A Lawless Lawman: Jack Helm

Jack Helm was a racist S.O.B.
Who wore the grey and favored slavery.
He even did wrong
Over a Yankee song
That a black man whistled with bravery.

And when there was no Civil War,
You could find him with a star that he bore
In the great state of Texas
Where he hated the Mex's,
And everyone else that's for sure.

Helm got caught-up in the Sutton-Taylor feud;
The type of duty that befit his evil mood.
A prime instigator,
He was head regulator,
And the days he didn't kill he'd sulk and brood.

His body count raised his reputation.
The Governor even gave him a new station.
But when deeds come to light
Causing citizens fright,
He's sent back to DeWitt for the duration.

John Wesley Hardin was one of Helm's foes:
A kin to the Taylor's, or so the story goes.
Several times they met,
Their back-ups vented and wet,
Yet Hardin and Helm escaped the death throes.

But in eighteen-seventy-three, in the month of July,
The two evil rivals would have one more try.
Helm came from the rear,
Hardin turned with a sneer,
To blast Helm with buckshot: his day to die.

Johnny Ringo: Nothing like the legend

We buy fiction over fact,

not just the American way, but a human trait.

Do we think all tales are benign

an' less interesting if we tell them straight?

"Johnny Ringo"

the name befits the legend told.

Chosen instead of his real name,

he was known to his kin as John Ringgold.

So many have claimed

he was the fastest gun of them all.

But when compared ta' facts

none of the claims ever stand tall.

It's assumed he was born in Missouri,

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

He could read, write, an' do figures,

which is far more than most gunmen could do.

He even loved ta' quote Shakespeare,

which is quite rare as outlaws go.

So ignorance was not ta' blame

fer' how his life sank so low.

Yet somehow he never learned honor,

he would play both sides of the law.

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

Can anyone claim that's not a flaw?

But his tin time was brief,

it obviously cramped his style.

Cuz' outlaws are the same everywhere,

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

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

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

Pert' near every shot that Ringo did fire

came after his brain was quite cloudy.

Like the bloke with the joke

at the expense of a filly passin' by,

who Ringo pistol-whipped,

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

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

durin' the time he was in Tombstone.

Though even then when he used his guns

he rarely acted alone.

It's believed he was one of four men who

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

An' why the famed Wyatt Earp

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

Though history's not clear on the actual demise

of the not-so-infamous Johnny Ringo,

cuz' two others lay claim to what Earp professed,

bringin' down the outlaw with no soul.

Ringo's body was found in Turkey Creek Canyon

in eighteen-eighty an' two.

His scalp was removed, but not by an injun'

which adds ta' the mystery too.

One bit of truth, when Ringo still lived,

that proves he was less of a man,

was the day of his arrest with John Wesley Hardin,

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

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

John Armstrong's the title he bore,

held back deputies as he went ahead

ta' take down the outlaw he swore.

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

four others around him did sit.

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

all were suppose ta' have grit.

Yet when the proceedings commenced

Hardin jumped first, followed quickly by young Jim Mann.

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

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

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

he never made a move ta' draw steel.

Yep, this is the true man of legend,

how strange is the American ideal.

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

then pour out the whiskey he drank.

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

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

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.

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."