He heard the crack of the rifle
The burning low in his back
Hands reaching for the saddle
Grip failing, reins going slack<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And horrible, evil laughter
He couldn\u2019t even describe
Worst than the war whoops
Of any known Indian tribe<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unconsciousness took over
In a place he couldn\u2019t tell
Nowhere and everywhere together
Wasn\u2019t heaven, had to be hell<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every inch of his body was infused
With a pain he just couldn\u2019t bear
Maybe death would take him soon
And he could be taken away from there<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Laying in his own vomit
Horse just grazing away
Legs too numb to move
Reckon, this was his last day<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fingernails clawing the ground
Fingers inching forward a bit
Face being dragged along
Being etched by stones and grit<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His back wet and sticky
His life\u2019s blood still flowing
How much farther he could not tell
Just knew he had to keep going<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLord kill me right now
If that\u2019s your plan
I\u2019m not invincible
You know, I\u2019m just a man\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By sunset he had scratched
His way up to his mount
Blood coated and too weak
Once more down for the count<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Moon was high over head
Awakened by the cold
Pressed himself against a rock
A stirrup he took hold<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pain screaming through his legs
Arms as weak as a rubber band
Somewhere between cursing and praying
He found the strength to stand<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An hour to crawl upon a rock
To get himself into the saddle
Slumped forward barely alive
Horse moved out with him a straddle<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe Lord is my shepherd\u201d
Kept coming to mind
\u201cThe valley of the shadow of death\u201d
Time after time<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou may be down
But you are not defeated”
The phrase he heard it
Again it was repeated<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Opened his eyes slowly
Focusing on what was around
And old adobe cabin
Someone kneeling on the ground<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou are awake my son\u201d
The padre smiled at him
\u201cWelcome back
To the land of the living again\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fatigue overtook him
Leaving him without the power
To know where he was
Or even the day or the hour<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As he regained consciousness
Through a heavy state of fog
Into a reality
Of a padre, an adobe and a dog<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seconds trickled into minutes
That slid into hours and days
As he fought through the pain
And the slowly receding haze<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFound you on the trail
Your pony standing guard
Shot and bloodied
From him you had fallen hard\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe doctor got the bullet
Buried deep into your spine
Left recovery to the Father
Your spirit, guts and time\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The cowboy screamed
As he tried to move around
Couldn\u2019t live his life crippled
But he crumpled to the ground<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGod is still with you
And that\u2019s more than talk
But you\u2019ll have to crawl first
Before you can learn to walk\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re desire is real good
One day you will walk tall
For now, my son, rest
And trust in the God of all\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He got to like tortillas
And tolerated the beans and rice
But told the padre
Biscuits and gravy would be nice<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBe grateful
It\u2019s all I can give
Be happy
For now, you live\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lying became sitting
Sitting gave way to a crawl
Knees to legs with help
And over and over a fall<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery time I go down
There\u2019s that evil laugh
From the day I was shot
Left to die on the path\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe laughed the day
They put Jesus on the tree
He no longer laughs at him
So he terrorizes you and me\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLet your mind dwell on Jesus
Not on what you want to do
He directs every step
That\u2019s attempted by me or you\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With time the falls were less
He progressed to a step or two
With his eyes fixed upon Jesus
Listening for the cue<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The seasons had turned
He ventured out into the cold
Upright and making strides
Though his back felt bent and old<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One morning the old padre
Before him set a platter with steak
Taters, biscuits and gravy
In no time he cleaned his plate<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere did the money come from
For this feast of a meal
I\u2019ve become fond of beans and tortillas
You didn\u2019t have to steal?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo, the padre said
Something I have done
In the market today
I sold that notched gun\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou weren\u2019t saved
To continue your killing ways
The trail you need to follow
Will be made of different days\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI knew you were an outlaw
When I nursed you back to health
What\u2019s in your heart, not in your hand
Will be the secret of your wealth\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour 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\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the Doolins and Daltons
Desperadoes and thieves alike
Ridin\u2019, raidin\u2019 and stealin\u2019
\u2018Til fate met \u2018em in the Territory<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Most of them Daltons
Grat, Bob and Emmet
Fell in Coffeyville, Kansas
Trying to rob two banks<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Grat and Bob shot down
Emmet was wounded
Recovered and then
Sent off to prison<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill Doolin and Bill Dalton
Sat out the foolish ploy
Forming another gang
Bent on all kinds of crime<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But laying low
In Ingalls, Oklahoma
Proved to be
Their undoin\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Put up at the city hotel
Frequenting the Ransom Saloon
They entertained the town
Through money and might<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Could be they stayed put too long
Or just got lazy
Wasn\u2019t long before US Marshalls
Got wind of their hideout<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lead by Evett Dumas \u201cED\u201d Nix
27 marshals and Indians police
Planned a visit to Ingalls
On a tip from a youngster<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Red Buck, Bill Dalton, Dynamite Dick
And Charlie Pierce slapped leather
Ridin\u2019 hard outta town
Though some were wounded<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Deputy Lafayette Shadley and
Deputy Marshall Richard Speed
Were gunned down in the street
Bystander Young Simmons, too<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On September 1, 1893, in Ingalls
\u201cBitter Creek\u201d was first to fall
And a marshal didn\u2019t make it
In the gun battle<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill Dalton met death in 1894
Shot near Ardmore Oklahoma
While trying to escape the law
Ending a lawless career<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Red Buck also died by the gun
Shot down by a deputy
Who hunted the $150
Assassin for hire<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill Doolin died in 1896
Just outside Lawton
In Oklahoma Territory
Livin\u2019 and dyin\u2019 by the gun<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bushwhacked He heard the crack of the rifleThe burning low in his backHands reaching for the saddleGrip failing, reins going slack The 44 slug ripped through his bodyTearing its way into the boneCrumpled face first into the dirtBushwhacked on the trail and all alone His pony only a few feet awayPain now causing nausea in … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1109,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1108","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/pramod-tiwari-OTlttzMJfQU-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C360&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1108","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1108"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1108\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1110,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1108\/revisions\/1110"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1109"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1108"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1108"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1108"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Ron Secoy, a retired Army Officer, lives in rural Oklahoma, not far from the Chisholm Trail, spending his remaining years writing inspired cowboy poetry.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"