FROM KANSAS TO BOSTON 1894 T. LEONARD SANDERS, 1997 THE DIRTY SHAME SALOON RON WRIGHT, 2003 HAWK RON WRIGHT, 2003 |
Our life had become monotony out on the plains so vast All the grass was sunburnt color, ‘cuz the freshness of spring had passed For weeks we lacked a landmark that was worthy of a name And everywhere a man could look- everything looked the same The Republican River was one week north, then we’d have a river to ford Eating and sleeping, grazing and guarding, us cowboys all were bored We drank the same ol’ coffee before we went on guard We ate so much “sowbelly” that we sweated straight leaf lard Ol’ “Cookie” sensed our mood swing and announced at mornin’s light “I’m gonna cheer you boys up. We’ll have a Boston supper tonight” “I know you like your sourdoughs, though you claim they’re lined with lead” “But for a little change of diet-tonight it’s Boston Baked Brown Bread” “Now man can’t live by bread alone, and for change your bellies have ached” “So this evenin’ things will be different, we’ll have beans that’re Boston baked” “And I think we have some oysters, though on the plains they’re rare” “I’ll top it off with fine roast beef, to complete our east coast fare” We had sumthin to look forward to, it turned our world around We were horseback with high spirits, in the new hope that we’d found That evenin’ we rode into camp and “Cookie” was standin proud The savory scent bore witness that “Cookie’d” done just as he vowed He’d taken us from the dismal plains just using his dutch oven powers And planted us in the town of Boston, in just a few short hours Now friends I’ve had a meal or two, I’ve done some fancy eatin’ But from Kansas to Boston in ’94 is a meal that’s never been beaten! T. Leonard Sanders 1997 |
On a hill up in the trees a purty piece from town Stands the Dirty Shame Saloon where you can take a bottle down Or play some cards if you’re a mind or simply chew the fat Or shoot a Buff across the draw there's one place such as that. Butch had played at this same table, the one I sat at then Who'd looked at him across this felt? So long ago back when Through coal oil light the story formed as the cards and whiskey rounded Some time ago another game in this saloon was founded. Black Jack Hill was there that night along with several others To play some cards or have a snort, whatever was their druthers The poker games they did commence at every round green table Black Jack was schemin’ to haul home all the cash that he was able. The whiskey poured, the cards went round and smoke rings filled the air Some hands was won; some hands was lost by those boys sitting there Black Jack it seemed was winning more that plain luck should allow And some boys started watching him, to figger out just how. All through the night the games went on ‘till shortly fore first light Some staggered out to head for home before there was a fight. The money pile in front of Hill was much to large it seems Ol' Black Jack was a cheatin', there was no other means. Across from Hill sat ol' Doc Smith, Who'd been a watchin’ keen To try and see Black Jack's technique for collectin’ all that green It was Black Jack's turn to deal again so Doc he changed the angle From which he was a watchin’ from, to figger out this tangle. Well, it was then and there that he saw what Black Jack was a doin' From the bottom of the deck came the cards that he was usin' Doc's move was quick, he stood and yelled, "You bottom dealin' dog" Hill tried to draw but Doc drew first and dropped him like a hog. Black Jack tipped over on the floor and layed there hardly movin' And Doc walked up to look at him, to see how he was doin'. Doc wasn't happy with the way that things were lookin then So he stepped up close and cocked his piece and shot Hill once again. Twice through the bean Black Jack was shot both times by Doc Smith's gun The sheriff ruled 'justified' for the things that Black Jack done They grabbed ol' Black Jack by the boots and drug him off to rot Except that someone took his head and boiled it in a pot. When they was done a cookin it, it was all white and bare They took it back to the Dirty Shame so all could see it there Black Jack's skull's still on the wall, there at the Dirty Shame Don't bottom deal if you're playin there, or you might end up the same. Ron Wright 2003 |
He was born a bastard colt and looked to be a dud His dam she was a thorobred, the sire a big draft stud That Shire he had escaped one day and was out a prowlin’ round. Ol’ Smith he weren’t too happy when together they were found. Almost another year had passed when “Hawk” he hit the ground Some boys took one look at him and said “Just put him down.” Big head, pig eyes and four white socks, he wasn’t much to see But there was one a standin there that said “Just leave him be.” He took that big black ugly colt and put it with his own To see just what would come of it and he could’ve hardly known That the day would come when that big black horse would save his very life But before that was to happen there would be some years of strife. Ol’ Hawk he was a knucklehead and lacked some of his brains He didn’t like nobody much and he played some damn rough games One by one they hit the dirt, the boys who tried to ride He’d never amount to nuthin’ much, for he’d been well tried Then one day young Bob climbed on and simply wouldn’t quit On he’d climb then off he’d go when Pig-eye had a fit For a good long time the fight went on ‘till they found some understanding He’d let young Bob stay on a while, if he just weren’t too demanding Hell for stout but short on wits, he was never one to trust Now and then he’d pitch a fit and chuck Bob in the dust Neither one of them would quit so I guess it turned out fair For years to come they’d keep it up and it cost ‘em both some hair Bob and Pops was movin cows, away on out below They’d rode a ways, ‘bout half a day when Pop’s ticker began to go Bob got him down and shaded up and asked him, “Where’s your pills?” Pop said “I left em back at camp, what Doc gimme for my ills.” Bob hit the saddle on the run and yelled “I’ll hurry back.” That big black horse was at a run the second he broke tracks Twelve miles he ran to camp and back and never broke his stride Through rocks an brush, off drops up hills, it was one damn fine ride Hawk just knew he had to shine, he’d make it like no other The stride he took when they lit out showed the bloodlines of his mother But how he held that pace so long, now that’s a different part For a big black ugly misfit horse, that knucklehead had heart There wasn’t any games that day and not a single balk No horse had run so hard and far as Bob did on ol’ Hawk They made that ride to camp and back and brought ol’ Pop his pills And it just might be the only time when those two took no spills RON WRIGHT, 2003 |