter an' Cy couldn't show,

they were pinched fer' stealin' mules,

an' sat dumbfounded within the local jail.

Of course, upon their release

they sought Cy's brother George,

a wantin' ta' get their share of the loot.

But they found ta' their dismay,

George was in Boot Hill,

he crossed paths with detectives an' chose ta' shoot.

Yet most the gold was unrecovered,

they had buried it on the mount,

but those who knew where no longer had breath ta' tell.

So Barter an' Cy spent weeks on the mount,

diggin' here an' diggin' there,

an' comin' back with nothin' but an urge ta' kill.

Thick headed as he were

Barter failed ta' learn the lesson,

chose instead ta' rob himself a stage.

But Sheriff J. Boggs

tracked the two bandits across the river,

over the hills, an' through the prairie sage.

Then trapped the varmints in a pass

in Auburn, California,

on July 11th, eighteen an' fifty-nine.

Of course, instead of raisin' hands,

they foolishly chose ta' raise steel,

but one shot ta' the heart sent Barter into hell ta' dine.

Boggs only fired a single-shot,

but it did young Barter in,

his deputies then wounded Cy.

They brought him in

an' quickly found him guilty,

sent him ta' prison fer' a spell, then off he went ta' die.

The facts in this are simple,

Barter died just how he lived,

makin' choices as if he were brainless.

The problem bein' a rattlesnake,

they often warn they're there;

they give themselves away, an' their death is rarely painless.

Now here's a bit of truth

ya'll might just like ta' hear,

that buried gold has never yet been found.

It's been a hundred an' fifty years,

with multitudes a lookin',

but the secret is still safe an' the gold's still in the ground.

William H. Anderson: Bring Um' Back Bill

Back in the eighteen-seventies,

within the Texas border,

was a feller' named William H. Anderson

who had a natural talent fer' law an' order.

If a stranger shot a ranger

then escaped over the hill,

they sought the man with a never quit plan,

known by some as "Bring um' Back Bill."

An' if another kind committed a crime,

a hopin' ta' make it pay,

it were a sure bet with Bill trackin' um',

he'd bring um' in ta' see a court day.

Yep, crime was mighty costly

fer' those who took the chance.

Once caught ya' see, there were options, three;

do yer' time, pay yer' fine, or take yer' place at a rope dance.

So never mistake this Bill Anderson

with the cutthroat who rode with Quantrill,

cuz' Bloody Bill took ta' killin' the innocent,

while the innocent had nothin' ta' fear from Bring um' Back Bill.

Course facts do prove that this Bill too

began the Civil War wearin' Confederate gray.

Then after some thinkin' he changed ta' Yankee blue,

switched ta' an Illinois regiment from his birth state.

Though he opted fer' Texas ta' make his home

an' take ta' wearin' the star.

Ta' be one of the best after some of the worst

was a choice he hoped would take him far.

If ya' judged by miles he truly went far,

cuz' he never stopped at the border.

From state ta' state, even Canada or Mexico,

he'd go anywhere ta' dish out law an' order.

Course Lady Luck don't follow that law,

the Law of Average is her guide.

An' we'd argue she weren't much of a lady

steppin' aside on the day that Bring um' Back Bill died.

He was given the chore ta' bring in Bill Collins,

last survivor of the Joel Collins gang.

The goal of course was ta' bring him in,

an' give him a trial before he'd hang.

Anderson gave chase, he dogged him hard

up ta' little Pembina in Manitoba, north of the U.S.

Though it looked as if Collins figured dyin' there

was jus' as easy as a rope, I guess.

Both Bill's drew their steel

an' commenced the deal

by throwin' led in the other's direction.

An' both died in the fight,

though only one in the right,

with a chance at a heavenly resurrection.

An' on that day the Good Lord may say,

I need the devil taken back ta' hell...

Send out the man

with the grit an' the sand,

none other than Bring um' Back Bill.

William "Bloody Bill" Anderson

If you've heard anything about the Civil War

than you've probably heard the name Bloody Bill.

William Anderson was his legit moniker,

an' was known fer' bein' the right-hand man

ta' the infamous William Quantril.

He was born in Jefferson County, Missouri

on February 2nd, eighteen an' thirty-seven,

an' allegedly died in sixty-four.

Well, he wore the grey right from the beginning,

an' by most accounts he

took to the killin', blood, an' gore.

He quickly became infamous,

everyone knew he was a powerful hater,

even before he joined Quantril,

where he became known as the most vicious raider.

Though even while under Quantril

he often ran his own band of guerillas,

usually around sixty-five men.

An' he was feared throughout the border states

of Missouri an' Kansas

as one who was thrilled ta' kill,

plus he enjoyed about every other sin.

Although, he tried ta' claim he only killed "damn Yankees,"

or the equally vile sympathizers an' loyalists.

Yet he would murder a passel of civilians

without evidence,

an' no confessions or royal list.

Now he may have wore the colors of the South,

but he weren't no southern gent.

Jus' like Quantril an' his other friends

he was a no-account plunderer of small towns

that were defenseless.

With large numbers and an arsenal

they used their strength ta' prey on the weak.

Enjoyin' the thrill ta' rape, kill, pillage, an' burn,

an' other acts just as senseless.

Bloody Bill tried ta' claim

what he did was justified

on account of three sisters

who burned in a buildin' an' died.

Further claimin' they was raped,

brutally tortured an' intentionally torched.

'Course there ain't a speck of evidence

ta' support such claims,

it appears they just died in a fire.

And it's not like it's the first time

he's been called a liar.

Records indicate that most folks in his day,

an' most historians sense,

agree on one fact,

that Anderson was a blood lusting lunatic

who had the knack

fer' inflictin' pain an' death on his fellow man.

An' it was known far an' wide

by the Union opposition

that it was rare fer' Bloody Bill ta' take prisoners.

He preferred ta' shoot captives out of hand.

Why even Jim Cummins,

who later rode with Jesse James,

an' had been a member with Quantril,

claimed "the most desperate man I ever met"

was Bloody Bill.

Centralia, Kansas was the perfect example

of the ample viciousness within him.

While attemptin' ta' hook up with troops

under the command of General Sterling Price,

Anderson an' about seventy men plunged into Centralia

on the twenty-seventh of September

in eighteen an' sixty-four.

He was quickly recognized

so townfolk began fleein' homes an' stores.

Knowin' that their town was now at the mercy

of the bloodiest guerilla raider of the war.

Well, a slew of folks were rounded up;

many were executed,

the women were raped.

An' some whiskey barrels were found,

so they all drank hearty

while enjoyin' their merciless killin' party.

Then Anderson soon discovered a train was on its way,

so he ordered his men ta' build a huge barricade

right across the tracks in order ta' stop it.

After all, the more the merrier, as he saw fit.

Of course he was pleasantly surprised

ta' find among the passengers

twenty-six fellers' wearin' soldier blue,

under the command of Lieutenant Peters.

Unfortuantely, Peters was one of them yellow-back leaders,

with a yeller' streak high an' wide.

So he covered himself with a blanket

an' jumped off the train,

leavin' his men ta' get caught,

as he crawled under a platform ta' hide.

Course, he didn't hide very well,

in fact, he was spotted by Bloody Bill,

who said, "Pull that bastard out of there!"

So Peters was caught

like it or not,

an' began ta' shiver an' shake,

on account of he was scared.

Now when Anderson advanced

with pistols in hand

Peters broke free an' tried ta' run.

Yet even with the captive tryin' ta' scurry,

Bloody Bill saw no reason ta' hurry,

so he took careful aim

an' sent six bullets from his gun.

Ya'll can notch up another one fer' Bloody Bill.

He then ordered the remaining troops,

the six plus twenty,

into an open field.

Where he paraded in front of them,

with guns a'plenty,

enjoyin' their tears an' fears,

an' some even squealed.

With four Navy Colts on his belt,

four rifles on his horse,

a sabre, a hatchet,

an' even an' extra bag of pistols on his saddle horn,

Bloody Bill was definitely the vision

of death come a callin'.

An' the snifflin' an' bawlin'

of the younger Yankees

made him feel powerful, like a mighty big man.

So with enough guns at hand

he jus' kept a stallin',

hopin' ta' see some belly-crawlin'

before he did the blue-bellies in.

Then he stopped, an' he pondered,

an' stuck a smelly ol' cheroot in his mouth,

set it ablaze, an' didn't care if it stank.

He jus' stared at his captives with ill-meanin' eyes,

then quietly asked, "Boys,

do you have a sergeant in your ranks?"

Well, their mouths were tight with fear,

so he took ta' coaxin', an' told them some lies.

Yep, he even claimed he would spare their lives,

so Sergeant Thomas M. Goodman stepped forth.

Then Goodman was ushered away,

he'd live ta' see another day,

ta' be used as a prisoner exchange

fer' one of Bill's men held by the North.

Now came the time fer' Anderson's fun,

so with each of his hands he now held a gun,

an' commenced ta' shootin'

as he walked along the rows.

After he quickly emptied one

he would simply draw another,

an' kept it up til they were all in death throes.

That is, all except Goodman, who,

with a bit of luck,

actually escaped ta' tell the tale.
Now fer' a bit of the bizarre,
there came a strange act of normalcy
within all this lunacy.
Within weeks of the slaughter
Bloody Bill married the daughter
of a Texan,
an' brought her back up ta' Ray County, Missouri.
Where they settled briefly on a small farm.
Then back he went to his men an' murderous raids.
But when you're one of the most hated men in the country
it's only a matter of time
before someone puts an end ta' your vicious escapades.
The day was October 27th, eighteen an' sixty-four,
when the incident arrived that many had prayed for.
Scores an' scores who mourned over kin
done in by Bloody Bill,
wanted ta' hear how it happened ta' him,
when he was hurried onto Hell.
It is said to have happened near Orrick, Missouri
while ridin' at the head of his guerilla band.
They were ambushed by some Union troops
with Captain S.P. Cox in command.
A hail of bullets struck Bloody Bill,
dozens in fact,
they say he was dead in the saddle.
And although his men fought wildly ta' retrieve the body,
they found themselves in a losin' battle.
So away they ran ta' save their own hides.
Now if Bloody Bill ever expected
ta' have his remains respected,
he was a bigger fool than he was a bully.
Cuz' he earned every ounce of hate
each trooper had fer' him,
an' they lost their chance ta' make him suffer
before he was dead.
So they took his corpse ta' Richmond,
propped it up fer' some pictures,
perhaps fer' posterity;
then cut off his head.
They then impaled it upon a pole
an' placed it fer' all ta' see at the entrance ta' town.
Later, goin' back fer' the carcass,
an' roped it up in order ta' drag it around.
An' they kept it up til it was butchered
like the butcher he was known ta' be;
then finally dumped it in a shallow unmarked grave.
Now there's a lesson ta' be learned here folks,
yer' probably gonna get treated like you behave.
However, like most legends regardin' the famous,
or in this case, the infamous,
stories later arose claimin' it wasn't Bloody Bill
who died that day.
A case of mistakin' identity with a look-a-like.
An' they claim there's evidence ta' sway
them over ta' that way of thinkin'.
Now it's a fact that most rumors are a waste of breath
an' do nothin' fer' history but add their stink in.
But every once in awhile curious facts pop up
that irritate history like blisters.
Like a ninety year old man dyin'
on eleven-two of nineteen an' twenty-seven,
down in Salt Creek, Texas.
An' on the table next ta' his death bed
was an ol' photograph of three young ladies;
who were later identified as Bloody Bill's long-dead sisters.
Now ya'll can take it fer' what it's worth,
believe this way or that,
but remember there's been way better cons in history,
showin' more things valid, so-to-speak.
Ya' see, it jus' don't figure,
how can a man like Bloody Bill,
who got such a thrill
outta' murderin' people in cold blood, by the multitudes,
just up an' quit cold turkey,
then go off an' live respectfully?
Then many years later,
he's supposed ta' die peacefully in ol' Salt Creek.
So allow me ta' end this tale with an epitaph,
considerin' both facts an' mystery.
We know somewhere lies the body of Bloody Bill,
who earned his place in history,
as well as a hot seat in Hell.

Hugh Anderson

Hugh Anderson is one of them gun totin' cowboys

that some historians try ta' claim there weren't many of,

though I suggest ya' add 'um up an' judge fer' yourself.

Though Hugh was no brainchild,

nor was he lighting on the draw.

It's obvious he would've lived a lot longer

if he kept his temper an' his guns upon the shelf.

While trailin' a herd from Saledo, Texas

ta' Newton, Kansas in eighteen an' seventy-one

he was asked ta' join a manhunt

fer' a killer named Juan Bideno.

So he joined three other cowpokes

an' tracked the man ta' Bluff City,

where one of those cowhands,

Texas gunslinger John Wesley Hardin,

out shot Bideno an' put him in a hole.

Then upon arrivin' at the end of the trail in Newton,

Anderson learned of the death of a friend, William Bailey.

He was shot ta' death at the hands

of a rough an' tumble railroad foreman

named Mike McCluskie.

But McCluskie had left town right after the killin'.

So Anderson an' some friends

vowed ta' seek revenge

if ever McCluskie should return.

Well, the burly foreman did come back

ta' the scene of the crime,

an' Anderson weren't the type ta' waste no time,

in fact he thought it was past due

fer' bloody justice ta' have its turn.

Though I'm sure he never realized

that what he was about ta' begin

would be in history books fer' generations:

as the single bloodiest gunfight of the old west.

Although the press

never has stressed

it on the same level as the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

Nope, Hugh was just angry an' wanted release

at the expense of the feller' that done in his pal.

Around 1 AM on August 20th of seventy-one

Anderson found McCluskie at Perry Tuttle's Dance Hall

playin' faro.

So with hate in his heart

an' revenge on his mind

he made a beeline fer' him as straight as an arrow.

"Yer' a cowardly S.O.B.!

I will blow the top of yer' head off!"

Anderson yelled, while pullin' his gun an' takin' a shot.

Though he missed his head, he shot his neck,

but only slowed him down a bit

on account of McCluskie bein' so big.

So McCluskie half rose from his chair,

blood gushin' from the wound,

an' yanked his pistol from its rig.

But when he pulled the trigger

the dang thing misfired,

allowin' Anderson another free turn.

So Hugh's gun barked again,

spittin' fire an' lead:

a leg wound this time, with pain that did burn.

Which toppled Mike down,

ta' the ground he did fall,

bellowin' fierce like a bull.

 McCluskie was fallin' for his next trigger pull,

sparkin' his first shot,

which only hit the floorboards beneath him.

An' while he was down

Anderson simply backshot him,

doin' him in fer' his sin.

Now McCluskie's friends an' Anderson's friends

both decided ta' join this lead spittin' party.

Though if some of them knew

what the outcome would be

you can bet they'd a chose ta' be tardy.

Jim Riley an' Patrick Lee

took up fer' the fallin' McCluskie.

They fired at Hugh,

an' wounded him with two,

both ta' a lower limb.

So Henry Kearnes an' Billy Garrett,

comin' ta' Anderson's aid,

took pot shots at the both of them.

All four of the men with steel in their hands

advanced toward each other with guns a blazin'.

A sight amazin' ta' some,

but a nightmare ta' others,

since the combatants weren't the only ones hit.

There was Jim Martin from Texas

who merely tried ta' keep the peace,

but was struck in the neck with a bullet.

He clutched at the wound,

but the artery was severed,

an' he stumbled ta' the street where he died.

Yet the lead kept flyin'

with most of them wide,

though some hit their mark.

Lee soon fell from a gut shot,

an' both Henry an' Billy took lead ta' the chest,

sendin' each into darkness fer' eternity.

Then there was poor ol' Jim Wilkinson,

an unarmed cowboy who hadn't took part,

but was still singled out by the pumped up Riley;

an' though Riley tried ta' blow off his head,

he blew off the tip of his nose instead,

leavin' the unlucky feller' disfigured fer' life.

An' like most gunfights, it didn't take long

to inflict all this damage through strife.

In just a few minutes

there were five dead or dyin',

an' five more who needed the Doc.

Though Anderson was doctored by friends

who wasted no time gettin' him outta' town.

Now, why the local sheriff didn't hear

pert near

fifty shots at 1 AM in the mornin'

is not quite clear.

So when he finally was informed,

an' made it to the hall,

there weren't much he could do anyway.

The dead were dead,

an' the others fled,

they made good on their getaway.

Thus Anderson made good on his boast,

he done in the man that did in his friend,

an' it only took two more of his friends ta' do it.

But like all feuds, which thrive on hate,

an' where both sides think revenge is sweet,

it'll never end til they smartin' up

or each one catches a bullet.

In other words,

though things seemed ta' quiet down,

an' Anderson was in a different town;

in fact it was Medicine Lodge, Kansas

where he was tendin' bar at Harding's Trading Post,

when the ghost of his past did appear.

It came in the form of Arthur McCluskie, Mike's brother.

Another fool addicted ta' seek out revenge,

like a wino seekin' wine from binge ta' binge.
It was June of eighteen an' seventy-three
when Arthur sent a man named Richards
into the saloon ta' bring Anderson out
so he could settle the score
fer' the killin' of his brother two years before.
He even gave Anderson the option of guns or knives.
Well, guns were chosen, in fact
it would be similar to an' old formal duel,
perhaps attemptin' ta' bring some futile honor
to the taken of lives.
They even chose seconds;
there was Richards fer' McCluskie,
an' Harding fer' Hugh.
Ironically, the patrons grumbled a might
when Anderson closed the bar,
while claimin' he had a "chore ta' do."
Though he turned out ta' be a bit overconfident
when he claimed he'd be back in a few.
Once outside upon the street
the two combatants stood back ta' back
an' feet ta' feet.
They then stepped off twenty paces, turned,
an' repeatedly fired at their foe.
There were hundreds of onlookers who wagered an' watched,
awestruck, an' wonderin' how it would go.
Well the first shots went wild,
but the seconds found their mark,
proven this duel was not just a lark;
they came fer' blood an' blood began ta' spill.
Anderson's arm was brokin' an' bleedin':
a cut artery as he sank ta' his knees in pain.
Though he still had enough composure
ta' use his good hand an' take aim.
His gun spit fire an' the bullet flew,
it struck McCluskie in the mouth,
an' he spat out gobs of blood an' broken teeth,
yet still advanced at Hugh.
So Anderson fired twice more,
an' McCluskie crashed down,
with one ta' the leg an' one ta' the middle.
While most the bystanders were thinkin' it's time
ta' play a dirge on the fiddle.
But McCluskie fought through that painful feelin',
an' rose a bit til he were kneelin',
fired again an' gut shot Hugh,
who pitched backward, gaspin' fer' air.
The crowd thought it was over an' began ta' move
but Harding, holding a shotgun
said, "Stay away from there.
This is what they agreed upon,
so don't no one interfere."
An' sure enough it weren't through.
McCluskie pulled his knife,
then crawled painfully to his foe,
an' sank it ta' the hilt in his side.
Though Anderson, too, had his in hand,
used it ta' cut McCluskie's throat,
 an' both collapsed an' died.
In fact, within seconds of each other.
So the bets were collected,
the bodies quickly buried,
an', like the cliche',
"That is all she wrote."

David L. Anderson: from outlaw to lawman

David L.Anderson, born in eighteen an' sixty-two,

died in nineteen an' eighteen,

with alias' of Billy Wilson an' Buffalo Billy.

Though he weren't as rotten, nor as mean

as most who took ta' the wrong side of the law.

He come into the world in Ohio.

Moved ta' Texas early on,

an' took ta' the range as a young cowboy,

liftin' a burden off his Ma an' Pa.

He resettled at eighteen in White Oaks, New Mexico,

where he took on the moniker of Billy Wilson,

an' ran himself a livery stable.

But he had a weakness in business,

an' he weren't no whiz with figures,

though with the stock an' equipment he was more than able.

Well, he up an' sold in eighty;

considered it a good deal,

but the payoff was in counterfeits,

a damn sharper got the stable in a steal.

No, Billy weren't the wisest

where money was concerned,

he simply went ta' passin' the bills he'd been paid,

with an' awful lesson soon ta' be learned.

Cuz' the system failed young Billy,

a warrant was issued fer' him,

while the one who swindled him got away.

You could say the system created an outlaw that day.

Young Wilson was both scared an' riled,

it sent him on the skid.

He jumped bail immediately,

ran off an' joined another Billy --- Billy the Kid.

Wilson may have started as a greenhorn,

but he learned his lessons quick.

Even a pawn can kill a king,

an the game of life is no lark.

It took grit ta' hang with Billy the Kid,

after all, he weren't no saint.

An' posse's by the dozen were always

chompin' at their heels

like a great white shark.

Though more often than not they out smarted them,

or at least had the better luck.

Like on the night of November 29th of eighty-one,

when both the Kid an' Wilson's horses

were shot an' felled' ta' bloody muck,

an' the two still escaped the posse

on foot in the dark.

However, the subsequent retaliation

coulda' used a bit more plannin'.

But the Kid had a powerful hankerin' ta' get even,

even at the expense of common sense.

So the two joined up with Dave Rudabaugh,

an' grabbed some fresh mounts,

then headed back ta' White Oaks

with the thought of recompense.

When the trio boldly rode into town

they quickly spotted Deputy James Redman,

who had been part of the posse on the previous night.

The three drew steel, an' spent some lead,

but Redman ran for cover,

an' somehow got clean outta' sight.

But the sound of gunfire roused the town

an' dozens of citizens joined in the fight.

So the three desperadoes wisely chose ta' take flight,

gallopin' away

in order ta' fight another day.

A day not far in the future,

in fact, on the 'morrow,

when the posse tracked 'um ta' the ranch of Jim Greathouse.

Where posse leader Jim Carlyle tried a bit of reason,

but found out reason weren't in season with the Kid,

who, in fact, played the louse.

Cuz' on Carlyle's next play

he put himself in harm's way,

exchangin' himself fer' a hostage.

An' though he tried his best

it weren't good enough,

took three ta' the chest

when the Kid flipped his lid.
Then William Bonney took the body
an' crashed it through the window,
shockin' the posse with disbelief,
an' givin' time fer' the three men ta' go.
Now when the posse learned they let them escape
they needed themselves a way ta' vent.
They took it out on the ranch house
an' everything in it,
leavin' nothin' but ash an' stone ta' show.
History later would record that while in the house
Anderson, alias Wilson, had also tried ta' reason with the Kid,
but the Kid was havin' none of it from anyone.
Wilson had reminded him, that at that time,
there wasn't much of a charge against them.
But the Kid opted ta' do his thinkin' with a gun.
Ironically, it was this incident that paved the way
fer' Pat Garrett ta' assume command
of the posse in the area,
all searchin' fer' the gang.
Now with Garrett in charge
the posse set a trap near Fort Sumner, New Mexico,
an' waited fer' the outlaws ta' appear.
An' probably thinkin' of which ones would hang.
Then six of 'um came ridin' up on the 19th of December;
so Garrett, Lon Chambers, an' others
leapt from their cover,
confrontin' both outlaws an' fear.
Now Pat appeared ta' want them alive,
but alive was riskier in the eyes of his men,
who started pullin' triggers an' spittin' lead.
In jus' a few seconds the whole thing was done,
but it obviously wasn't done well;
cuz' only O'Folliard an' Pickett were blown
from their saddles.
Oh yeah, an' Dave Rudabaugh's mount was dead.
The Kid an' Charlie Bowdre
had quickly raced away.
An' Anderson showed his grit
by slowin' ta' pick up Dave.
All four of them made good their escape
without so much as a scratch.
Though as luck would have it,
Anderson's days with the gang were numbered
on account of another trap Garrett did hatch.
They caught him at Stinking Springs,
convicted him of robbery an' murder,
an' sent him off ta' prison at Santa Fe.
Though he quickly escaped an' fled ta' Texas,
ta' the town of Sanderson, founded by kin;
where he ended up spendin' many a day.
He lived there quietly under his real name.
He married, raised a family,
an' ran the Old Cottage Bar.
He eventually gained in popularity,
even got himself elected in nineteen-ought-five:
elected by the town ta' wear their star.
From one side of the law to the other,
an' he proved himself time an' again,
keepin' the peace with a resolute steady hand.
So well in fact he did his job
that when his past did arise
Garrett an' others saw that the charges were counter-manned.
But it has often been said,
"If ya' live by the gun, ya' die by the gun."
An' in the life of Anderson it came true.
It came while tryin' ta' reason with a young cowboy
who was drunk an' brandishing his iron.
Well, Anderson let his guard down
cuz' it was someone that he knew.
His name was Ed Valentine,
an' he ran to a shed an' refused ta' come out.
So Anderson felt it was his duty ta' go in,
but he never made it through the door
before the bullet struck him.
An' by the way, lest I forget ta' mention,
the townfolk were so incensed
at this killin' without no sense,
that they seized the culprit an' commenced ta' lynchin'.
As I end this tale
let me leave ya' with a bit of trivia
connected with David L. Anderson.
It has ta' do with his earlier arrest,
an' I find it kinda' interestin'.
The gun that he surrendered ta' Pat Garrett that day
is suppose ta' be the same one the sheriff used
ta' blow Billy the Kid away.
Although history has never been a hundred percent certain.

Burton Alvord: lawman turned outlaw

Burton Alvord lived from eighteen sixty-six ta' nineteen-ten,

a feller' who took ta' both sides of the law.

He came out west with a justice of the peace,

of course he called him "Pa."

They settled in the well-known town of Tombstone

in the days of the Earp-Clanton feud.

In fact, Burton was a stable hand

at the O.K. Corral on that fated day

an' he would never forget what he viewed.

Alvord saw the Earp-Holliday crew defeat the Clanton-McLowery bunch

with cool composure an' deliberate aim,

an' he would mimic that pattern the rest of his life,

it would become a hallmark trait attached ta' his name.

Well in eighteen an' eighty-five at the age of nineteen

Six-Shooter Jimmy dared Alvord ta' make a play,

so both slapped leather on that ill-fated challenge,

but Jimmy fanned an' sprayed

while Alvord took a bead,

an' with one well placed shot it was Burton who walked away.

The well-known John Slaughter witnessed the affair

an' respected the youngster's reserve,

so when he was elected as sheriff of Cochise County in eighty-six

he sought out Alvord with a tin star in hand

an' asked him ta' serve

as a deputy ta' back him up against robbers, rustlers, an' such.

So under the eye of the competent Slaughter

ol' Burton, he learned himself much,

an' he coulda' gone far

wearin' that star

cuz' he lived in a time when fame was attached

ta' those who were tough,

ta' those with a knack

fer' puttin' damn bandits in jail.

Then came eighteen an' eighty-nine

when Alvord's character began ta' lose its shine

on account of the fog an' mist,

an' even some hail,

that comes with heavy drinkin'.

Coincidentally, he mixed his drinks with the outlaw element,

which helped him lose sight of what was important.

Inevitably, things jus' had ta' come ta' a head,

an' it came while on a drinkin' binge with two other yahoos,

when the one named Fuller

took offense at the one named Fortino,

so he grabbed Alvord's gun an' shot him dead.

Now when Sheriff Slaughter arrived on scene ta' learn

that his deputy was too snockered ta' discern

another man had used his gun with deadly force,

he up an' exploded,

chastizin' Burton bad,

"Dammit Son, can't ya' see you've been had

by the spirits yer' drinkin'

an' the company ya' keep?"

Slaughter said, "It's costin' ya' boy,

an' it's gonna get steep!

Now pull it together,

quit actin' like sheep,

or I'll have ta' fire yer' butt, it's my only recourse."

Well, Alvord sorta' soured then

on both Slaughter an' Tombstone,

so he moved ta' Fairbank, A.R.

ta' wear another star

as constable fer' the town.

Course he went back ta' cavortin' with criminals,

an' drinkin' like a fish,

which quickly turned the townfolk's smiles upside down.

He was asked ta' leave an' he quickly left

ta' be the sheriff in the town of Wilcox,

where even the riff raff called him a "boozer."

Then one of them undesirables,

a cowboy gunman named Billy King,

pushed Burton too far,

an' wound up as the real loser.

After threatenin' the star man

the two went out behind the saloon ta' get more space,

but as Billy passed through the door

Burton went into motion,

he drew steel an' shot every load

right in the gunman's face.

By the turn of the century

Alvord had foregone keepin' peace an' the law,

preferin' instead ta' break it.

He ran with the crowd befriended in saloons,

the kind that would look at what is yours as theirs,

if they wanted it they'd pull a gun an' take it.

Well, for a few years

Alvord took ta' leadin' some ruthless no-accounts,

whose only claim ta' fame,

though history's forgot most their names,

was the fact that they robbed a few trains.

Course Alvord weren't no genius,

so they'd catch him an' throw his butt in jail,

first in nineteen-hundred,

then again in ought-three.

The second time with his sidekick Stiles,

with the first name of Billy,

an' it was Billy who stole the keys

while in the position of trustee

which allowed them ta' leave the Tombstone jail.

 Alvord was now wanted with a passion

by the law he use ta' serve,

so he thought he'd use a bit of trickery,

an' the pair came up with a couple of corpses,

sealed them in two coffins an' sent 'um ta' town,

claimin' one was Burton an' the other Billy.

Well, thankfully all lawmen aren't drinkers,

some, in fact, are thinkers,

an' the star men in Tombstone weren't fooled by the ruse.

They opened those coffins

an' found two dead Mexicans,

which undoubtedly proved

that Burton an' Billy were still on the run.

This fact greatly perturbed the Arizona rangers

who set off in grim pursuit,

vowin' ta' bring 'um back,

or put 'um down with a gun.

Ignorin' the border of Ol' Mexico

acrossed it the rangers did tramp.

Then they headed yonder ta' Nigger Head Gap,

an' found the two in their so-called secret camp.

First talkin' was tried, but neither were havin' it,

both gunmen went fer' their steel.

So the rangers unloaded, an' wounded the pair,

though Stiles still somehow slipped away.

But Alvord was down with two ta' the leg,

an' that weren't the only pain he'd feel;

cuz' they packed him off ta' Yuma Prison,

where they'd turn a rusty key.

He would call it home fer' the next two years

on account of robbery.

Upon his release in nineteen-ought-six,

he decided ta' leave the American west.

Headin' fer' Central America, or so it's said.

Supposedly seekin' his fortune,

though reports seem ta' have him driftin':

Venezuala, Honduras,

an' workin' on the canal in ol' Panama

until the year of nineteen-ten,

the year most historians claim him dead.

Nobody Knows the Kid

Here is a bit of western poetry outside of the Professor's alias.

As the last rays stole away

an' shadow cast itself upon the panes

the usual flibberty-gibbet an' hem an' haw

took a backseat to another stranger ---

though we'd plum lost count on which number he'd be ---

confessed through whiskey breath

that he knew "the Kid."

Which, as you can surmise

sparked multiple decibels of mutterin' throughout the saloon,

a half-dozen "Glory be's,"

and a unanimous "Do tell."

So seein' he had the floor,

the proverbial spotlight were a'fixed,

he wasted but a moment ta' wet his whistle again,

then commenced his tale.

Well this feller' piled it higher an' higher,

he was a bald-face liar,

even the usual crackpots he way out did ---

cuz' lies are lies, an' facts are facts,

an' truth be known

don't nobody really know the Kid.

Case in point

the multitude with lives out of joint

hopin' ta' cash in on some unearned fame,

sort of... guilt by association,

professin' ta' be "blood kin."

Yet all they've got ta' prove such claims

is that their surname just happens ta' be

Bonney or Antrim.

Woe upon woe to these misbegot's

who do little more than add shame

ta' their name.

Even those who claim McCarty as the proper moniker

maybe no better than the others,

since not one shred of evidence has ever come ta' light,

an' proved beyond a shadow of a doubt,

if'n fact it were the Kid's name,

his mother's maiden name,

or his half-brother's...

his half-brother's pa, that is.

I suppose if'n yer' a gambler "McCarty" makes fer' a best bet,

but the wiser move

is ta' wait til there's evidence ta' prove,

so you can at least speak from a place of intellect.

"Alas," says the stranger, a windin' down his tale ---

slurrin' more words than in the beginnin' ---

"November 23rd in eighteen an' fifty-nine

is a day my friends like no other," says he.

"The day of the birth of my friend, the Kid, ya' see,"

just repeatin' the fib of others before.

If'n he'd checked his facts before speakin'

he'd a found out a certain little truth,

Ash Upson, the predominant tale-spinner fer' Pat Garrett's biography

was a might uncouth,

an' used his own date of birth fer' the Kid's.

In actuality, no certificate of birth has ever come ta' light

ta' verify neither the time nor destination

of when or where the Kid come into the world.

But like others before him, the stranger cared not a wit,

nor had a wit ta' care,

he'd continue ta' jaw-jack fer' as long as the cactus juice flowed.

He went on ta' tell how he stood beside

the Kid's younger brother "Edward" on the auspicious day of matrimony,

an' how he'd even had business dealin's

with the Kid's older brother "Joe."

Jus' perpetuating the illegitimate facts of dimwit myth-makers

too lazy ta' seek out truth over fiction,

or too dang blab greedy

knowin' there's cash ta' be had,

or perhaps jus' free drinks,

to uplift legend over the true ta' life depiction.

Ya' see, there weren't no brother Edward,

an' Joseph was the younger, an' only half ta' boot.

An' both were cast away upon the death of their Ma

when William Antrim, their Ma's last betrothed,

shown himself only half a man

ditchin' his late wife's dependents

so away he could scoot.

Yet such truths never once passed this stranger's lips,

fer' every yarn he did spin

sunk him deeper in

the quagmire of falsehood an' fable.

He said, "Do ya'll recall

the day the Kid first stood tall ---

a mere lad of twelve, protectin' his Ma's... honor

an' blastin' the bejeezus out of a cad,

an' hightailin' it away?"

Except in actuality, the Kid never ran away

til after bein' arrested fer' the simple theft of laundry,

an' his Ma had already passed on from consumption by then.

But that stranger, as if gettin' a second wind,

said, "Set um' up again at the bar

an' at the table"

where he sat down again an' recommenced the fable.

He raised his glass high ta' bid a toast

"To the greatest left-handed gun in the west!"

Obviously unaware of the truth that's come ta' light ---

ta' even many who don't claim ta' know him ---

how the left-hand nonsense started;

cuz' the only known photo of the Kid

is an' old reverse tin-type.

An' since it's reversed

than right is left

an' left is right.

An' since then, as most merely look with a glance,

rarely the truth shall meet.

Factually speakin' the Kid was ambidextrous,

though predominantly used his right.

Now I took a gander at the grandfather clock standin' amongst us

jus' tickin' away the night,

an' I figured that gent,

an' I use the term loosely,

would've stood up an' stumbled out quick

had he known his flappin' jaw,

with each lie now bein' tallied,

would take the power of a magic trick

ta' curtail his soon comeuppance.

But he jus' kept on a jabberin',

addin' to our arsenal ta' go against him.

The next bit of trivia he did offer was how the Kid not only had a finger

but a temper that was quick on the trigger,

an' how he hated ta' speak any negative against him,

cuz' he loved the little cuss.

An' of course he'd stand by every claim jus' like we'd figger'.

But truth be known, most folk, friend or foe,

reporters, an' those he took ta' courtin'

testify ta' his easy goin' ways,

good spirits an' good humor.

'Ceptin' of course, strangers like this feller'

or even Pat Garrett,

who had a specific political agenda ta' perpetuate the rumor.

An' the stranger jus' gulped down another slug of firewater,

an' continued with facts he thought he knew.

He claimed he once offered ---

in secret mind ya', so as not to offend the boy ---

ta' teach poor Billy how ta' read an' write,

on account ta' his illiteracy.

Well, "poor" was the truth,

but "illiterate" ain't.

As a young pup he had a hankerin' ta' write an' read.

An' even without much formal education

he scoured books, dime novels, an' penny dreadfuls.

Showin' more sense than this gent with a head full

of nothin' but fudged facts an' lies.

Lies of the sort he claimed of John Tunstall.

"Such a fine old gent, tried ta' steer the Kid right,

a father figure if there ever was one."

'Cept Tunstall was jus' a mere twenty-four

when he bit the dust,

murdered in the Lincoln County War.

Though it's true he helped the Kid get out of a stint in jail

an' gave him a job ta' boot,

he weren't really fatherly,

an' never even told his close folks about the Kid,

though he mentioned others he did employ.

That tidbit of untruth rings of the Hollywood touch,

it makes fer' better scripts fer' folks ta' enjoy.

Well, ol' whiskey breath kept a talkin',

spillin' his guts like a criminal confession,

irritatin' our eardrums with his squawkin',

jus' like a damn political senate session,

an' makin' jus' about as much sense.

Like claimin' the Kid rode with the infamous Jesse James,

though it's true that they met,

but never shared the same trail dust,

they simply chatted each other up at an eatery.

Ol' Jesse said, "Join me."

The Kid said, "Nix."

An' that's the simple truth of history.

Well that stranger was a snockered now,

with the rot gut flowin' so freely,

an' he slurred most his words,

an' butchered the others,

so we could hardly understand him.

Course it never deterred him,

he jus' kept pavin' manure road

with one shit an' shine-ola claim after another.

Like how the Kid,

allegedly upset fer' losin' forty winks of sleep,

plugged a bellowin' blowhard fer' snorin'.

Too drunk ta' realize he was mixin' up facts,

claimin' feats by the Kid that were actually done

by both Clay Allison an' John Wesley Hardin.

An' then he had to unearth the false recollection so often babbled

how the Kid was "Little Casino"

to his friend of friends "Big Casino" Pat Garrett.

In truth they were acquainted,

but you could never call what they had "true friendship."

Jus' a law dog and an outlaw pup crossin' paths on the trails of life.

Finally the stranger with the diarrhea mouth

was truly windin' it down,

he could hardly hold his head above the table.

Yet he said, "Jus' one last thing I'd like ta' remind ya'll,

how young Billy tallied up a death toll,

killin' a man fer' every year he lived,

that bein' twenty-one."

Except the most notable "kidologists" have come ta' realize

the Kid probably never reached that legal age,

an' the notches on his gun

were less than a dozen,

an' less than a half-dozen fer' those he took out by himself.

There was Frank Cahill an' Joe Grant,

both in self-defense.

An' of course James Bell an' Bob Olinger

while he was escapin' the rope.

Any others were in tussles durin' the Lincoln County affair.

An' history has gone on ta' prove

in that fiasco the Kid never got a break,

even the Govenor failed ta' treat him fair.

Well, the stranger finally shut-up as he passed out with the sauce,

jus' as the first rays of the sun began ta' flicker.

An' the rest of us went into motion,

findin' tar, an' gatherin' feathers,

cuz' it's payback time fer' this city slicker.

Ya' see, this dandy made a heap of mistakes,

but the one that did him in,

was pickin' a bar in Billy's hometown ta' do his drinkin' an' lyin' in.

Sure, we know once a legend is started

the myth will continue ta' grow,

it's always like that when lies are set free

an' truth is kept under a lid.

But only fools tell them where the Kid called "home"

an' the descendants of Billy's contemporaries

attempt ta' keep the record straight.

So this stranger will be sloshed,

an' he'll be fluffed,

an' he'll skedaddle like a tar-baby chick right outta' the state.

An' hopefully learn a lesson that us here in Billy's hometown already know ---

nobody really knows the Kid.

Gunfighter Clay Allison

Now here's a longwinded tale ya' might recall
                    'bout a mean ol' son of a gun.
Though it's rare ta' recollect his right moniker,
          that bein' Robert A.,
                    since most tales record it as Clay:
          folks, that's Clay Allison.
Born in 1840, beneath the sod in eighty-seven.
          Yet, if'n ya' believe in the hereafter,
                    don't go lookin' fer' him in heaven.
Had himself a mean streak runnin' to his marrow.
He seethed with anger that never seemed to abate.
Though havin' a clubfoot,
                    an' bein' diagnosed as "epileptic"
          might've contributed to this quick tempered state.
He worked his parents farm near Waynesboro, Tennessee
                    til' the age of twenty-one.
Then went off ta' fight the Civil War
                    as soon as it begun.
He wore the grey of the Johnny Reb,
          an' his foot didn't hamper him much.
He performed with vigor on the battlefield,
                    in fact in several battles,
          discovering he had the blood 'n' guts touch.
Yet in March of sixty-two
                    he was sent home ta' recuperate,
          from his own Confederate sawbones.
The doctor claimed it was less the physical, more the mental,
          "partly epileptic and partly maniacal,"
                    man, that boy can hate.
Reportedly, he even threatened ta' gun down superiors
          fer' optin' not ta' persue an' execute fleein' yankees.
As if the killin' were more important
                    than the color coat he wore,
          or his sides professed beliefs.
Thus home again an' hatin' it;
          couldn't get passed the feelin' of bein' betrayed.
His anger needed a release.
It came in the form of a Union trooper;
          a two-striper from the Third Illinois Cavalry;
                    who rode to the farm
          with the intent of robber's harm,
                    yet what he got was "Rest in Peace."
The fool must've thought "easy pickin's"
          as he approached Clay's mother on the ol' homestead.
He learned too late
          a bullet was his fate,
                    Allison shot him dead.
Now when the South surrendered
          Clay an' some kin headed out ta' Texas,
                    an' found a bit of trouble on the way.
Zachery Colbert attempted ta' double his fee
          for ferryin' the family
                    across the Red River.
But gettin' whooped by Clay
                    was his only pay,
          an' he was left unconscious ta' boot.
With Clay's family takin' the ferry
          an' crossin' the river for free
                    they did scoot.
Arrivin' in Texas Clay forsook the sod,
          choosin' ta' remain in the saddle
                    as a cowhand.
Beneath some noted barons he quickly learned the trade,
          even one of the band who helped ta' blaze
                    the Goodnight - Loving Trail in 1866.
Up ta' Colorado,
          but first through New Mexico,
                    after startin' right there in Texas.
He later left Oliver Loving an' Charles Goodnight,
          took ta' roost with M.L. Dalton an' Isaac Lacy,
                    apparently seein' an' opportunity.
He drove a large herd up New Mexico way
                    along about eighteen-seventy.
Then demanded as pay three-hundred head
          of cattle ta' start his own spread
                    right near in Cimarron.
Now his ranch, it prospered right from the start,
          but it didn't bring no warmth to his ice cold heart.
In fact, his savagery... well,
          it really began to emerge
                    in a way that'd make ya' downright sick.
Come the seventh of October,
          after drinkin' his thoughts
                    over in Elizabethtown,
          he decided to enjoy a vigilante kick.
Aimed at a feller' named Charles Kennedy,
          jus' recently convicted of murder,
          an' coolin' his heels jus' across the way
                    in the town's grey bar motel.
So Clay incited a mob
          intent on doin' the job
                    of lynchin' the poor bastard,
          an' sendin' him straight ta' Hell.
The mob crossed the street
                    then caved in the door,
          an' knocked the scared deputies senseless.
Then they charged down the hall,
          goin' pell-mell,
                    straight to the cell,
          not worried at all,
          since most of the mob could only stand tall
          when they knew their victim was defenseless.
So the hoosegow lost its border.
They drug him kickin' an' screamin'
          over to the slaughterhouse.
Lynched him quick.
Then commenced ta' mutilatin'
                    usin' huge ol' knives
          employed for cattle butcherin':
          doin' some things to a man
          ya' shouldn't do to a rabid mouse.
Then Allison cut the body down,
          used an ax ta' decapitate the corpse,
                    an' jammed the head on a pole.
He then took ta' ridin' with his gruesome trophy
          all the way ta' Henry Lambert's saloon
                    in Cimarron
          where he displayed the head for show.
An time moved on.
Now it's been said Clay's friends were "fiercely loyal."
Though secretly they probably just feared ta' go against him.
But his enemies vowed ta' kill him whenever a chance arose.
Such was the case fer' gunman Chunk Colbert,
          who steamed fer' nine years
                    over the beatin' Clay gave his Uncle Zachery.
Chunk thought he would dispose
         of this villain Allison,
                    but first challenged him to a race.
It were a dead heat with the horses,
          so they chose to eat dinner an' rest
                    at the Clifton House.
Where Chunk tried some trickery,
          but Clay was still quicker ya' see,
                    an' shot him dead, right in the face.
An' after they buried Colbert behind the inn
          someone asked Clay Allison,
          why would ya' even sit down with such a one?
A known assassin out ta' get ya' with a gun?
"Cuz' I didn't want ta' send a man ta' Hell
          on an empty stomach," claimed Clay.
Though it appears that two lives were fated that day,
          cuz' in the inn was Charles Cooper,
                    a friend of the newly demised,
          who shoulda' wised - up at what he saw,
                    but the incident jus' stuck in his craw.
Then Cooper began statin' publicly
          how he'd do Allison a world of hurt.
Then came the nineteenth of January of seventy-four,
          after Cooper had been spotted on the way ta' town,
          he was never seen, nor heard from again.
And it's said he was waylaid by Allison,
          an' now lays under prairie dirt.
Though nothin' was ever proven,
          even at Clay's trial,
                    which came some two years late.
But with no body an' no evidence
          there weren't much of a case,
          an' Clay walked out with a clean slate.
As time ticked on, Clay's reputation grew:
          the crazy gunfighter without his wits collected.
He feared no one an' could always be counted on
                    ta' do the unexpected.
Like steppin' from a saloon in Canadian, Texas
          wearin' nothin' but his guns, boots, an' a hat.
Marchin' up an' down the main street
          challenging one an' all.
And he got no takers... imagine that.
Then reportedly, at another saloon,
          where lots of whiskey did flow,
          Clay an' Mason T. Bowman stripped to their longjohns,
                    shouted an' wildly danced,
          while shootin' up the floor at each other's feet,
                    with onlookers all in a trance,
          cuz' neither of them bloodied a toe.
Now on October 30th, of seventy-five,
          the right time of year fer' another nightmare,
                    Allison took part in another lynchin'.
He helped ta' hang Cruz Vega,
          prior to his day in court,
                    thus increasin' his rep's dimensions.
As Vega was dragged ta' the telegraph pole
                    by Allison an' the others,
          he shouted his innocence out ta' all,
                    all sisters an' brothers.
Vega even professed, in fact, ta' know
                    who the real killer was,
          a man named Manuel Cardenas.
But no innocent plea can ever dissuade
          callous humans under the spell of bloodlust.
So up he was strung, began ta' strangle real slow,
          so Clay put a bullet in his back.
"To put the poor Mex out of his misery,"
                    said the man that no one could trust.
When they cut the body down,
          Clay drug it around the town,
                    behind his horse, of course.
Then he rode out of town,
                    over rocks an' heavy brush
          with the body now absent a face.
Out ta' the desert , with no "X" ta' mark the spot,
          he left Vega's body ta' rot,
                    addin' ta' his disgrace.
Two days later Francisco Pancho Griego,
          Vega's employer showed up in Cimarron.
Along with Luis Vega, the victim's teenage son,
          and Griego's partner, Florencio Donahue,
                    with their minds set on Clay Allison.
Never one fer' hidin' --- never one fer' fear,
          Clay boldly confronted the trio outside the St. James
          an' said, "Come on in fer' a drink."
They each had a few, playin' it cool,
                    appearin' ta' mull things about.
Til Griego motioned to a corner of the bar,
          an' the action, like treachery, givin' out a stink.
But Clay smelled it comin', with Griego fannin' his sombrero
          on one of the coldest nights fer' a spell.
An' prepared with his own little trick,
          a small pistol he'd already palmed.
Then right on cue, off went the lights,
                    thanks to an Allison friend,
          an' Clay sent another ta' Hell.
The bullet found Griego's heart,
          who now spread dead on the floor,
                    an' when the lamp was relit
          Allison was nowhere around.
Now the citizens of Colfax County had a fit,
          an' they started themselves a campaign
          ta' rid themselves of a man-killer who did abound
                    in dealin' out death an' pain.
Ironically, one of those dogooders
          irritatin' Clay like a pus-filled blister
                   was none other than Lewis Coleman,
          husband of Mary, Clay's own sister.
Tryin' ta' drum up publicity
                    to oust the notorious badman,
          they allied the editor of the Cimarron News & Press.
Then they casually stood by when Clay came ta' town,
          destroyed the offices,
                    an' put the paper out of business.
Well, Allison's Cimarron neighbors were nervous,
          but most times they still could function,
          yet the towns he trailed herds to
                    were plum mortified
          at his rep, antics, an' callous compunction.
Las Animas townfolk in Colorado
          have a tale to tell of two Allison's,
                    Clay an' his brother John.
The year was eighteen an' seventy-six,
          the night of December, twenty plus one.
Fresh off the trail, an' sellin' their herd,
                    they fancied some fun an' sportin'.
They barged into a dance,
                    began steppin' on toes,
          in more ways than one, if ya' get my meanin'.
Cuz' the women they grabbed
          fer' their five-minute courtin'
                    were the wives of merchants,
          who stood stewin' an' steamin'.
Now the town constable, Deputy Charles Faber,
          tried ta' relieve those two boys of their hardware.
First he tried reason, but they weren't reasonable.
Then he tried on fer' size,
                    two men deputized,
          an' a scatter-gun, with hope of oustin' the pair.
Now when "Look out" was yelled,
                    John Allison turned,
          appearin' ta' go fer' the draw.
So Faber let loose one of the barrels,
          an' buckshot sent blood on the wall.
Then Clay, at the bar,
          with his back ta' the scene,
          whirled 'round with two-guns in hand.
He let four bullets fly toward the foolish deputy,
          who took one to the chest,
                    that sent him to the Promised Land.
But as Faber went down the shotgun went off,
          an' Brother John took another load.
This time to the leg,
          the first was to the chest an' arm.
No one present would've been so bold
          as to bet a buck or two
          that John would recover from all that harm.
After gunnin' down Faber,
          an' runnin' the other feller's off,
          Clay came to his fallen kin in a hurry.
Then grabbed the dead deputy,
          yanked his bloody corpse closer an' said,
          "Look here, this man is dead, John, not to worry,
          vengeance is ours!... Not to worry."
Of course John recovered,
          an' Clay walked on account of self-defense,
                    an' the legends about him grew.
With his name appearin' in police gazettes
          an' the penny dreadfuls back East,
                    with less an' less of the print bein' true.
Well, as time did go
          Clay left New Mexico
He went back ta' Texas, ta' Hemphill County,
          where he started a spread an' took up a wife.
He actually appeared ta' temper a bit,
          avoidin' gunfighters an' causin' less strife.
Now with his forutnes on the rise
          up to Lincoln, N.M. he did row       
          where several events were attributed to him
          though most were all talk an' no show.
It is said while on a trail drive ta' Wyoming
          Allison stopped in Ol' Cheyenne
          ta' get some work done on a howlin' tooth.
But the dentist's brains turned ta' jello
                    on account of he was yellow
          an' scared ta' death that Clay was in his booth.
So with his knees a knockin'
                    clickity-clack, an' his mind all blank,
          he took ta' workin' on one of Clay's good teeth.
Which cost him a tooth of his own,
          an' pert near all of them if help hadn't arrived.
Though one thing's fer' certain,
                    it could've been worse.
          He could be laid out beneath a wreath.
Though another story about Clay,
          a tale quite similar ta' John Wesley Hardin,
          with even less ta' back the claim,
          allegedly occurred when he was forced ta' share a room.
The other feller', a gunman by the way,
          supposedly snored louder than a thunder boom.
Now as the tale goes
                    Clay wanted some repose
          but couldn't sleep a wink fer' all the noise.
So up he did sit
          about ta' pitch a fit
          but instead just plugged him with one of his toys.
Now Allison's death came in the summer of eighty-seven,
          it was on the first of July,
          with many a folk ponderin' the when, where, an' why?
It came not with a rope,
          an' not with a knife,
                   nor even a gun shootin' lead.
He was bringin' home supplies
                    while all liquored up,
          fell beneath the wagon
                    an' the wheel crushed his head.
Such a mediocre way ta' die
          fer' this legend ta' be in upcoming generations.
So much so, that it caused the press of his day
                    confusion an' consternation.
So their digits took ta' writin'
                    as the rags began fightin'
          to see who could build the biggest myth overnight.
But I'm not gonna tell 'um,
          cuz' that's not my way,
                    I prefer what's supported ta' tell.
And the fact remains,
          after a life of dealin' out pains... to others,
                    it was his own damn fault
          tippin' the bottle,
                    that sent himself straight ta' Hell.