As you rein in your bronc on the high ridge
overlooking Hadleyville or Pobrecito or Wrangler
it is coming on dusk or it's already early night
and your eyes squint shrewdly as you take in the scene;
it's been a long ride from Wherever and you wonder briefly
what this miserable apology for a cow-town holds
for a weary suntanned reader who figgers that down there
in a saloon called Last Chance or Lucky Strike
another dance-hall gal is being brutally manhandled
by some drunken ranch-hand or deputy sheriff
and as you ride in slowly you ease your six-gun-smooth
sensibility in its hog-legged holster thinking to yourself
Just once I'd like to get to page 15 without any of these
doggone heroics and the smell of bar-room powder-smoke
but you guess that ain't on the cards so instead of riding
right on you push through those bat-wing doors
and the saloon goes awful quiet all of a sudden
(as it generally does when Fate, that pernickety little lady,
plays her hand) and your one consolation is knowing
that while Boot Hill is about to be a mite busier for a while
and the town preacher will be exhuming a few old clichés
at least there'll be a persecuted small-rancher's daughter
nestling in your arms by page 186...
