A TRAIL OF HARD MEN
©
1992, 2002 by Steve Kaye
Originally
printed in The Western Review
Black as shade they rode
in daylight;
bright as the moon they traveled by night.
Seven
men strong with guns for each hand,
and thirty cayuses of the
devil’s own brand.
Up from Obispo and down
through Cholame,
on iron-shod hooves with thunder aplenty,
They
tore through the country shootin’ and killin’,
leaving nothing
behind but tracks of burnt brimstone.
Each man jack was damned,
so the legend is told,
to shotgun forever a cache of Spanish
gold.
But they’d sworn their allegiance, had given an oath;
and
though crooked a man of their word each could boast.
Onward they raced into the
night,
a gold-laidened coach and a trail of hard men.
Then down from the hills
came riders in black;
an army of outlaws and robbers attacked.
They
shot and they cursed and they rocked the old stage,
but not one
of the seven fell by the way.
Dynamite lit for the stakes
they were high,
yet the blasts were in vain, these men would
not die.
And with each passing mile ‘nother horseman fell prey
to
the terrible strain ‘til one only remained.
And onward they raced into
the night,
a gold-laidened coach and a trail of hard men.
Bullets were gone and the
horses near spent,
Tied to his saddle the last rider sat bent.
He
had wasted his youth in all of two days;
his bright eyes and
skin were now sallow and gray.
But still he pressed on,
thinking only of gold.
Still he pressed on, abandoning his soul.
And
a darkness wrapped ‘round him deeper than night;
a blackness
of dread more fearful than fright.
Still onward they raced
into the night,
a gold-laidened coach and a trail of hard men.
If the lone, gaunt rider
caught up with his prize,
it had only been seen by unliving eyes.
For
a terrified scream broke the still morning air,
such a cold,
hollow thing to chill your bones bare.
Then coach, team, and men
dissolved into the dust,
like spirits fading in a swirling gray
mist.
And naught but a Doubloon was left in their wake,
and
the thunder of hooves that echoed away.
Onward they raced into the
long, endless night,
a gold-laidened coach and a trail of dead
men.