Lions in the Lair

When seven gentlemen
On stolen mares rode in
No one suspected foul play.
Seeking supper and a bed
They were amply fed
By a granger with a loft up in the hay.
Obliging their request
As the old code of the West
Says you never turn a stranger
from your door.

But their eyes were on the gold
And the shipment they were told
Was arriving the next evening right on time.
So they surveyed all the track
Of the train a-rollin' back
From Cheyenne on the new Rock Island line.
Once practiced in their deeds
They saddled up their steeds
And headed out as soldiers into war.

They claimed that they were blameless
Like Robin Hood of yore
But widows, waifs and tombstones
Were all they gave the poor.
And the gentlemen in the haymow
Were but Lions in the Lair
In the Wild West of I-o-way
When first they took Adair.

Under evening summer skies
They pried away the ties
From the track at the curve of Turkey Creek
With a rope tied to the rail
Hid along the ambush trail
Eager for the havoc they could wreak.
As the train came 'round the bend
They yanked the other end
And the engine plunged and toppled on its side.

It was the driver first who fell
As they cried the rebel yell
And lead from their revolvers
Snapped and strafed
With a gun held to his head
And a threat to shoot him dead
The guard was forced to open up the safe.
They shot at any place
Where a man dared show his face
Warning, "Don't let this day be your last ride."

Misguided Southern sons
Fighting on as if they'd won
Hooded heads and bloodied hands
The very visage of the Klan.

As they finished their harangue
The hooded robber gang
Hauled away the spoils from the crime
Angry curses from their mouths
The outlaws headed South
To lay low in Little Dixie for a time.
Sheltered there by friends
Who were hungry for revenge
For the somber toll of Johnny Reb's death knell.

They were ten years on the run
Blazing thunder from their guns
As they kept up their terror reign.
Though their Colts were sure and fast
They could not escape their past
Condemned men waiting for a train.
To perish by the sword
Would be their just reward
All other debts they'd settle up in hell.

They claimed that they were blameless
Like Robin Hood of yore
But widows, waifs and tombstones
Were all they gave the poor.
And the gentlemen in the haymow
Were but Lions in the Lair
In the Wild West of I-o-way
Just outside Adair.

Misguided Southern sons
Fighting on as if they'd won
Hooded heads and bloodied hands
The very visage of the Klan.

© Charlie Vavra, Right Riffs of Dover