Alferd Packer: Guide from Hell

Alferd Packer, aka Alfred,

alias John Schwartze,

earned his claim ta' infamy

as a mountain guide ta' greenhorns.

Born in Colorado,

with only a smidge of education,

he grew up rude an' crude,

an' all humanity he did scorn.

At first he tried prospectin',

he survived by eatin' game,

but skills fer' findin' precious metal

had never lived within his brain.

He was good at drinkin' courage,

he could talk down tenderfeet,

but when push came ta' shove

he would crack under the strain.

In the early eighteen-seventies,

a miner struck it rich,

which brought a heap a' dreamers

ta' the mountains of Utah.

Yet most who came ta' prospect

were as poor as Packer at it,

they all dreamed of bein' Big Chiefs,

but they labored like a squaw.

In the Fall of seventy-three

Packer changed his way of thinkin',

instead of scratchin' dirt

he would snatch from those who would.

He conned nineteen Eastern lillies

into acceptin' him as guide,

an' they set out in a Winter,

at a time when no one should.

It was record breakin' cold,

an' the game it went ta' ground,

so all these would-be miners had

was carried on their backs.

The days turned into weeks,

an' the weeks they took their toll,

an' Packer could not perform

like the lies he told in shacks.

When the food ran out the party barked,

an' Packer acted squirrely;

he was lost, an' he knew it,

but he wanted his commission.

A stroke of luck while trekking long,

to a friendly tribe they came;

so with a full belly Packer thought

he'd go back ta' his ambition.

Chief Ouray, with wisdom wrought

from survivin' many winters,

told the men ta' turn back now,

or you'll not survive til Spring.

The prospectin' party had a parlay,

an' ten did see the wisdom;

what good is silver, or of gold,

if ta' life they couldn't cling?

A loud-mouthed braggert, Packer was,

he mocked the ten fer' quittin',

but all he really cared about

was the money he would lose.

Salt Lake City was not an option,

Packer knew he could not go back;

back there his debts were high an' wide,

an' this grubstake was all he could use.

So off they tredged within the storm,

ta' find within a few weeks,

the very same dire consequence

that had made them desparate before.

Then bickerin' became the norm,

the party it split again,

to the Los Pinos Indian Agency:

the number ta' go would be four.

The weather was bad,

the directions not good,

only two men ended up where they should:

an' that's after days in the blizzard.

They were gaunt, they were stringy,

they looked like Death come a walkin',

an' both were so hungry

 they'd be happy ta' eat a lizzard.

Though as bad as it was

it coulda' been worse,

they coulda' remained with Packer,

like Swan, Humphreys, Noon, Miller, an' Bell.

Off in the frozen beyond,

in an' abandoned trapper's cabin,

they ate their last meal

an' laid down ta' fight the chill.

From nineteen men ta' five,

Packer saw his profit dwindlin',

so he swore it was the end,

an' took action ta' see it thru.

Single-shots ta' the heads

of all but Miller,

who awoke from the sounds

an' arose fer' a fight.

But alas, he was weak

an' disoriented,

an' Packer caved in his skull:

a ghastly sight.

Then thru the pockets

an' packs he did go,

no food did they have,

just thousands in cash.

Yet that wouldn't do,

he quickly surmised,

an' the obvious

came in a flash.

With knife in hand

he cut an' he sliced,

an' filled his pack

with meat from the men.

A matter of taste,

man breast was his liking;

he judged it quite good,

as he swallowed his sin.

Though at civilization's door

he would toss the remainder away,

an' play the last survivor role

fer' at least a country minute.

He then spent freely

from what he stole,

an' the wise began ta' wonder,

an' Packer knew he stuck his foot in it.

But the biggest 'damn' was yet ta' come,

injuns found them on the way in:

the human jerky he tossed away

this time came ta' bite him.

The jig was up,

his lies unfold,

he would show the law

where the story turned grim.

Yet even then he tried ta' lie,

ta' claim it self-defense;

but with four in bed, with shots ta' head,

it easily broke that spell.

We'll take ya' back an' do it right

the law dogs quoted sternly,

but these five souls will never rest

til yer' shit deep in hell.

Guest Blog Delay

     What little time I usually have to work on my own blog has been pleasantly taken up preparing a guest blog for LauriesWild West. The promotion for the guest spot appears on her site today, and it will be posted in two parts: one tomorrow, the second on Monday: entitled on "Freelancer the Western Fringe."

     As a relative newcomer to blogging, this is my first guest blog, and I am grateful to Laurie for asking me to take part. I've been a follower of her blog since I started blogging a few months back, and she is an excellent writer, a joy and inspiration, and fast becoming a friend.

     Head on over and check out the post, along with her blog: which deals a lot with westerns and other pulp tidbits. Laurie Powers Wild West

     And don't forget to check out both parts of "Freelancer on the Western Fringe" at her site over the next two days. It's a different part of me than my readers have seen up to now. I hope you find it interesting.

The Blevins Brothers

In the eighteen-eighties

in the state of Arizona,

the Blevins brothers

earned their fifteen minutes of fame.

They were ranchers, yet rustlers,

horse-thieves, and hired-guns,

who, with cousins an' in-laws

did earn all their shame.

They lived lives of spite,

their actions were petty,

but crimes an' status increased

durin' the Graham-Tewksbury Feud.

The ranchers with cattle

hated ranchers with sheep,

so they took ta' name callin',

an' flat out actin' rude.

But names didn't phase 'um,

an' rude acts were shunned,

so they up an' took stock,

an' began ta' shoot guns.

The death toll was mountin'

since both sides had dug in,

an' the townfolk were frettin',

the merchants had the runs.

It was truly unpleasant

in Pleasant Valley those days,

when hogs, sheep, an' cows

weren't the only things slaughtered.

The feud was nourished

with hate an' with malice,

an' the land quenched its thirst;

with blood it was watered.

Now Andy an' John,

Hampton an' Charles,

were heavily involved,

unlike little brother Sam.

But the deeds they were doin'

came with costs ta' be paid,

an' Hampton paid first

durin' a lead-belly jam.

The shootout took place

on the Middleton ranch,

it was August the tenth,

eighteen-eighty an' seven.

Yet the sins were a mountin',

the collector would call,

in less than two months

there'd be little left of clan Blevins.

But first came a crime

so heinous in nature,

it is hard ta' believe

it was humans, not dogs.

When Andy led the raid,

killin' John Tewksbury an' Bill Jacobs,

he then kept Tewk's wife at bay,

an' fed the bodies ta' the hogs.

Two days later

Sheriff Perry Owens came callin'

at the Blevins ranch near Holbrook,

with a posse an' a warrant fer' Andy.

Owens was known

fer' unwavering honesty;

a crackerjack shot:

with both rifle an' six-gun he's handy.

He rode up ta' the house,

found Andy on the porch,

an' told him ta' give up,

he was under arrest.

Andy ran fer' the door,

an' fired a shot,

then Owens cut loose,

an' tore a hole in Andy's chest.

Andy reeled from the shot,

pitched backward an' then

lay dead in the arms

of his fear-sticken mother.

Owens leapt from the porch,

just as John fired a round,

so Owens fired again;

down went another Blevins brother.

Then quick as a wink

Owens turned an' flung lead,

right into Mose Roberts,

one shot ta' the head.

It made such a mess,

it splattered his brains;

this brother-in-law

was the second one dead.

A split-second more,

comin' out thru the door,

little Sam Houston,

with six-gun in hand.

But Owens cut loose,

four fer' four was his count,

as he sent the teen boy

to a spirit-filled land.

In a matter of seconds

three dead an' one wounded:

John was the only one

lucky enough ta' keep livin'.

Cuz' his last brother Charles,

bit the dust three weeks later,

in a gunfight with a lawman

who was better at givin'.

John learned from the lesson,

the close call he had,

he cleaned up his life

an' put on a star.

He would hunt down the villains

that lived as he had;

provin' some men do change,

an' become better by far.

William "Old Bill" Miner: the high life brought him low

William Miner from Jackson, Kentucky

got himself a taste of the high life.

An' from that point on nothin' else would do,

even when getting it caused him nothin' but strife.

While still in his teens he went west ta' California,

ta' be an Army messenger durin' the Apache Indian War.

But there was profits ta' be made,

as long as ya' thru ethics, morals, an' integrity out the door.

Like goin' ta' the folks in wartorn San Diego

an' deliverin' their mail at $25 bucks a letter.

But the war would end, an' he squandered his money,

an' sought another way ta' get back ta' livin' better.

In eighteen-sixty an' nine he held-up the Sonora Stage,

but all he got was two-hundred for the trouble.

But the posse got him quick, an' he stood trial,

an' they gave him fifteen-years; which popped his dream bubble.

He only did a dime of the time they did give him,

an' out he came with a bigger thirst than before.

An' legit wouldn't do, cuz' legit wouldn't pay,

he took up crime again an' sought another score.

Miner partnered with Bill LeRoy up in Colorado:

they held-up both stagecoaches an' trains.

One night the posse cornered them; Miner shot his way free,

he left three deputies in the dust, too bloody ta' hold the reins.

But LeRoy was nabbed, the posse was mad,

an' the law made sure he did hang.

Then Miner skedaddled, ta' Europe he went,

he became part of a slave trading gang.

The trade was a boomin', but it weren't his thing,

so he soon tried gunrunnin' fer' size.

But within a year he was back in the states,

he still sought the high life, with his eye on the prize.

He went back ta' the beginning, the Sonora Stage he took;

but this time three-thousand was the purse.

Then a bank in Illinois, another stage in Colorado,

his quest fer' the high life was officially his curse.

Now once more ta' California,

the Sonora Stage again;

but they caught him like the first time,

to San Quentin he did go.

He was suppose ta' do a quarter,

but they let him out in twenty,

believin' he was just too old an' slow.

He was now in his fifties, an' tried ta' go straight,

but two years of it was all that he could take.

So he robbed a train in Oregon,

then another north of the border,

in British Columbia he got himself ten grand.

It helped him pass as wealthy,

a retired rancher he would say,

but in just two years all that money left his hand.

So he robbed another train,

still up north in Canada,

but the Mounties pursued an' took him down.

He was sentenced ta' life in prison,

but only served a year before

he escaped by tunneling underground.

With Mounties an' Pinkertons after him now,

he found himself hunted on both sides of the border.

They figured Old Bill an' his addiction ta' high life

was tarnishing the rep of law an' order.

He stayed on the run fer' several years,

it helped ta' take a bank fer' twelve grand.

But two years later while robbin' a train, they claim

 he could barely hold the six-gun steady in his hand.

Yep, that was the last, they ran him ta' ground,

they found him camped out in the hills.

He was sixty-two at his last arrest;

there would be no more high life an' thrills.

"I'm really getting too old for this sort of thing,"

Miner told a lawman at the pinch.

Old Bill robbed like a rascal,

an' spent like a king,

but don't be fooled into thinkin' it's a cinch.

He spent over half of his life behind bars,

an' at sixty-six he died in the pen.

Instead of the high life, a good life is best,

with no obligation ta' answer fer' sin.

Davy Crockett's Almanack of Mystery, Adventure and The Wild West: A Fistful of Legends - Special Pre-Pub Offer!#links

Davy Crockett's Almanack of Mystery, Adventure and The Wild West: A Fistful of Legends - Special Pre-Pub Offer!#links

     The above link is for a rare follower of this new blog of mine. Evan is a fellow writer, and a good one from all of the work that I have seen of his so far. He has a new story in the above listed anthology; a rare anthology of original western fare. So if you enjoy the western genre as much as I do, head on over there to check out the pre-release special offer.

Clelland Miller: Misplaced Hero Worship

Missouri born Clelland Miller

was raised in the vicinity

of the notable homestead of Jesse James.

An' like most folks in that territory

he nurtured a hero-worship

for the brothers with the famous names.

He knew of their deeds within the war,

an' revelled in their doings thereafter;

he could pert near quote them chapter an' verse.

But like all who worship the infamous,

an' try their best ta' follow suit,

there's only one outcome when ya' bed the curse.

It took awhile ta' get noticed,

ta' get the nod from Jesse James,

an' become a member of his crew.

He studied the trade,

an' practiced his skills,

an' learned ta' draw fast when he drew.

It's reckoned he went

along with the James boys

ta' a house where a Pinkerton stayed.

The agent was gone,

but the owner emerged,

an' three shots cut him down like a blade.

Mrs. Daniel Askew

alighted the house,

then gazed at the sight, horrified.

She went ta' her hubby,

she tried what she could,

then watched in vain as he died.

When asked who had done it,

she called out three names,

"It was Frank, and Jesse, and Clell."

But they said there was not

enough evidence,

"It was dark, so how could you tell?"

Yet Miller's outlaw days were numbered,

his luck was running out,

though he didn't know it til it actually came.

It occurred September seventh,

eighteen-seventy an' six,

an' Northfield was the name.

Two James boys,

three Younger brothers,

plus Miller, Pitts, an' Chadwell,

all entered the town,

went straight ta' the bank,

until their plan went all ta' hell.

There were three in the bank,

two guarding the door,

an' three at the end of the street.

One teller did con them,

they bought it, then killed him,

when all hell broke loose an' they beat a retreat.

Miller took the next hit,

a shotgun blast ta' the face,

so he blindly fired an' killed an unarmed man.

Then a medical student

repeatedly fired,

ending Miller's days with the outlaw clan.

He died in the dirt,

a broken bloody pulp,

never knowin' the outcome of the raid.

Both Chadwell an' Pitts

would join him in hell,

on account of mistakes that were made.

And all three Younger brothers,

shot up, but survived,

were sent ta' the pen fer' life.

Only the James boys

escaped without wounds,

though their futures were now endless strife.

If ya' could ask

 Clell Miller today,

would ya' still worship Jesse the same?

He'd probably contend

a two-party blend,

both Jesse an' he were ta' blame.

So learn from his life,

an' don't pay the price,

the toll on that road is not cheap.

You'll think ya' can win,

but you'll lose in the end,

when the Reaper is called out ta' reap. 

John McCall: little coward, big mouth

John McCall never accomplished much

he couldn't even hunt buffalo alone;

his worth was less than a shattered gem.

Ever wonder where a coward came from?

Well, this one came from Kentucky,

though Kentucky probably wishes it could disown him.

The only thing he's known for

is one of the most despicable acts of the old west:

the cowardly backshootin' of Wild Bill Hickok,

puttin' Hickok's seatin' fears ta' the test.

He then ran like a rabbit chased by the fox,

they found him cringing in the barber shop.

They clapped him in irons an' took him ta' jail,

but Deadwood justice turned out ta' be a flop.

McCall piled lie upon lie, an' judge an' jury bought it,

not one smart enough ta' investigate.

On the day Hickok was buried McCall was acquitted,

not one lie did he have ta' corroborate.

Scared fer' his life, fearin' Hickok's friends,

McCall hopped in the saddle an' fled.

Off ta' Cheyenne an' Laramie, ta' bask in his freedom,

an' drink away the guilt, fear, an' dread.

But men with little deeds need ta' talk big,

an' whiskey helps loosen the lips.

Then a deputy marshall overheard the boast,

an' clamped the "little-big man" in irons again.

An' the Deadwood verdict was dismissed,

cuz' justice was waitin' fer' him in Yankton.

McCall had talked himself right out of his lies,

he left himself without a defense.

Which made it easy fer' this jury ta' see

it was McCall who initiated the offense.

"Guilty you were, an' guilty you are,

an' guilty you always will be."

Then McCall appealed ta' President Grant,

"Please pardon an' set me free."

The President said, "I will not intervene...

You made yer' bed...

It's time you laid in it an' slept."

So with the appeal denied, an' hanging date set,

McCall uncontrollably wept.

Eighteen-seventy an' seven, the day was March 1st,

McCall to the gallows did go.

He cried an' he quaked, trembled an' begged,

he showed all his cowardly soul.

He then shouted, "Oh, God!" as the trap was released,

an' before God he would surely then stand.

Where he'd try once more ta' lie his way free,

it's the mark of his cowardly brand.

But God is not mocked, McCall is then shocked,

eternity is the price of the bill.

His cowardly act of killing Hickok

bought him his ticket ta' hell.