Bushwhacked
He heard the crack of the rifle
The burning low in his back
Hands reaching for the saddle
Grip failing, reins going slack
The 44 slug ripped through his body
Tearing its way into the bone
Crumpled face first into the dirt
Bushwhacked on the trail and all alone
His pony only a few feet away
Pain now causing nausea in waves
Night and day, coming and going
Brilliant sun bursts and deep, dark caves
And horrible, evil laughter
He couldn’t even describe
Worst than the war whoops
Of any known Indian tribe
Unconsciousness took over
In a place he couldn’t tell
Nowhere and everywhere together
Wasn’t heaven, had to be hell
Every inch of his body was infused
With a pain he just couldn’t bear
Maybe death would take him soon
And he could be taken away from there
Laying in his own vomit
Horse just grazing away
Legs too numb to move
Reckon, this was his last day
Fingernails clawing the ground
Fingers inching forward a bit
Face being dragged along
Being etched by stones and grit
Elbows digging into the earth
Dragging him along
Every movement torture
Strength almost gone
A hour and he was a foot closer
To the horse he had ridden
Bloody dried on the saddle
In shadows partially hidden
His back wet and sticky
His life’s blood still flowing
How much farther he could not tell
Just knew he had to keep going
“Lord kill me right now
If that’s your plan
I’m not invincible
You know, I’m just a man”
By sunset he had scratched
His way up to his mount
Blood coated and too weak
Once more down for the count
Moon was high over head
Awakened by the cold
Pressed himself against a rock
A stirrup he took hold
Pain screaming through his legs
Arms as weak as a rubber band
Somewhere between cursing and praying
He found the strength to stand
An hour to crawl upon a rock
To get himself into the saddle
Slumped forward barely alive
Horse moved out with him a straddle
“The Lord is my shepherd”
Kept coming to mind
“The valley of the shadow of death”
Time after time
“You may be down
But you are not defeated”
The phrase he heard it
Again it was repeated
Opened his eyes slowly
Focusing on what was around
And old adobe cabin
Someone kneeling on the ground
“You are awake my son”
The padre smiled at him
“Welcome back
To the land of the living again”
Fatigue overtook him
Leaving him without the power
To know where he was
Or even the day or the hour
As he regained consciousness
Through a heavy state of fog
Into a reality
Of a padre, an adobe and a dog
Seconds trickled into minutes
That slid into hours and days
As he fought through the pain
And the slowly receding haze
“Found you on the trail
Your pony standing guard
Shot and bloodied
From him you had fallen hard”
“The doctor got the bullet
Buried deep into your spine
Left recovery to the Father
Your spirit, guts and time”
The cowboy screamed
As he tried to move around
Couldn’t live his life crippled
But he crumpled to the ground
“God is still with you
And that’s more than talk
But you’ll have to crawl first
Before you can learn to walk”
“You’re desire is real good
One day you will walk tall
For now, my son, rest
And trust in the God of all”
He got to like tortillas
And tolerated the beans and rice
But told the padre
Biscuits and gravy would be nice
“Be grateful
It’s all I can give
Be happy
For now, you live”
Lying became sitting
Sitting gave way to a crawl
Knees to legs with help
And over and over a fall
“Every time I go down
There’s that evil laugh
From the day I was shot
Left to die on the path”
“He laughed the day
They put Jesus on the tree
He no longer laughs at him
So he terrorizes you and me”
“Let your mind dwell on Jesus
Not on what you want to do
He directs every step
That’s attempted by me or you”
With time the falls were less
He progressed to a step or two
With his eyes fixed upon Jesus
Listening for the cue
The seasons had turned
He ventured out into the cold
Upright and making strides
Though his back felt bent and old
Spring found him on horseback
His bones healed in the summer sun
He knew it was time to leave
His days of convalescence were done
One morning the old padre
Before him set a platter with steak
Taters, biscuits and gravy
In no time he cleaned his plate
“Where did the money come from
For this feast of a meal
I’ve become fond of beans and tortillas
You didn’t have to steal?”
“No, the padre said
Something I have done
In the market today
I sold that notched gun”
“You weren’t saved
To continue your killing ways
The trail you need to follow
Will be made of different days”
“I knew you were an outlaw
When I nursed you back to health
What’s in your heart, not in your hand
Will be the secret of your wealth”
“Your only enemy is gone
No longer do you hear his evil cry
Get on your horse and Vaya con Dios
Go with God, my friend, goodbye”
If You Live by the Gun…
It was the Doolins and Daltons
Desperadoes and thieves alike
Ridin’, raidin’ and stealin’
‘Til fate met ‘em in the Territory
Most of them Daltons
Grat, Bob and Emmet
Fell in Coffeyville, Kansas
Trying to rob two banks
Grat and Bob shot down
Emmet was wounded
Recovered and then
Sent off to prison
Bill Doolin and Bill Dalton
Sat out the foolish ploy
Forming another gang
Bent on all kinds of crime
But laying low
In Ingalls, Oklahoma
Proved to be
Their undoin’
With Red Buck Weightman.
Bitter Creek Newcomb
Charlie Pierce
Arkansas Tom Jones
Tulsa Jack Blake
And Dynamite Dick Clifton
They lounged at cards and drinkin’
Put up at the city hotel
Frequenting the Ransom Saloon
They entertained the town
Through money and might
Could be they stayed put too long
Or just got lazy
Wasn’t long before US Marshalls
Got wind of their hideout
Lead by Evett Dumas “ED” Nix
27 marshals and Indians police
Planned a visit to Ingalls
On a tip from a youngster
But the kid also warned the outlaws
Who prepared horses for a get away
But decided to finish their poker game first
Which was interrupted by the melee
Red Buck, Bill Dalton, Dynamite Dick
And Charlie Pierce slapped leather
Ridin’ hard outta town
Though some were wounded
Deputy Lafayette Shadley and
Deputy Marshall Richard Speed
Were gunned down in the street
Bystander Young Simmons, too
Arkansas Tom, who put up a gallant fight
From a second story hotel room
Finally, was cornered like a rat
Ending up in federal prison at Guthrie
On September 1, 1893, in Ingalls
“Bitter Creek” was first to fall
And a marshal didn’t make it
In the gun battle
Bill Dalton met death in 1894
Shot near Ardmore Oklahoma
While trying to escape the law
Ending a lawless career
Red Buck also died by the gun
Shot down by a deputy
Who hunted the $150
Assassin for hire
Bill Doolin died in 1896
Just outside Lawton
In Oklahoma Territory
Livin’ and dyin’ by the gun
Ron Secoy, a retired Army Officer, lives in rural Oklahoma, not far from the Chisholm Trail, spending his remaining years writing inspired cowboy poetry.