Hang the Archer Gang

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lynching Robert Lacy

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

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

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

The Bucket of Blood: Big Steve Long and the Moyer Brothers

Big Steve Long and the Moyer's, Con and Ace
Did deeds they now wish they could erase
They should've been behind bars
But wore self-appointed stars
Which made the law in Laramie City a disgrace

The Moyer's founded the city as it stood
But turned it into their own private hood
They owned the saloon
Their outlaw cocoon
Aptly named "The Bucket of Blood"

The card games in the back room were fixed
So the Moyer's could profit from tricks
When accused of the scam
A six-shooter went "Blam!"
Til the town folk got tired of these hicks

A miner called "Hard Luck" was ambushed by Long
He wanted to rob him but things went all wrong
The gunman was shot
The miner was not
And a case could be made that he didn't belong

The fiance of Long treated his wound
Then made the decision her marriage was doomed
She told of his deeds
To the vigilantes
And their anger festered and bloomed

Boswell the rancher took charge of the mob
To put three corrupt lawmen out of a job
From the bar they were taken
In boots they were shakin'
A fair consequence after they chose to rob

The unholy trio went lickety-split
To an unfinished cabin with nooses now fit
From rafters they hung
Their Swan Song was sung
Hell hounds now chase them deep in the Pit

John X Beidler: voracious vigilante

Some say that German-born Beidler, John X,

would rather have a good fight than bad sex,

an' I suppose many men might say the same.

But his vigilante ways

in the wild west days

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

When the law was non-existent

Beidler was insistent,

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

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

or with a group he'd share the fun,

an' never did he end up in disgrace.

He first plied this trade in Kansas

when cowboys over-stepped their chances:

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

Their actions stuck in Beidler's craw,

who used a small Howitzer ta' draw,

an' turned every cowpoke smile into a frown.

It was loaded with printers type,

an' caused some media hype,

as he single-handedly sent them on the run.

The cowboys had fits,

fer' weeks they plucked out bits,

fer' gettin' out of hand with their fun.

From then on the high-brow ta' shanty

would be touched by the vigilante,

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

To Montana he took his trade,

without a mask an' never afraid:

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

But he never had no takers

from kith an' kin of law-breakers:

they all had heard tell of his reputation.

Beidler was squat an' he was mean,

with a walrus mustache an' a loyal team,

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

Some folks even said

he took the rifle ta' bed,

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

of that there's no denyin'.

Beidler was a distractor

fer' the lesser criminal factor,

but desperadoes kept pushin'...

an' ended up dyin'.

When badmen stole hope,

an' good folks couldn't cope,

Beidler an' his crew would answer the call.

They never would mope,

they'd bring their own rope,

an' dish out some vigilante law.

But when a police force was hired

Beidler an' his crew retired,

they were happy ta' let progress have its day.

Yet they had done much

fer' towns in the clutch

 of badmen goin' further astray.

Sweet memory divine

of towin' the line,

an' never steppin' over the bounds.

Many criminals were pinched,

about half of them lynched:

sent down ta' be chased by hellhounds.

Reese Anderson: vigilante justice

Reese Anderson ain't known fer' much in history.

He was a cowpoke who lived by the rule,

"I'll do unto you as you do unto me."

He worked fer' Granville Stuart,

who had a ranch up Montana way.

He worked hard an played harder,

an' didn't have a lot ta' say.

Cowpokin's a hard enough job as it is

without rustlers an' horse thieves an' such.

It's why ranchers like cowboys like Reese,

good men who come thru' in a clutch.

Reese up an' volunteered

ta' lead a dozen peers

throughout the Lower Judith Basin.

The bandits an' robbers,

rustlers an' thieves,

all of 'um they commenced ta' chasin'.

Many a bad hombre

chose ta' hideout

between Judith rivers an' Musselshell.

Reese an' his crew

caught twenty-three of the fools,

with a one-way ticket ta' Hell.

Ya' see, they were caught red-handed,

with cattle an' cayuse mix-branded.

And since each chose ta' play,

they now rue the day,

cuz' of what vigilante justice demanded.

Justice demanded payment in full

from takers,

law-breakers,

who never give back.

So Reese an' his crew --

vigilant vigilantes --

made nooses ta' stretch each one's neck.

Caught with the cattle,

an' caught with the horses,

the twenty-three outlaws

had no recourse.

Ya' need not feel sorry,

an' ya' need not feel sad,

cuz' they each had a choice

an' they chose ta' be bad.

They thought honest folks

were chickens fer' pluckin',

til the noose touched their necks

then they started cluckin'.

"Forgive us,

we're sorry,

we won't sin again."

"We know that ya' won't,"

said Reese an' his men.

They swatted hind-quarters,

the horses did jump,

the outlaws all dangled,

an' half took a dump.

Well, crime isn't pretty,

an' it rarely does pay.

An' there will always be a day of reckoning...

an' that day was their day.



Erastus Yager: confession is good for the soul

Erastus Yager, aka Red,

earned his bounty with fear an' dread,

as an outlaw with the Sheriff Henry Plummer Gang.

They called themselves the Innocents,

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

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

They robbed the town of mucho money,

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

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

Yager wanted ta' live life large,

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

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

He'd rob an' he'd steal,

an' shoot hot lead from cold steel,

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

He even had no qualms

of takin' kids from moms,

if a ransom from the kin could be shaken.

But meanness trumps not intelligence,

which was lacking in most Innocents,

something Yager found out way too late.

Yager was sent with the dispatch

with the plans Plummer did hatch,

but vigilantes there did lay in wait.

In December they did hold him,

fer' his crimes they did scold him,

but they let him live while he squealed on others.

His meanness shrank away,

the coward squealed fer' days,

he blabbed non-stop about his outlaw brothers.

Fer' fear of the hangman's noose

Yager's tongue was really loose:

he spilled his guts in every conceivable way.

Twenty-six key members of the gang

were revealed when Yager sang,

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

The members fell one-by-one,

they danced in the air or dropped by the gun,

living large cost all of them their breath.

An' in Stinking Valley on January 4th,

in eighteen-sixty an' four,

Erastus Yager had his date with death.

I'm sure that Yager thought

with squealin' he had bought

his freedom from the hands of the vigilantes.

But the consequence of sin

had finally done him in,

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

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

but the only ones that would know

find it hard ta' turn back an' tell.

Cuz' they're the good or bad,

the happy an' the sad,

who have already gone ta' heaven or hell.