Old Slick Fork Saddle

By Bronco T

He loosened the cinch, on his old slick fork saddle,
This day on the range, had been quite a battle.

A cut on the swell, put there by a round,
Had saved his life, and the peace that he’d found.

They’d cut through the wire, on the south border line,
He’d found their tracks, while cuttin’ for sign.

He followed ‘em west, through San Luis Pass,
He spotted their dust, through his army fieldglass.

Five bandits in all, as best he could tell,
Armed to the teeth, they were plannin’ some hell.

What were they after ?, he asked in his mind,
They weren’t hidin’ their trail, he could follow it blind.

He’d been here a year, travlin’ this range,
Drawin’ cowhand wages, had seemed to him strange.

He’d come up from Texas, a hidin’ his past,
His hard lawman days, behind him a last.

He’s make a fresh start, wash the blood from his hands,
He’d build his own cow herd, nn these New Mexico lands.

He thought to himself, as a chill stirred his spine,
Does death stalk me here, on this Mexican line ?

Most men would have shied, at the uneven odd,
Better odds than these, had planted men in the sod.

He looked to his weapons, as he rested his mount,
On their condition, his life would count.

Resting there in its scabbard, he checked a lever action rifle,
This well worn Winchester, was not a gun with to trifle.

On each side of the pommel, secure in a holster,
Set two ol’ Colt 47's, his fire power they’d bolster.

Old though they were, he’d kept ‘em these years,
When fightin’ Comanche, they’d been the source of their fears.

Those old 44's, cap and ball and outdated,
For fightin’ off horseback, they weren’t overrated.

Two Colt single action Army’s, rested low on his hips,
Caliber 44-40, with yellow ivory grips.

A twice barreled shotgun, Greener the brand,
Slung across his shoulder, in this fight’d have a hand.

Why not turn and run, the reader might ask,
Go punch your cows, and in the sun bask.

He rode for the brand, a point of great pride,
These men were up to no good, from a fight he’d not hide.

He was born to hard times, bred on the range,
Fightin’ and scrappin’, were traits hard to change.

He watched the rear rider, trot into a rocky defile,
“I smell an ambush”, he thought with a smile.

They know I’m behind ‘em, he thought of a plan,
I’ll ride right around ‘em, hug the lay of the lan’,

Lopin’ the sorrel, towards the spot they’d come out,
He slid his horse to a stop, he did a quick scout.

He saw them first, it saved his skin,
He unlimbered the Greener, the timing was slim.

Mere feet ‘tween him and them, two men hit the dust,
Buckshot in the chest, fore they could adjust.

The third one was quicker, a shot scorched his ear,
But the bark of his Colt, brought shock, pain and fear.

The man just heeled over, fell off the butt of his horse,
The horse bolted forward, on a mad dashing course.

He saw the face, of the fourth one in line,
He was a young one, features chiseled and fine.

The barrel of a Sharps, the lad pointed his way,
He knew that big fifty, would ruin his day.

He shot quick as lightnin’, the youngster fired too,
The big round hit somethin’, but what he had not a clue.

The .44-40, knocked the boy from his horse,
To land in a pile, with bone bruising force.

The fifth and last rider, turned his tail to the sun,
It was real plain to see, that he’d had enough fun.

He searched himself over, he had not a scratch,
‘cept that spot near his ear, there’d be a bald patch.

He eyed the gouge in his saddle, near the tall saddle horn,
A chunk of wood and leather, from the saddle was torn.

That old A-fork saddle, had sure saved his hide,
On life and death issues, sometimes things like this ride.

Swingin’ down from his mount, he watched those that he’d shot,
Kicked guns from their reach, careless he was not.

The first two were dead, of this he was sure,
Buckshot in the chest, was a sure cure.

He checked the young man, as he lay on the ground,
From him a groan, as he slowly came ‘round.

There was hate in his eyes, as he looked up at Bill,
If he’d had a gun, Bill he’d try to kill.

“What is your name son, Bill spoke in Spanish refined,
I know that to kill me, you’re greatly inclined.”

He boy was real sullen, but as far as could tell,
Only a lump on the head, when from his horse fell.

The bullet from Bill’s gun, had not struck the boy,
Now that he saw that, it brought him joy.

The boy spit the words, like flame from his mouth,
“You killed my brother, the last time you rode South.”

I know you’re the Ranger, that snuffed out his life,
He left some children, and a sad mourning wife.

Bill was perplexed, at this sudden turn,
Who was this brother, that made this young ones heart burn ?

“My name is Montano, Carlos was my brother,
And since you killed him, I can think of none other.”

Bill’s mind flashed back, to the battles he’d fought,
Killing Carlos Montano, was one he’d forgot.

He remembered the time, down on the river,
The thought of that fight, brought on a shiver.

“That fight was fair, Carlos pulled his gun,
I shot him first, I regret not what I’ve done.”

“He’d butchered a family, Killed as they slept,
Many a sad tear, was over that family wept.”

“Carlos was an outlaw, a bad one to all,
He was not a hero, he was bound for a fall.”

“He had a chance, to be shot or get hung,
He made a choice, and took two round through the lung.”

“I’ve seen how you fight, said the boy on the ground,
I thought you a coward, but that is not what I’ve found.”

“I believe what you’ve said, your fight has been fair,
Perhaps I’ve been wrong, ......I came here on a dare.”

“My brother was bad, this thing is true,
He made a mistake, to draw against you.”

“I know that I’m wrong, I deserve to die too,
You should kill me, I tried to kill you.”

“Bill put his hand out, It was clasped by the boy,
“There’s been enough killin’, death brings me no joy.”

“It takes a true man, to admit a mistake,
Gather up your horse, and to the trail take.”

“Go back to your kin, after you bury your dead,
Care for your brother’s family, and see that they’re fed.”

“But son let me warn you, I’ve given a chance,
Don’t dog my trail, or with the devil you’ll dance.”

He left the boy diggin’, holes by the trail,
Bill traveled homeward, and watched the Western sun pale......