Midnight Visitor

The campfire glowed hot on that memorable night, they searched out the stars, 'cross the heavens they shot.

They sat in a circle, quiet and pensive, laid back and relaxed, yet strong and defensive.

Lee Morgan sat thinking, his hat on his knee, 'bout friends he had lost in that war 'cross the sea.

Rick Knuckles lay back, his pistol in his hand, rememberin' Montana, that far northern land.

Allan Sperling hunched over, plaitin' some hide, a stampede string for a hat to be worn with pride.

Lost in their thoughts at the end of the day, this long days ride was not child's play.

They'd pushed their horses, as far as they'd go, chasin' some "mulas" hauling "mota" and "blow."

Comin' up empty, they set up camp, to cook up some vittles, their gear to re-vamp.

Their appointment they'd keep, after some sleep, with those wiley old smugglers, there'd be no retreat.

This war on the border is really no game, they are not looking for fortune or garnering fame.

The rest's lack of gumption at fighting these crimes, had kindled their passion and consumed all their minds.

Fighting off horseback, the job that they love, like Rangers of old, gone to homes up above.

They adapted their tactics from books that they read, of those old horseback Rangers, so long go dead.

Their weapons are ancient, their bosses all fear, but so is their thinking as well as their gear.

They're warriors of old, stuck in the present, to their way of thinking modern methods aren't pleasant.

While lost in their reverie, the coyote cried long and all of his brothers joined in the song.

Far in the distance they heard the note, the screech of an owl from deep in his throat.

Each Ranger looked up, fully alert, at that dreaded sound, like a cry from the dirt, or from some long dead red warrior, spooky yet curt.

From out of the darkness, beyond the fires light, came a hail from a distance, far from their sight.

"Hello the camp!", the strangers voice said, "I'd share in your fire, and perhaps a place for my bed!"

Hands went to guns, at thus startling sound, but before they slapped leather, into the light a stranger they found.

They all drew a gasped breath, as together they seen, the star on his chest that glowed there with a sheen.

It was just the same as the one that they wore, made of hammered old silver, the name "Ranger" it bore.

The stranger's clothing it spoke, of time long gone by, when men rode their horses, as at a bloody trade they did ply.

Chasing down Mexican raiders, Commancheros and such, they had little money, they didn't need much.

He didn't stand tall, his eyes did the talking, a little smile on his face, at the way they were baulking.

"Boys not don't be so nervous, you see I'm your pard, I'm just here a checkin', the name Ranger to guard."

"You call yourselves Ranger after some mighty good men, fighting and scrapping they've always been."

"I've come to find out if to the legend you're true, would Ol' Big Foot Wallace and the others trust you?"

"At the look of your weapons, it's plain to see, that you know what you're doin' and that's real fine to me."

"In my day long ago, while preparin' to fight, sittin' round that fire wouldn't be right."

"Lay down your blankets out there in the brush, and then when your enemy comes with a rush,

you'll get the drop on him, he'll be blinded by light and dead in your sights."

He searched them over, with a practiced look, his eyes spoke of wisdom not learned from a book.

They all just sat there, with stunned looks on their faces, their minds rushing backwards, to far distant places.

"You look real familiar Lee Morgan said, is it really true?, your supposed to be dead, I remember you!"

The stranger he laughed, a genial sound, "I see that you're shocked, but I'm here honor bound, to see that you don't run our name to the ground."

"I'll report back, at the things that I've seen, ........you are true Rangers, this I really mean!"

He turned away, with a wave of his hand and slowly walked backwards, away from this band.

As he was fading, away from their sight, Ranger Rick Knuckles, cried with all of his might, "Who the heck are you, by all that is right, How can you judge us and the way that we fight?"

Then with a laugh, both witty and bright, he said, "Captain John Coffee Hayes at your service this night!"

Winchester Blue

I peer out the window, the sky looks the same,
clouds floating over, sunset burning like flame.

I know in my heart, my time is nearly gone,
that ol' grim reaper, has this battle won.

Thoughts take me back, to the days of my youth,
passions fiery, hot burnings, make me haughty, brazen, uncouth.

My days as a cowboy, things much simpler then.
on the back of a horse, no rule could me pen.

Wild rag 'round my neck, made of silk, bright blue,
tan Blucher boots on my feet, only them kind would do.

On the back of my horse, sat a high cantled saddle,
made to fit me, and to rope wild range cattle.

A black Stetson hat, perched on my head at a rake,
told the world who I was, and what a mistake you would make, to mess with this cowboy.

Silver was found, on all of my gear,
Bits, spurs and bridles, on anything dear.

Navajo blankets, only the best, twixt horse and kack,
natures best padding, to save a good pony's back.

On my left hip, rested a Colt's .44,
to kill an ol' rattler, or settle a score.

Under my left leg, butt pointed back to the rear,
in a worn leather scabbard, sat that most important of gear.

Wichester rifle, metal cold blue,
Caliber .30 aught six, swift work it would do.

On the occasional rustler, it had brought sudden fear,
dispatched a rogue stud horse, or a fleet footed deer.

Such was my world, so many years back,
before life dealt me this hand, and cut me no slack.

I had a fine cow ranch, and a good loving wife,
she was friend, we shared our life's strife.

But now all of that's gone, my wife took sick and died,
the kids sold the ranch, and along with it my pride.

I turned 85, 'bout three days back, now they say I've got cancer
Am I ready to die?, well here's my answer!

My kids live in the city, they hated the ranch,
but I've got a grandson, who's cut off the old branch.

You see he's a cowboy, like me through and through,
he shares my wild nature, and my renegade view.

When I was still young, with my old age in view,
I promised myself this thing, I'd surely do.

Well here he comes now, I'll not spoil your surprise,
I think what I have planned, will cause the dust here to rise.

...........Before the sun rises, we sneak out the rear,
of this hated ol' rest home, he's gathered my gear.

I put the black Stetson, on my head at a rake,
'round my neck the blue wild rag, in it a tie knot I make.

I wear my dress Bluchers, tops clear up to my knees,
silver mounted Blanchards, on boot heels to please.

The well worn but handsome, .44 Colt I give John,
I tell 'im, "It's yours son, for I'm soon to be gone!"

Well he has a real sad look, and a tear in his eye,
he hands me my rifle, as we say our goodbye.

He's like to stop me, I can tell that he would,
but he knows my reasons, if anyone should.

I drag that ol' rifle, up five flights of stairs,
leaves me shaky and winded, but effort soon shads my cares,

I reach the tin roof, of that ol' grain elevator top,
my heart's pounding so hard, I can't get it to stop.

I watch the bright sun, rise up in the east,
To my tired old eyes, the sight is a feast.

I see the broad prairie, where roamed as a child,
now crowded with houses, cars on roadways are piled.

Now I'm glad its over, I've fought the good fight,
Draggin' bitter hurts out, makes his throat get real tight.

The Ending!

He pulls out the Winchester, shiny with use,
cared for well by his grandson, it had seen no abuse.

He loads up the rifle's magazine, with four shiny shells,
just as the old tower 'cross town tolls its bells.

He sights down the barrel, at the street down below,
and fires off his rounds, at the buildings with sunrise glow.

He shoots out the window, of the Rancher's Bank down the street,
It shatters in pieces, real nice, clean and neat.

Upon the BLM office, he bestows two rounds more,
and one to the IRS den, to even the score.

Well the end of this story, was so sadly told,
On the T.V. screen, it was a sight to behold.

They told of the old man, dressed up in a hat,
who must have gone crazy, to have acted like that.

The police were called there, they did their jobs well,
said it took nearr ten rounds, to send that old fool to hell.

Witnesses all stated, that there as he died,
the old man stood up laughin', as them he defied.

There's only one grievin', at the old man's last bash,
the rest of the family, more concerned with his cash.

He took the body, back high in the hills,
near a crick that he loved, as out of the mountains it spills.

In two Navajo blankets, he wrapped him up well,
Into a cold grave, in ground they can't sell.

He laid his white head, on the high cantled saddle,
he said, "You earned this rest and you've won this battle."

Well he covers him up, and some of the gear he had owned,
with a short Army shovel, an old friend had loaned.

He stood there, his hat in hand,
trying to find the right words, to say over this man.

"Father please take him, into your care,
he's just and old cowboy, but of courage so rare.

He just did the best thing, he knew how to do,
so when you judge 'im, please keep this in view.

And now I'll ask you, before this palaver I quit,
help me remember this day, don't let me forget.

This world has a way, of runnin' over a good man,
let me take up his cause, and stay close to the land."

He carved him a marker, pounded it into the ground,
above where his head lay, where it would be found.

On it it read, "Here lies a true man,
who died as he lived, HE...NEVER...RAN!"