Western Trilogy by Ken Wood

The Death of Billy the Kid

Gunfight at the OK Corral

The Gunfighter

The Death of Billy the Kid

Pat Garrett stepped back as he holstered his gun

And said, “Maxwell, d’you know what I did?

“I’ve just shot a man.  Do you know who he is?”

He said, “Yes, sir.  That’s Billy the Kid.”

The Kid lay there bleeding, his life at an end,

With his six-gun unfired by his side.

Some men stood around him, just shaking their heads.

While his girlfriend sat by him and cried.

He’d come down to Sumner to make a new start.

And to try to forget ‘bout his past.

He wasn’t to know that this journey he’d made

Would result in him breathing his last.

Arrested for murder in bloody shoot-out,

He had seen his close friends die in pain.

In jail up in Lincoln he ‘waited his fate.

They’d ensure he would not kill again.

The gallows stood tall and as silent as death,

While the Kid sat in chains looking on.

A friendly hand helped him to make his escape

Adding two notches more to his gun.

He rode south to Sumner to meet with some friends

Who would help him to start his new life.

His wish was to leave William Bonney behind,

To go forward with kids and a wife.

But times were a-changing.  New moves were afoot

To bring law to this wild, deadly place.

Respectable people were coming in droves

Seeking wealth and a new State of grace.

So sentenced to death he could not be allowed

To escape from the law as he willed.

Pat Garrett was sent out to find where he was

And make sure he was taken or killed.

He tracked down the Kid and then followed him south

With some deputies loyal and true.

They reached the Fort late one night, dreading this job

‘Twas their terrible duty to do.

In dead of night Garrett closed in on the house

While his men worked their way round the back.

The Kid was at Maxwell’s, his girl by his side

In the peace that he always had lacked

As Garrett approached, Billy rose from his bed

To find something to slake a great thirst.

He suddenly saw a dark shape in the door

But Pat Garrett had spotted him first.

The Kid put his hand on the butt of his gun

But a shot rang out, breaking the peace.

The Kid fell down dying, and suddenly knew

That at last he had found his release.

Pat Garrett stepped back as he holstered his gun

And said, “Maxwell, d’you know what I did?

“I’ve just shot a man.  Do you know who he is?”

He said, “Yes, sir.  That’s Billy the Kid.”

© Ken Wood 2003

Gunfight at the OK Corral

 Four long black coats walk down the street

Their footfalls landing light

Their spurs a gentle chinking make

There’s going to be a fight.

There’s bad blood ‘tween the clans, it seems,

The Clantons and the Earps

Each fam’ly thinks the other its authority usurps.

Slowly they walk with baited breath

Along the empty street.

Away from them runs everyone

They happen there to meet.

‘We’re going to settle scores today,

The final big showdown.

We’ll take their guns away from them

Then run them out of town.’

Their six-guns restless at their side,

Their sweaty palms held out,

Five bullets in each chamber round

And a sixth one up the spout.

The Doc a shotgun nestles close,

Its barrel sawn off short.

He coughs then from a bottle brown

He takes a little snort.

The Clantons waiting conf’dently

With high, jokey morale

They check their weapons ruthlessly

Outside OK Corral

They’ve had enough.  ‘Can’t take no more.’

They’re often heard to moan.

Not big enough for both, it seems,

Is this town, old Tombstone

The Earps walk in, spread out in front.

The Clantons stand up straight.

They face each other fair and square.

And patiently they wait.

They look each other up and down

Sweat forming on their brow.

The moment’s come.  The game is done.

It’s over here and now!

“Give up your guns”, calls Wyatt Earp,

“And come along with us.

We’re cleaning up this town today

So please don’t make a fuss!”

“We want no trouble here today”,

Ike Clanton calls to Wyatt.

“We won’t give up our guns to you.

We just want peace and quiet.”

They eye each other, standing still,

The silence deafening.

Then spread out slowly, moving round,

Now standing in a ring.

Each waits and watches, wondering

Who’ll be the first to make

A move to draw a gun and so

That awful silence break.

Then suddenly all hell breaks loose

As with a single mind

Each draws and fires.  The bullets fly.

The death warrants are signed.

Doc levels up his shotgun too

And pulls the trigger twice

Death flies from both the barrels blue,

Doc’s eyes as cold as ice.

The dust flies up. The smoke hangs thick.

The roar is deafening

Blood spurts from wounds as bodies fly

Then silence reigns again.

A mighty scream disturbs the peace

As someone feels his pain.

One bloodied Earp is still alive

But Clantons three lie slain.

The deed is done.  The game is played. 

The guns are put away.

As over all that dreadful scene

The smell of Death holds sway.

The dust beneath the victors’ feet

Now wears a bright red stain,

As silently the living leave

And only the dead remain.

Reprinted from 'Hobnobbing' © 2003

The Gunfighter

There’s a man with a gun and he’s waiting for me

With his hat pulled down low on his head.

If he’s faster than me then my luck has run out.

If he’s not then he’s good as dead.

Slowly through the swing doors I walk up to the bar

With the onlookers standing aghast.

I buy whisky and drink it right down all in one

Who knows? This even could be my last. 

At the other, far end of the bar he awaits

Standing with one foot up on the rail.

With a whisky before him he turns his face round

And spits noisily into a pail.

“I am looking for you”, he announces at last

“To see who is the fastest round here.”

I reply with a grin that I know it’s not him,

‘Cos it’s me.  That’s abundantly clear.

“I’ve got so many notches on both my six-guns

I can hardly hold them any more.

If you’ve any good sense in your head, my old friend,

You’ll turn round and walk straight out the door.”

“I’ve killed so many people,” he says in reply,

“That they call me the Angel of Death.

So enjoy your last whisky and look your last look

You’re about to draw in your last breath.”

Then I turn round to face him and stare in his eyes

While some onlookers dive for the floor.

There are others who hide under tables or chairs,

And a few who jump out through the door.

It’s the moment of truth.  Am I going to die?

Am I really as good as I think?

Then I found myself wishing I’d had a few more

Little glasses of whisky to drink.

In a flash there’s a gun in my hand and he’s dead.

Then I turn round and walk out the door

With a smile ‘cause I know I was right after all

While my friend lies dead wrong on the floor.

Reprinted from 'Hobnobbing' © 2003

Wild Bill Who?

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