Riding through the plains,
Outlaws and Rebels locked in gold’s quest.
Horses pull and force their way onward.
Colt steel stands firm
blazing a harden trail.
The riders move toward the Mexican Line.
They cut a path of sorrow
leading to their only true goal.
Widows mourn their losses.
A sad undertaker smiles-
Loss is not always unprofitable.
Sad songs are sung.
The riders never look back.
Pulled by the power of amnesty,
They enter a small Mexican town.
The village is quiet and dusty
As the riders moved through the street.
The bell tower rings a slow chime.
In and out the bell sounds,
Ringing one time each
For the still riders.
Seven rings, seven pauses
Fill the dry air of nothingness.
The children’s eyes are blackened coal.
A senorita approaches from a clay building.
Her dark hair plays over her slender, brown Shoulders.
She points to the small saloon.
The hot sun beats down unmercifully.
Dark men play cards silently
As the sleek salamander skirts the dirt floor.
The worm is devoured quickly from the clear Bottle.
All eyes turn to the riders
Their guns still nestled to their sides.
From the balcony seven shots, seven pauses,
Ringing one time each for the still riders.
Joseph B. St. John