He was born a bastard child
to a dancehall girl in town—
in a place men choose a woman,
an’ lay their money down.

Schoolin’ never was his thing—
mischief was his game,
an’ it didn’t take too many years
‘til the country knew his name.

He never held an’ honest job—
no one would chance to hire
for he was known throughout the land
for makin’ men expire.

It’s said he could outdraw the best
in a fight not always fair,
but he gave it little thought at all
‘cause for life—he didn’t care.

He had a reputation
in the badlands of that day—
killin’, robbin’, rapin’ squaws,
in his wild an’ untamed ways.

He lived his life a rambler,
an’ ask for nothing more.
Loved but one, lone woman—
an Arizona whore.

His face was on the posters
in every sherriff’s drawer,
an’ his name gave folks the shivers
‘cause they’d heard of him before.

They caught him in old Tucson—
“Guilty,” twelve men said.
Those days there was no waitin’
to hang him high ’til dead.

Two days the judge did holler
as his gavel hit the desk.
The killer didn’t blink an’ eye,
for he’d be no jailer’s guest.

The day of his neck-stretchin’,
a huge crowd gathered ‘round,
bringin’ their lunch baskets
to this spectacle in town.

Kids ran freely playin’ games
to await the evil one
they’d see hung from his neck ‘til dead
in the Arizona sun.

It was a lesson to them all
of punishment real swift.
If you lived souly by the gun,
in the end, you got the drift.

At noon, they marched the killer out.
The crowd fell hushed an’ quiet.
Protesters didn’t show that day
to conjure up a riot.

The preacher said a few nice words
that made the prisoner grumble,
an’ then the executioner
gave the man a tumble.

In the grave, they laid him down—
from Boot Hill he never tarried.
Beside too many men like him
is where the man is buried.
                     
Unlike killers of today
they gave the man no slack.
But he preferred a noose his end
to a bullet in the back.

Tamara Hillman
 ©2010