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!"

The Ranger Trilogy

The three poems consisting of (1)Texas Justice,(2) Ol' Slick Fork Saddle, and (3)The Ranger's Lament comprise what I call the Ranger Trilogy. They are meant to be read in the sequence indicated. They describe in prose the life of William David Moore, a fictitious character who is a composite of the many gunmen I have known in my life, including myself.

Texas Justice

By Bronco T

He trots ol’ “Blue Dollar”, into the yard,
He’s takin’ chances, by dealing this card.

Out of the doorway, of the cantina they walk,
Frowns on their faces, that’d make weaker men balk.

He guides his ol’ hoss, up to the rack’
Keepin’ the sun, behind his back.

He steps off ol’ Dollar, and onto the ground,
His Mexican spurs, make a jinglin’ sound.

These bandits are tough ones, he know that is true,
With his hand near his revolver, he keeps them in view.

He can tell that their puzzled, by the looks on their faces,
They’d like to take him, but they keep their places.

He keeps ol’ “Blue Dollar”, between him and them,
That ol’ horse warrior, is more than a friend.

There’s a moment of silence, as they look him over,
Do we take him on ?, or dive for cover !

He’s searchin’ for Carlos, that bandit killer,
He raided a ranch, that belonged to Bart Miller.

Carlos had caught them, while they were asleep,
Butchered the family, their possessions to keep.

The bodies were found, by a passing sheep herder,
Who ran into town, crying out murder.

The Ranger was called, to take on the case,
He rode to the ranch, with a scowl on his face.

It didn’t take long, to read the sign,
They drove all the livestock, towards the Mexican line.

He mounted “Blue Dollar”, no time to waste,
He’d find these bandits, and give them a taste,
Of a little Texas Justice.

Crossing the border, he followed their tracks,
To the little cantina, their caution was lax.

Carlos Mantano, his back to the wall,
If he pulls a gun, he’s the first one to fall.

The Ranger speaks slowly, his spanish is fine,
He says, “You raided Texas, and now you are mine.”

He sees Carlos’ hand, that it rests near his gun,
Then suddenly he moves, to start the fun.

The Ranger’s hand flashes, the Colt’s pistol barks,
On Carlos’ shirt, appear to tiny round marks.

The Ranger yanks the Winchester, from out of its case,
To cover the others, with shock on their face.

Into the air, their hands all go,
Carlos’ death, is really a blow.

He ties them together, with rawhide strings,
They’ll walk back to Texas, to find what justice brings.

It’s not far to the border, the river they’ll wade,
The they’ll hang from a limb, till for their crimes they have paid.

On Texas soil, where he left them to swing,
Now that’s Texas Justice, all true Texan’s will sing.

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.

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......

Bronco T