The Ranger's Lament

By Bronco T

They propped up his bed, near the warm western wall,
Out the clear window pane, he saw the beginning of fall.

Through the clear air, far off in the west,
The Chiricahua Mountains, lay clothed in their best.

The slopes had turned yellow, preparing the colors of fall,
Their leaves seemed to whisper, his name they did call.

His time was near over, he knew death was near,
He faced it with longing, and without fear.

His thoughts turned back to Texas, the place of his birth,
His childhood was hard, his thoughts without mirth.

His mother had died, while he was born,
His father at twelve, from him was torn.

He took all he had, which was not much,
An old ewe necked horse, a rifle saddle and such.

He knew a bit ‘bout cows, and he could handle a horse,
He’d find him a cow job, life couldn’t have been worse.

That first year was tough, he was the cook’s boy,
It kept him eatin’, but brought him no joy.

He toughed it out, he made a hand,
He proved he was harder, than that West Texas land.

The life of a cowboy, on the West Texas plain,
Drawin’ starvation wages, he had nothin’ to gain.

Sixteen years old, a man fully growed,
He got a bit rowdy, into the “hoosegow” was throwed.

A man came there lookin’, he was a stranger,
Said he was somethin’, called a Texas Ranger.

Not very big, his eyes told a tale,
Those foolish to cross ‘im, he’d send straight to hell,

He told them a story, ‘bout the terrible fight,
At a place called Plum Creek, his mind pictured the sight.

A thousand Comanch’, by Buffalo Hump led,
Had raided the country, and on Texas beef fed.

The Comanche took prisoners, and when the fight started,
Many a white woman’s spirit, from this life departed.

He said the granddaughter, of ol’ Dan’l Boone,
Was tied to a tree, and died from a lance wound.

This made his blood boil, he thought of his pa,
His untimely death, he plainly saw.

He told him to stop, ee said, “I’m your man,
I’ll fight Comanche, if anyone can.”

“How old are you, the man said with a grin,
An’ how many battles, have you figured in ?”

“I buried my pa, with these two hands,
In a cold shallow grave, on our homestead lands.”

“He took three arrows, square in the back,
I watched from where I hid, the Comanche attack.”

“They took his hair, then stripped off his clothes,
But left him his boots, they didn’t take those.”

“My age is sixteen, cowboyed for four years,
I’m good with my guns, if in that lies your fears.”

The grin left the man’s face, as Bill finished his tale,
“I believe what you say, your kind won’t fail.”

So that was the start, 1840 the year,
He pinned on a star, an’ bought Ranger gear.

He fought the Comanche, and Mexicans too,
His years as a Ranger, with blinding speed flew.

He fought ‘long side Wallace, Caldwell and Hayes,
And many a good Ranger, he’d watched finish their days.

He rode with McCullough, on the Mexican foray,
He’d hate Santa Ana, ‘till his dying day.

After the war, he stayed close to the border,
Fightin’ for justice, and law and order.

Then he fought for the South, the thought made ‘im bitter,
His side may have lost, but he’d not been a quitter.

When he came home, thirty one his age,
He’d take a wife, and start a new page.

He tried to ranch, women were few,
So back to the old life, bein’ a Ranger he knew.

He fought ten hard years, many battles he won,
He felt he deserved, his place in the sun.

There on the river, his spirit had died,
He had to leave, no more could he abide.

All of the bloodshed, had taken it’s toll,
Had hardened his heart, and tainted his soul.

He gathered his gear, to the West turned his mount,
He’d start a new life, where his past didn’t count.

To the land of New Mexico, he had heard it was fine,
He’d follow the border, along the Mexican line.

The Valley of Animas, of beauty so fair,
It gladdened his heart, and faded his care.

He said to himself, as he took in the view,
“This is my home, this place’ll do.”

His first year wasn’t easy, he fought to stay,
But he stuck it out, and he made it pay.

At age forty two, he started his ranch,
In Smuggler’s Canyon, where two canyons branch.

He built a home, solid and tight,
Gun ports in the windows, from which he could fight.

When forty five, he took a wife,
A Mexican girl, to share his life.

She gave him sons, and one daughter too,
He felt his life blessed, true happiness he knew.

He raised a herd, of good Mexican cattle,
Sold to the Army, here with Apache to battle.

His life with the Apache, had at times been real grim,
They’d sometimes be friendly, or cut your throat on a whim.

They lived through the hard times, when drought killed their stock,
The Apache came raidin’, to their ranch the nighbors would flock.

They fought and survived, with all that they knew,
Their dreams for the ranch, kept always in view.

His sons in their twenties, he in his last years,
Still takin’ chances, scoffing at fears.

He’d left the house, mounted on a good horse,
Well armed as always, as a matter of course.

He rounded a corner, of an ol’ dry creek bed,
There lay a beef, where it had been bled.

There ‘round the carcass, stood three ‘pache buck,
One held a rifle, such was his luck.

An ‘pache fired first, a slug caught his knee,
He fell from his horse, as his revolver came free.

He hammered two, with the big .44,
But the last one got lucky, and evened the score.

The round caught ‘im hard, in the left side,
But he managed a shot, through the last ones thick hide.

He knew he was hurt, much blood was he losin’,
Precious red fluid, from his wounds was oozin’.

A bullet he fired, into the wounded mans head,
He was real sure, That the last one was dead.

He suddenly lost, all strength in his hand,
He watched the revolver, into the dust land.

His world then went black, he fell to the ground,
His body unconscious, was by his son found.

When he awoke, he knew he was dyin’,
The false hopes of his family, he was not buyin’.

He asked them to place, his bed where it they,
So with his last breath, he’d see the final rays of day.

A thought crossed his mind, as his earthly life dimmed,
"My life has been full, and with adventure has brimmed.

I have no regrets, I have lived by the gun,
I’ve died by it too, .........but aint it been fun."

They layed him to rest, a cross on his grave,
Saying, “Here lies a man, both loyal and brave.”

“A loved father and husband, in Texas knew fame,
William David Moore, was his name.