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A home without a wall, |
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| Open Poetry #13 |
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The End of the Trail |
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John Yaws Senior Member
since 1999-10-09
Posts 860Texas 
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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 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. [This message has been edited by Gunslinger (edited 04-19-2001).] |
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| © Copyright 2001 John R. Yaws - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Well, slap my chaps! This is GREAT! |
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suthern
since 1999-07-29
Posts 20723Louisiana |
Great story, GS... and you've told it well! I really like these lines... the honor shown here, the love for Billie and the loneliness all combine to give this outlaw so much heart. *S* "He’d still be alive, but who wants to survive- By killing brave men from the rear?" |
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inot2B Member Elite
since 2000-09-18
Posts 2205Arkansas |
Yep, you definitely can hear the laughter as the wind blows through those old mesquite trees. Gunslinger this brought a shiver down my spine while reading it. |
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Trillium
since 2001-03-09
Posts 12098Idaho, USA |
Gunslinger: As usual, this is a terrific tale! I haven't been reading much here, as I am posting to Spiritual Journeys and The Corner Pub, so I'm really glad I caught this one. Betty Lou Hebert |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Fantastic writing, John. Excellently done. |
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Balladeer
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-05
Posts 25505Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA |
...and who ever said a little posse never hurt anyone? Ya never know... an excellent saga, 'slinger, as you can always do so well..... |
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