Poker Alice

Alice Ivers would become better known as "Poker Alice."
A teen bride whose husband was older and callous.
But he taught her about cards
With tricky sharps and friendly pards,
And it birthed a dream about having her own poker palace.

She was still a teen when she moved to Deadwood,
Where she was asked if she could deal cards, and she could.
Her husband was soon dead,
She became devoted to gambling instead,
And roamed the West like any good sharp would.

She smoked big black cigars and downed shots of whiskey.
She played for high stakes and dared to be risky.
She knew when to hold,
And she knew when to fold,
And there were times she did both if she began to feel frisky.

One thing she despised was a gambler who'd cheat.
And word got around that she always packed heat.
Her purse draw was quick,
And her dress draw quite a trick,
But more often than not the cheat would beat feet.

Alice was back up in Deadwood one August day,
When she was asked by Wild Bill Hickok if she wished to play.
But she couldn't sit in,
She had a promised game to win,
But she got a funny feeling as she turned to walk away.

Sometime later she heard a shot then shout.
She rushed to Saloon No. 10 to see what it's about.
Hickok lay dead.
Back-shooter McCall fled.
But they soon found the quivering cowardly lout.

As time moved on Alice married once more.
But his mediocre ways brought trouble to the door.
But when a man knifed her hubby,
She gut-shot the tubby,
And left him bellerin' and bleeding on the floor.

With a big win she bought a big spread.
But life threw in some unexpected dread.
The ranch flopped,
Her hubby dropped,
And Alice thought all her dreams were now dead.

Alice moved to Rapid City, a thriving western hub.
She found herself a new dream, sorta' like an English pub.
Just playing her cards,
And drinking with pards,
She never got her palace, but lived the rest of her life with a poker club.

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.

Gunfighter: Jim Riley

Gunfighter Jim Riley was slow to gall.
But don't be fooled, he was quick on the draw.
There ain't much about him in western folklore,
Except one event with blood, guts, and gore.

Minding his business, just sipping his brand,
When in walk three 'pokes with pistols in hand.
The one in the lead stomps up to his friend,
And barks aloud like a stinkin' gut wind.

All hell broke loose when triggers were pulled,
And Riley's blood boiled as if it were brewed.
The first thing he did was lock the front door
Before he began to settle the score.

First, another friend gave it a go.
Got gut-shot instead, a death painful and slow.
When Riley took aim and let bullets fly,
Most hit their mark, and more men did die.

Two to the legs and the instigator fell.
Riley's first regret: not sending him to hell.
But the other two had no such luck,
They took lead in the chest: forgot to duck.

Blood was still pumping, Riley was hyped.
Confusion took over, common sense wiped.
Riley turned and saw a man by the door,
Raised his six-shooter and fired once more.

The man was unarmed, just trying to vacate.
He should've stayed low, and not tempted fate.
Some say he was lucky not to have died,
But the rest of his life he wanted to hide.

The bullet tore off the tip of his nose.
The poor guy had nothing to hold when he blows.
Riley regretted mistake number two;
Leavin' him noseless, he felt like a fool.

Now the Newton General Massacre's known far and wide;
Second only to Tombstone, where bodies abide.
But Riley would fade from gun play and history,
Adding to the truth -- an air of mystery.

Hard Headed or Brainless: Outlaw Marvin Kuhms

"J.W. Wilson," the alias of Marvin Kuhms
Was most likely born under a whiskey moon.
Bank robber and thief,
Ten years spreading grief,
With the big bully style of a modern-day goon.

Instead of caressing curvaceous buns,
Kuhms was known to sleep with two guns.
So the posse he'd meet
Came in with stocking feet
And surprised him like a bad case of the runs.

Marshall Laird told him not to draw,
And waved his six-shooter close to Kuhms jaw.
But the ornery cuss
Did what he must,
Only to be shot in the head by the law.

Somehow Kuhms survived his foolish attempt,
And was sent to the pen with indignant contempt.
So when Kuhms made parole
He again chose to go
And steal for himself the life that he dreamt.

He figured he'd have to put in some hustle
To make up lost time, so he started to rustle.
But another brain fart
Doomed his plan from the start:
A farmer shot him dead when fearing a tussle.

Lincoln County War Survivor: Jim French

Jim French took part in the Lincoln County War.
From regulator to outlaw to settle a score.
Thought he flipped his lid
After joining Billy the Kid,
And nearly dying at McSween's general store.

French was there when Brady raved and cussed,
Just before he and Hindman bit the dust.
But the McSween episode
Turned his blood ice cold,
So he headed for "obscurity or bust."

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"

Gus Bogles: an onery cuss

Outlaws aren't outlaws

fer' havin' much smarts,

most are meaner than polecats

or dumber than dirt.

If they had ta' make a livin'

by honest means,

most law-breakers

would be in a world of hurt.

One such rogue named Bogles,

his first name Gus,

had a sole claim ta' fame

of bein' an onery cuss.

On June twenty-seventh,

in eighteen-eighty an' seven,

Gus killed a gent named J.D.

A railroad official

just doin' his job,

tellin' Gus he couldn't ride fer' free.

Gus wrapped a strap

around J.D.'s neck,

an' pistol-whipped the life out of him.

He stripped him near bare

of shoes, trousers, an' coat,

an' even his hat with wide brim.

They say he got on that train

without ticket ta' ride,

an' never a moments hesitation.

Leavin' behind

the corpse of J.D.

beside the rail-house station.

The law was sent forth

ta' follow the course

an' put ol' Gus in custody.

They nabbed him right quick,

an' jailed him at Fort Smith,

where Judge Isaac Parker said,

"What is yer' plea?"

They say in his cell

like a demon he'd yell:

he agitated all an' never cared.

But before the hanging judge

he plead "innocent" cuz'

down deep he really was scared.

Before a conviction

he never would say,

"I done what I done

an' would do it again."

Nor would he say,

"I done it...

an' that's a fact,

but now I'm sorry fer' my sin."

Cuz' Gus was unrepentant

throughout the ordeal,

even after he chose ta' confess.

He cared not a wit

fer' the good life he took,

just fer' his own

that he made such a mess.

Judge Parker could see

the fear in ol' Gus,

now that the tables did turn.

He chose ta' not man-up,

the choice of a coward:

now guilty an' his stomach did churn.

On July the sixth,

Gus would see his last sun:

he'd dangle at the end of a rope.

With no one ta' blame

fer' his death but himself:

he earned Hell's dunce cap as a dope.



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.



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.



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.

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.

Zenogalache: the Apache Kid

In eighteen an' sixty-seven a young boy

was born into the tribe of the Apache.

He would later be known as the Apache Kid,

aka the Crazy One;

though his given name was Zenogalache.

He was the son of a chief, Toga-de-chuz,

who was killed so's a rival could bed his squaw.

The same squaw the Kid called "Ma."

An' the Kid waited years, til he grew,

then exacted revenge on his father's killer,

in the style of Apache law.

He was still young when orphaned,

so he was taken to San Carlos,

where he schooled by Al Sieber,

the legendary calvary scout.

It was military learnin',

ya' know, weapons an' such.

An' was the Kid good?

Well, ta' that there's little doubt,

he liked it very much,

since Sieber had him appointed

First Sergeant of the Apache Government Scouts.

However, Sieber became concerned

upon learnin' the Kid had already killed,

an' decided it would be best jus' ta' order him in.

So in he did come --- that is,

him plus ten.

Each of them fully packin'.

Well, both sides took ta' jawin',

one side hemmin', the other side hawwin',

til Sieber said the guardhouse would be their new home.

Thus, the Kid barked an order,

an' their guns sparked fire,

an' Sieber's leg caught a bullet.

So the Kid an' his band made good their escape,

an' soon began ta' roam, like there was nothing to it.

Yep, from that day forward

there was a price on the Kid's head,

the same ol' "alive or dead" standard.

So the army took ta' lookin',

along with scouts an' gunmen too.

Even the famous Tom Horn.

An' though the band increased in number,

at least times three,

most of the chasers invariably

chased shadows;

then returned empty-handed ta' face the scorn.

Now ya'll would figure most on the run

would try ta' keep a low profile,

so I guess the Crazy One's style

sprang forth from other thoughts.

Cuz' they stole a horse herd from the Atchley Ranch,

over near Table Mountain.

Then they killed themselves a loner,

an' left him ta' rot in his cabin,

a trapper named Bill Diehl.

An' then the desperadoes,

while movin' ever southward,

chose ta' add ta' their disgrace,

by torturing, then murdering, the rancher Mike Grace.

Down ta' ol' Mexico they rode,

then back again,

fer' two years the Apache Kid remained free.

But eventually

his spree was cut short,

he was captured an' clapped in irons.

Then a quick day in court fer' both he an' his men.

The sentence was "death"

but the Kid wouldn't die,

it appeared he had "friends" in high places.

His innocent pleas

of the dirty deeds

would soon add ta' the White House disgraces.

Ya' see, President Grover Cleveland

granted the Apache Kid a pardon,

an' set him free ta' go kill again.

Though this time instead of takin' herds

he took ta' stoppin' wagons,

killin' the drivers an' taken the freight.

Now I want ya'll ta' get this straight,

they weren't no redskin Robin Hoods

a' stealin' from the rich ta' give ta' the poor.

An' they sure didn't kill in self-defense,

they killed cuz' they thought it felt great.

Per chance a hero stepped forth in the form of a sheriff

Glen Reynolds of Gila County, Arizona,

who took a posse after the Kid an' caught him.

Though hindsight suggests

instead of playin' "Oops, I'm caught again"

they each should've picked a target an' shot 'um.

Cuz' they received a pitiful seven year sentence,

then never served a day;

they killed their guards on the way ta' Yuma Prison,

followed by a quick getaway.

Sadly, one of them guards was Reynolds.

In the hunt that followed

six of the Kid's band were captured.

Though only two were hanged.

The other four decided ta' do themselves away,

strangled with their own loincloths.

So like moths ta' the flame,

with the price on his head an' reputation growin',

the Kid an' his men began a murderous rampage.

The Apache Kid's rage needed targets,

an' there were targets a' plenty,

several settlers quickly bit the dust.

Gee, I wonder how much trust

President Cleveland retained in the Kid,

after hearin' how the Kid took out a prairie schooner

with a mother, young son, an' a babe?

Thank God the infant survived,

found alive near its kin that were dead,

cuz' in the eyes of the Apache Kid

 infants don't rate the cost of lead.

Now this reign of terror by Zenogalache

made him history's second most feared Apache;

second only ta' the famous Geronimo.

So both the army an' civilians wanted him dead,

with hundreds setting out ta' hunt him down.

Then, in a quirk of fate

while upon a trail in the Catalinas

the Apache Kid was found

by Dupont, a lone scout.

But they both carried rifles that were single shots,

an' neither wanted ta' fire, possibly miss,

an' be at the mercy of the other.

So they slowly dismounted,

sat themselves on some rocks,

an' waited out the long hot day

with eyes glued ta' one another.

Til finally at dusk, up rose the Kid,

he grunted, "Me leaving"

then mounted his horse

an' did in fact leave.

Of course Dupont heaved a sigh,

completely relieved.
Well, the years came an' went,
an' the renegades kept on raidin'.
No ranch or frieght was safe from the band,
at least not in New Mexico or Arizona.
And they hid out in the Sierra Madre land
south of the border
with a bit less law an' order.
Course here we go again,
like many a legends,
the end of the Apache Kid is in question,
cuz' history often has more than one recollection.
There is the claim of Edward A. Clark,
a rancher who'd been raided often by the Kid,
who recollects the final raid
in eighteen an' ninty-four.
With his new partner John Scanlon,
and an English visitor named Mercer,
they were besieged by the Apache band,
an' they fired back from the windows an' door.
Then came night fall, when Clark slipped out,
a workin' his way ta' the corral,
where he spotted two injuns a leadin' away his favorite horse.
So the logical course
of action was ta' aim an' fire.
Clark did, an' he did again,
but he waited til the end of the strife,
awaitin' til mornin' light ta' verify
that the one body found was a squaw.
It was the Apache Kid's wife.
An' near where her body lay,
a blood trail led away.
It was trailed by Clark til it petered out
high in the rocky hills.
An' Clark claims that it was the Kid,
an' he went off ta' die;
which seems ta' be supported by the fact
that there were no more raids an' kills.
No more ranchers raided,
no settlers or frieght drivers died.
An' with two witnesses
an' the corpse of the Kid's wife,
it appears that Clark hadn't lied.
Yet, without a body it was still bound ta' be
that other tales would sprout.
Just folks tryin' fer' a smidge of fame,
hopin' somebody might remember their name;
but fer' history they only add confusion an' doubt.
Such as the account of Mrs. Tom Charles,
claimin' the posse led by Charles Anderson
trapped the Apache Kid over near Kingston.
Insistin' they shot him dead
on Spetember tenth, nineteen-ought-five.
An' there always seem ta' be some
who prefer the bad guys actually win:
ta' getaway an' retire
in order ta' live out their days
unpunished fer' their sin.
So later reports of the Apache Kid
have us hearin' of his death again;
seems he was a cat with nine lives,
dyin' peacefully, or as peaceful as dyin' can be,
of consumption
at his Mexican hideout in nineteen-ten.
Unfortunately, as ya'll can see,
sometime history remains a mystery.

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.

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.

Outlaw Jack Almer

Here's a little diddy 'bout Jack Almer;
          AKA Jack Averill, an' Red Jack.
Leader of the Red Jack gang.
Though obviously not much of one
          when ya' consider the fact
                    that they didn't last too long.
In fact, just a couple years in the early 1880's:
          goin' after them strong ---
                    boxes hauled on stagecoaches
          down in Arizona.
Mostly 'round the river San Pedro.
An' they could of done better
                    if they took ta' driftin'.
However, to be fair,
          they weren't always predictable.
A Wells Fargo guard found that out
          atop the Globe stage,
                    the tenth of August of eighty-three.
"There ain't no loot," he kept insistin'
          in his attempts ta' keep resistin'
                    the robbers
          who held 'um up outside Riverside
                    ta' take their bounty.
Then what a sight ta' see
          when a female passenger alighted the stage,
                    lifted her skirts,
          an' bellowed like a town crier.
But with a voice so bass,
                    downright husky,
          it turned out ta' be Red Jack in a dandy disguise
                    who was callin' that guard a liar.
Cuz' in that feminine get-up, awaitin' the ride,
          he'd seen the gold stored,
                    they'd placed it right under the seat.
That's why he'd signaled his boys
          with the gesture they'd planned,
          in order ta' come in an' pick-up their treat.
But that was their last payday,
          in the gang's short heyday:
                    twenty-eight hundred in bills an' gold.
Cuz' entered Sheriff Bob Paul,
          who answered the duty call,
                    with a large posse, strong an' bold.
They took ta' the trail with a passion.
An' with the fleein' gang separatin',
          they hunted them down one-by-one.
Kept the ol' pressure on,
                    made them son of a guns run,
          cuz' they knew it would lead ta' their downfall.
An' down each one went,
          to the dirt with blood spent,
                    til it finally came ta' Red Jack's call.
They unearthed the ol' boy
          a hidin' near Wilcox,
          the 4th of October of eighty-three.
They shot him ta' pieces,
          they filled him with lead,
          cuz' he was dumb enough ta' try ta' shoot his way free.

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.