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| THE OUTLAW Off in the badlands of New Mexico, The worst in 10 counties or so I�ve been told. He�s robbed from the rich, and robbed from the poor, Some are waiting for him at their door. With riffles and pistols and clubs in their hands, They�re waiting to rid us of him in our land. A posse was gathered, the hunt on it�s way, They hoped he was captured by the end of the day. The outlaw appeared by a small wagon train. Big guns on his belt on a small wiry frame. He opened the canvas on one covered wagon, And drug out a man his heels a draggin. The shot rang loud, it went through his head. He flipped over end now lying there dead. The hush of the crowd for the man that just died. All of them stared, a few of them cried. He kicked the man on the ground that was dead. The one all covered with blood that was red. Soon came the posse with all of the guys. Pulled of their hats to shoo away flies. They picked up the body to throw on a horse. To take back to town, for the trial of course. The courtroom was packed and filled to the brim. All eyes on the outlaw, they were looking at him. "I say we hang him", a voice from the crowd. Yes, we should hang him they all cried out loud. He was dragged from the courtroom, the law held at bay. Taken outside on a hot summers day. The rope now thrown on a limb on a tree. They hoisted him up so all gathered could see. In the blink of an eye he was hanging their dangling. Gone were his days of rustling and wrangling. Not a tear was shed as the crowd turned around. For the outlaw now lay dead on the ground. Off for the burial out on Boot Hill. A church bell rang once and then it was still. The old woman was crying as they led her off. Sun wrinkled skin, but yet was still soft. They walked her in comfort, arms at her waist. The bitterness still in her mouth she could taste. A shotgun was taken from her trembling hands. From the woman who shot outlaw Billy Bland. The Masked Writer <o.o> <O.O> |
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