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Open Poetry #51
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The End of the Trail
| Open Poetry #51 |
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The End of the Trail |
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Gunslinger Senior Member
since 1999-10-09
Posts 901TX, USA 
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McComas rode into Laredo- Dusty and tired from his trip. Ahead lay the Rio and safety- Survival hung low on his hip. Bearded and trail-worn, and hungry- He pictured a bath, and hot meal. And maybe a bed at the hotel, Not knowing the hand fate would deal. They called him an outlaw, a killer, I guess the shoe fit him, it’s true. The Post-Civil War down in Texas Produced them, and more than a few. A posse rode hard close behind him- To linger meant swing from a rope. Ahead lay the border and safety... To cross it was his only hope. His bath and his meal came so easy- But sleep from his presence had fled. He lay there for nearly an hour, He tossed and he turned on his bed. He thought, “Just a drink cannot hurt me- I think it might help me to sleep”. In the heart of a gunman and killer... You seldom, if ever, find peace. At the bar stood another, much like him- Another poor waif of the West. She went by the name “Billie Blossom”- And life had not dealt her the best. She was hardened by life and consumptive. Said, “Buy me a drink”? With a smile. It was love at first sight for two drifters And pleasant the hours they did while- To watch them was like watching youngsters... Exploring their first puppy-love. They talked of a home-life and children- A killer and one poor soiled-dove. The hours were gone ere they knew it- Like time, now, McComas must flee. He said, “I’ll wait for you there by the river- Together for ever we’ll be.” His heart filled with hope, now, and joy- He hurriedly went for his horse. Billie was packing her things up- Not knowing of life’s fateful course. He stepped from the barroom precisely- When the posse drew rein in the street. The sheriff, they say, wasn’t looking his way- The man he had hoped not to meet. They say that he spoke, ere the guns fired. “Here, Anse, I'm standing right here”... He’d still be alive, but who wants to survive- By killing brave men from the rear? At dusk when the funeral procession- Returned from it’s trip to Boot Hill- A lone mourner knelt my his head stone, Her face streaked with tears, sad and still. Young Billie, still mourning her lover- Reached into the bag at her side. The derringer spoke, the silence it broke- And there on his grave Billie died. They tell me that down at the river- Their laughter is heard on the breeze. Their still holding hands, and still making plans Of children, a home, life at ease. Don’t mock if you’ve never gone down there- I have, and they're there without fail- McComas and Billie have found peace at last- Down there at the end of the trail. |
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