Colorado Bill and the Hanging Judge

William Elliott, also known as "Colorado Bill;"
He didn't grow up a real man, just one who knew how to kill.
Four dead in four states
While Justice just waits,
And Bill stayed in the Choctaw Nation for a spell.

Then Bill killed David Brown and his soul became darker.
But the law ran him down and sent him off to Judge Parker.
Fort Smith's "Hanging Judge,"
On the law he wouldn't budge,
So Bill was hung and buried with a two-bit marker.

Sent to his Maker by a Preacher's Son

Cassius "Cash" Hollister -- once a mayor, but often a lawman --
Had a raucous temperament, more fitting to an outlaw clan.
But outlaws were bust,
Cash earned the town's trust
In the kill or be killed peace officer plan.

Cash was once fined for assaulting Frank Hunt.
With temper in check, lawbreakers took the brunt.
Then came a surprise,
To hear of Cash's demise,
Shot twice by the gun of a preacher's naughty runt.

Dynamite Dick Dead in the Dirt

Daniel Clifton, also known as "Dynamite Dick,"
Cattle rustling and bank jobs were his chosen shtick.
With his criminal resume,'
He joined Bill Doolin's "Oklahombres,"
With pistols and black powder his favorite tricks.

But an outlaw career can be boom or bust.
It ain't no position to instill some trust.
Yer' pals are all varmints
Who wear blood-stained garments,
And when you retire it's face down in the dust.

While the Doolin Gang took the bank in Southwest City,
They killed J.C. Seaborn, and it wasn't pretty.
Doolin and Clifton were jailed;
Bribed a guard: the system failed,
But the posse that followed had sand and were gritty.

"Every man for himself" is the fugitive code.
Find a place to hole up and drop all yer' load.
Clifton was found on a farm,
Tried to escape without harm,
But he was shot on the run and lay dead on the road.

Lawmen and Liquor Don't Mix

George Flatt was a lawman in Kansas,

who also co-owned a saloon.

They said he had grit,

was as tough as they get,

and his six-gun could carry a tune.

On July the seventh,

in eighteen-seventy-and-nine,

Jake Adams and George Wood

were up to no good,

just drinkin' and shootin'

and thinkin' it's fine.

Now Constable Kelly and Deputy Wilson

with Flatt and Kiser by their side,

came in for a gander

and up went their dander

as bullets whizzed by close and wide.

Wilson was wrist-shot,

and Kiser was head-shot.

Thank God it was only a graze.

And Flatt killed both outlaws:

Adams and Wood.

I think he just earned him a raise.

Flatt became marshall and upheld the peace,

but he had him a habit to drink.

Bending the elbow

and tipping the mug

can be just as bad as the opium drug;

just try them and then try to think.

Well, Flatt had a few,

and then a few too many;

some might say he was "dead drunk."

But he got up and staggered

and tried to get home,

too wasted to smell a near skunk

He was shot from behind,

it severed his spine

right at the base of his skull.

Two men were suspected,

Horseman and Hunt,

but the Hangman never would pull.

They say justice failed

'cause neither suspect was jailed.

But I say, if you think they got away

think again.

'Cause ol' Frank and Bill

are roasting in hell,

since crime unrepented is sin.



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.