Apology to my readers

I must apologize for not getting posts in as fast as I had hoped recently. The sad thing about being a partially disabled Vet is that the injuries act up on occasion, and mine have become infected, so I'm moving slower than I would like. Please bear with me and I'll get back up to speed as soon as I can.

Thank you for understanding.

Jerry Thomas (aka Professor Jer Thom)

William H. Anderson: Bring Um' Back Bill

Back in the eighteen-seventies,

within the Texas border,

was a feller' named William H. Anderson

who had a natural talent fer' law an' order.

If a stranger shot a ranger

then escaped over the hill,

they sought the man with a never quit plan,

known by some as "Bring um' Back Bill."

An' if another kind committed a crime,

a hopin' ta' make it pay,

it were a sure bet with Bill trackin' um',

he'd bring um' in ta' see a court day.

Yep, crime was mighty costly

fer' those who took the chance.

Once caught ya' see, there were options, three;

do yer' time, pay yer' fine, or take yer' place at a rope dance.

So never mistake this Bill Anderson

with the cutthroat who rode with Quantrill,

cuz' Bloody Bill took ta' killin' the innocent,

while the innocent had nothin' ta' fear from Bring um' Back Bill.

Course facts do prove that this Bill too

began the Civil War wearin' Confederate gray.

Then after some thinkin' he changed ta' Yankee blue,

switched ta' an Illinois regiment from his birth state.

Though he opted fer' Texas ta' make his home

an' take ta' wearin' the star.

Ta' be one of the best after some of the worst

was a choice he hoped would take him far.

If ya' judged by miles he truly went far,

cuz' he never stopped at the border.

From state ta' state, even Canada or Mexico,

he'd go anywhere ta' dish out law an' order.

Course Lady Luck don't follow that law,

the Law of Average is her guide.

An' we'd argue she weren't much of a lady

steppin' aside on the day that Bring um' Back Bill died.

He was given the chore ta' bring in Bill Collins,

last survivor of the Joel Collins gang.

The goal of course was ta' bring him in,

an' give him a trial before he'd hang.

Anderson gave chase, he dogged him hard

up ta' little Pembina in Manitoba, north of the U.S.

Though it looked as if Collins figured dyin' there

was jus' as easy as a rope, I guess.

Both Bill's drew their steel

an' commenced the deal

by throwin' led in the other's direction.

An' both died in the fight,

though only one in the right,

with a chance at a heavenly resurrection.

An' on that day the Good Lord may say,

I need the devil taken back ta' hell...

Send out the man

with the grit an' the sand,

none other than Bring um' Back Bill.

Harris Austin: a rather ordinary outlaw

Harris Austin was one of those minor outlaws

that barely rate a word or two.

Full of sass, piss, an' vinegar,

used as a tool ta' camouflage he's a fool.

He shot a man fer' a shot of whiskey

in a place called Tishomingo.

Perhaps he had a few too many

an' imagined he was Johnny Ringo.

Thomas Elliot took three rounds,

two ta' the torso, an' one ta' the temple.

Austin never even called him out,

he liked ta' keep his killin' simple.

He even stood so close ta' the future corpse

that powder left burns on his face.

Then seein' the looks of the patrons,

he skedaddled in total disgrace.

He decided it was time

ta' take himself a long vacation.

Mounted his horse an' took ta' the hills

in the heart of the Chickasaw Nation.

The law mounted a posse straight-away,

but Austin knew those hills.

He escaped an' evaded fer' a half-dozen years

before Deputy Marshall Carr, without any frills,

tracked Austin down an' brought him in,

so the townfolk could gawk at his trial.

The verdict came in, he hung fer' his sin,

an' jus' like he lived,

he did it without any style.

My Heritage: One Generation Removed

Although I write more poetic prose than actual cowboy poetry, it irks me to be told I have no right to write cowboy poetry because I am not an actual working cowboy. What ticks me off the most about that is that I would have been born into that life if it had not been for the government swindling policies to force a lot of ranchers and farmers off their lands: lands that had often been in their families for generations. And I also ask those  who claim I'll never belong to their community, where were their fighting spirits when all the ranchers and farmers were losing their land? --- I am just one generation away from my country heritage, and it weighs heavy on me because I have a country heart... and because of that I'll write when I want, where I want, what I want, and for as long as I want. --- I shed blood for this country, and anyone claiming they want me to give up my liberties will be in for a fight.

I've been told I've got no right

ta' be writin' cowboy poetry,

cuz' I ain't an actual cowpoke on the range.

An' if I persist there'll be a fight,

an' perhaps a rope thrown o're a tree,

cuz' they rate dudes even lower than the mange.

But they forget the range is dwindlin'.

It's less than half of what it were.

Big spreads have gone the way of the Dodo bird.

Yet where were they durin' Uncle Sam's swindlin'?

An' why am I the brunt of a common slur

jus' because our family lost its ranch an' herd?

It's true I am a city born,

but I got me a country heart,

an' it bleeds red, white, an' blue jus' like yours.

You were raised a holdin' a saddle horn,

I was forced ta' have street smarts,

but they served me well in uniform on those distant shores.

My Ma was raised upon a ranch,

my Grandpa Grover's down in Texas.

I heard all the stories but never got ta' see.

I was on the broken branch,

after the government's double-taxes,

that cut-off the country side of my family tree.

Ya' point yer' fingers at me

an' claim I'll never be one of ya'll.

Ya' say I'm a pretender who jus' bought a hat.

The country fried community,

I wanted it, barn raising's an' all.

But when Gramp's spread was on the choppin' block,

where were you at?

Gramp's worked hard all his life;

he was strong, quiet, an' proud.

The Good Lord even took him home as he sat in church.

He never deserved the strife

from the rustlin' government crowd,

as they sowed unsavory policies, leavin' common folk in the lurch.

It's true I love my country,

but I hate my Uncle Sam,

he stole from me the life I shoulda' had.

Country's most my genealogy,

it's my heritage: who I am.

An' ta' have it stole, one generation removed, makes me damn mad!

So if ya'll still say I ain't country,

an' ain't fit ta' write country poetry,

give it yer' best cuz' I'll stand with ya' toe ta' toe.

I can't choose the place of my birth,

but I can choose how I'll live,

an' I'll live country til the day I go.

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.

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.