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.

Ned Buntline: the murder charge

A byline for Buntline came after a Navy hitch
First in Cincinnati, then to Nashville he did switch
With a sensational rag
Ned Buntline's Own mag
Where some called him, "genius," and some, "son of a bitch"

Charged with murder in forty-six, a mob took Buntline to lynch
Before a trial they grabbed a noose and tightened it to pinch
They strung him up high
But he didn't die
And the whole affair soon had a stench

They found him "not guilty" on his day in court
And the mob would now like to go back and abort
"We're sorry as heck
For the scar on your neck
We'd each like to buy you a rye whiskey quart"

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.



Joseph Allen's Anger Done Him In

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But with beef baron Bobbitt always a bestin' their best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          But perhaps he shoulda' checked his own temper,

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

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

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