By David De Jong
Half-past nowhere on highway one,
Stands a willow, sweepin’ the sun.
Ruts from a path seen if you stare,
Remnants of a shack, yonder hills there.
Molly, Bearshoot, an’ ol’ man McGree,
Always took their turn, under that tree.
Each time they passed, it erased their tracks,
Vanishin’ from the law on their backs.
When they passed the sign, lead was spent,
No one knew, exactly where they went.
Life was reckless, rich, and flat six fast.
They knew, it was too crazy to last.
Ranger Renkins, stubborn, old as dirt,
Still wearin’ that ol’ star on his shirt.
Carried a Hawkins, Colt by his side,
Dakota mustang, his preferred ride.
He swore an oath, to uphold the law.
Those three there, were pullin’ his last straw.
Green-horn sheriff always lost their trail.
Folks thinkin’ this some legendry tale.
Renkins, Chennoah, (his mustang ride),
Took hills, lookin’, for a place to hide.
He crossed country most folk never see,
For him, it was nat’ral as could be.
He found ol’ man McGree’s hidin’ shack,
New batch whiskey, cookin’ out back.
They weren’t expectin’ no company,
When he hollered from behind a tree.
McGree pulled his triggers, bark whizzed by.
Molly an’ Bearshoot were feelin’ spry,
Jumped in their rig, took it to the floor,
Left ol’ man McGree, lying at the door.
Young Bearshoot drivin’ lickety-split,
Cursin’ the law-man, givin’ him a fit,
That flat head six, screamin’ like a breeze.
Renkins an’ Chennoah, slipped through trees.
Renkins pulled his Hawkins top the ridge,
Pulled the trigger as they crossed the bridge.
Molly an’ Bearshoot fell off the road,
A shot to the tires, made em unload.
They grazed the tree and took out the sign,
Ol’ Renkins, Chennoah, come out fine.
He cuffed em, walked em both back to town.
That ol’ highway sign – still layin’ down.