Bob Meldrum: a bloody-handed lawman

Legend has it Bob Meldrum worked with Tom Horn
Though his ethics were different and his morals were torn
But he got 'er done
A quick-triggered gun
Who then found himself the subject of scorn

The star that he wore was bought and paid for
By mine owners and ranchers with profits galore
So they turned a blind eye
When more men did die
Then those who were locked behind a cell door

When Meldrum killed Bowen they threw him in jail
But the Snake River Cattlemen raised his huge bail
He then chose to scram
Six-years on the lam
Justice sometimes clearly moves like a snail

He chose to surrender and go through a trial
Some think it was rigged but they did it with style
A manslaughter conviction
With prison restriction
For five to seven years, "you'll be gone for awhile"

Yet just three months later Meldrum was free
Paroled to a rancher who took custody
So his life killing men
While still wearing tin
Would fade making saddles anonymously

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

William Cowper Brann: gun toting journalist

William Cowper Brann

was a newspaper man

who seemed ta' dip his pen in acid.

His acidic editorials

caused many men ta' broil:

an' they'd swear he talked hard

cuz' his manhood was flaccid.

He ticked-off town folk

all over Texas,

first at the Tribune,

then at the Post.

But when he published his own rag,

the Iconoclast,

that's when ol' Brann

ticked-off the most.

His scathing claims

behind folks names

nearly got him roasted.

The rag was sold,

but then he got bold,

it was restarted with topics well-toasted.

Subscribers did flock

ta' the editorial shock,

they scoured it like a dime novel.

But T.E. Davis

took personal offense,

an' he swore that he would make Brann grovel.

With emotions igniting

cuz' of his type of writing,

Brann always carried a gun.

So Davis an' Brann

did an' Old West man-ta'-man:

both figured ta' see this thing done.

They drew the line

an' spoke their mind

as they stood on the streets of Waco.

Davis drew faster,

shot a round from his blaster,

an' swore that he killed the "A" hole.

The bullet drew blood,

it gushed like a flood,

it hit hard in the side an' he whirled.

Brann drew his own piece

an' four shots did release,

until Davis dropped an' curled.

Four-fer'-four with the gun

an' Davis was done:

from fair weather ta' hotter than Hell.

Brann equally died

from the wound in his side:

one acid pen caused two men ta' kill.

They say that the pen

is mightier than a sword;

but if it's ta' be wielded,

make sure you are shielded,

or you may soon spill forth your own gourd.



Malachi Allen: lost temper, lost arm, lost life

Have ya' heard of Malachi Allen?

He was just another foolish felon

who thought pure cussedness would serve him well.

He swore his life was goin' ta' Hades,

as a gunman in the eighteen-eighties,

but if it was... his choices paid the bill.

He quarreled with Cy an' Shadrach

over a saddle an' tack,

an' shot them both dead in the Chickasaw Nation.

It was the fifteenth of July

when he done in Shadrach an' Cy,

proven he cared not a wit fer' human relations.

A posse was assembled,

of his peers it did resemble,

an' Deputy Marshall McAlester led the way.

They cornered the desperado,

but peacefully he would not go,

so they fought a vicious gun battle that day.

Malachi came ta' harm

with a bullet in his arm,

he tried ta' fight but could not pull the trigger.

So he was apprehended,

his futile flight up-ended,

the posse saw the irony an' snickered.

To Fort Smith they all came,

where Isaac Parker gained fame,

as the judge who loved ta' hang 'um high.

Malachi's arm they did amputate,

another casualty of his hate,

but it did not stop his appointed day ta' die.

On the gallows he heard townfolk jest,

as they watched in their Sunday best,

cuz' a hangin' party was a big event.

Now too late ta' be undone,

the cruel acts he did fer' fun,

one final drop an' he would be Hell bent.