GARY CRUM 
Northern Kentucky
About Gary Crum

 

 

 

The Roy Gartin Gang

Roy Gartin was but a young lad
When first he shot a man.
He shot him clean through hat and head
As well as glove and hand.

The man he shot sure wasn't bad,
And was the law's near kin,
So Roy became a fugitive
And drew like men to him.

Each man he got was wanted sure
Each for some evil deeds.
They had a tag upon their heads
These dang'rous human weeds.

Luke Jones was one, a cruel badman
Wanted for murder-rape.
Montana Mike was also there
A stealing, lying jake.

The final man who filled Roy's Gang
Was nicked the "Marshall Tester."
He'd shot a lawman in the Breaks,
And went by Bronco Lester.

The four became a rav'nous gang
And 'round that rugged land
The towns folk and the pilgrims too
Fear in their hearts did fan.

The Gartin Gang would steal and kill
And rustle cattle too;
A plague like locusts and like flood
-- A deadly, daring crew.

They came one night to Jackson Flats,
Far down the River Thor;
And there they killed the county sheriff
And robbed the general store.

This awful deed was the last straw
For folks 'round there about.
"We've got to get this evil gang,"
The people all did shout.

The bounty lept a thousand each,
And two for Gartin's head
"'Live if you can, but if you can't
We'll also take 'em dead."

But no man hunters did appear,
To take the gold in hand
Though towns folk sent posters afar
Throughout the prairie land.

Then one town soul called Ragged Ben,
Who once had served with Lee
Said "I'll do it sure, if I get
'Least one to go with me."

The men were loath to risk their lives,
In that wild untamed land,
Each had a wife and family,
'Cept for the ragged man.

The only one who had no spouse
And who was still of age
Was Dee Anne Smith, Tom's oldest child,
A cowgirl of the Sage.

Dee tossed her head and boldly stepped
In front of all the men
"I sure can shoot and I can ride
And I will help you Ben."

There were no more to take the role,
And though the men felt bad,
When all was said those two remained:
That's all the hope they had.

The Gartin Gang knew nought of this,
As they rolled in riches stole
And they spent their loot, too loudly sure,
In a place called Watson's Hole.

They lingered there, so cocky sure
And drank at Nell's Saloon,
A June fortnight spent in that place
By bar and brass spittoon.

"Its time we left," Roy cried one day,
"We've due a dark new moon."
With protest did the gang comply
And left the old saloon.

Something seemed wrong in Roy's keen mind
As they walked into the street
The old dirt lane was way too calm,
Fear in his heart did beat.

He grabbed his Colt, and glanced around
The all-too-quiet town,
And then he saw a rifle flash
And saw Luke crumple down.

Mike and Bronco took cover then
And shot wild all about,
But Roy dropped down and aimed his gun:
Ben's barrel had stuck out.

He fired four shots onto the roof
'Cross from the town's lone inn
Two went just wide but the next two
Drove deep in Ragged Ben.

Ben doubled up, with mortal wounds
But squeezed off one more shot.
His dying thought:  to send a sound
Somehow to help Dee out

It did his bidding, though he never knew:
That shot caused Roy to run
And jump behind the water trough
Fleeing Ben's deadly gun.

And Bronco Lester too was fooled
To peek where Ben had hid
And left his head too long in view
For a man who loved his lid.

Cowgirl Dee Anne was standing square
Behind Sam's Stable's door,
Its hick'ry boards were thick and new
-- They'd stop a forty-four.

Her only weapon, though t'was no bust:
Winchester's repreat gun.
Filled up with shells, she took a bead
And sent old Bronco one.

The shot rang loud and oh-so-true
From out the Winchester.
The echo from the hills was heard
By them all - 'cept Lester.

Now two men yet did face the maid,
Gartin plus Montana,
And she was spied now full outright
Like a red bandana.

Montana took his two colt guns:
Chambered big forty-four
He fired the one, then fired the other
Dashing t'ward stable door.

The bullets struck the hick'ry boards
And kicked up clouds of dust.
He boldly ran across the street,
He yelled and spit and cussed.

The maid did stand her safer ground
And when Mike crossed the door
She sent a bullet in his craw
And in his eye, one more.

Now Roy had seen much more than he
Thought he would ever see -
His gang was gone and this bold girl
Was bold as she could be.

He would not take Montana's place
By seeing her as nought.
He had two men dead in the street
'Cause how this woman fought.

He ran back into Nell's Saloon
Dodging a rifle shot
And dashed quick through the squat back door
And cross the old feed lot.

Not slowing down, to give her time
To find another place,
To the back door of the stable
Quickly he did race.

He saw Dee Anne, not ten yards hence,
And fired a shot too fast.
She stumbled there, against the door
The gun shot from her grasp.

Dee fell back hard, Roy fired again,
Just past her bobbing head,
And then he took a calmer aim
to make this maiden dead.

Dee Ann did fumble for her gun
To swing around and shoot,
but she well knew her time was up
and all her chances moot.

Roy pulled the trigger and steeled his wrist,
against the shot's harsh bark,
But the gun was quiet as a mouse;
Roy's countenance grew dark.

He reached into his ammo belt
and pushed a bullet free
But now the timing fell to her --
new possum up the tree.

Roy cleared a round and chambered one
and cocked the gun to aim,
But Dee was not just sitting there,
Thank you just the same.

Dee had her gun and had Roy's heart
dead fixed within her sights,
And even as he raised his gun
She snuffed that badman's lights.

                * * * *
Back in the town, they heard the news
and welcomed home brave Dee,
who rode off happy to her home
with all the bounty fee.

Yes, the Gartin Gang was very cruel
And filled with desperate men,
But they are dead and the prairie safe
Thanks to Dee and Ragged Ben.

© 2002, Gary Crum

 

Deputy Sam Hobart's Eulogy

Well, John, I'm goin' to say a few final words
Like the kindly town's folk asked today.
I've searched my head real hard to find just the right lines
-- every nice and true thing I could say.

This eulogy job in the past was always done
By Delbert James, our town's late Pastor;
And if he was sick it most often would fall then
To the late church elder LeMaster.

I am probably a plumb poor cowboy to choose -
An expert at speeches I'm sure not,
But I'll give it a true try and stumble along:
I honored to give you my best shot.

It was good Pastor James himself once said to me
Before a burial much like this,
That you should always find some good things to recall --
A few positive life facts to list.

Well, I've found four real nice things to say about you
After thinkin' for a little while
So now I will send you off on your final ride
With truths fittin' your own special style . . .

First truth:  in all the long, proud history of this town
None before has had such an effect.
No major event, nor one man nor one woman,
Has changed everyone quite so direct.

A second truth:  no person livin' 'round these parts
Has seen such a fine funeral line.
The mourner's parade from town to this restin' place
Took double the previous long time.

Thirdly, no man's grave will ever likely become
More popular for visits by folk.
And fourthly, but sure not the least, of all your peers
You were most diligent - no slowpoke.

Yes, John, of all your comrades and close bosom friends
Your deeds stood out, by all it's been said --
Your true zeal and commitment to your chosen work
Was seen in the type of life you led.

Now each of these items I recount from the heart,
Though, John, your time with us was real short.
We all only have near about forty-eight hours
Our knowin' of you now to report.

But these four compliments ev'ryone will agree,
Standin' here in the Idaho sun,
Fit no cowboy better than they sure fit you, John.
You were one in a hundred million.

Now let me take time to give a mite more detail
About the four nice points I just made;
And may good Pastor James, up in heaven above,
Overlook what things I must yet say.

First, Mr. John Doe, yes, Grandpa Padderson says
You were the town event of all time.
The damage you did to our fine little village
Dwarfed even the blizzard of ought-nine.

Second, more people showed up for this funeral,
Than anyone else ever did have.
Though I realize they are all just waitin' here
for the first chance to spit on your grave.

Third, they will be comin' back quite often compared
To the other gravesites that we keep.
That is the beauty of plantin' your coffin here
Smack dab in the town's biggest trash heap.

John, you and your two friends arrived here yesterday
 - they are residin'in my jail cell --
And the town has you three mangy varmits to thank
For the mournful sad tales we now tell.

Oh, and you were far worse than your two henchmen were
At the elder's meetin' in our church
When you three kicked down the door, brandishin' your guns
And then men's pockets for gold did search . . .

Oh, yes, you were the bestest badman of them all,
Standin' head and big broad shoulders up.
The other two wanted just to steal the hard cash --
But you witnesses' mouths had to shut.

And when the sheriff heard shots and ran t'ward the church
To halt your fast flight down the back street,
The other two outlaws wounded him and rode by --
But you stopped to steal his brave heartbeat.

The evil you did to the people living here
Can't best be measured in coins of gold,
But in the grievin' hearts that stand 'round me today
And the sad fun'rals we must yet hold.

Oh, I've just thought of a fifth "nice" statement to make:
You made the town happy as can be
When our posse caught up with you three men today
And you got yourself shot dead by me.

John, Pastor James would say no one can know for sure
What judgment another man will meet;
But the consensus here as we lower you down?:
Your new home gets closer by six feet.

© 2003, Gary Crum

Orn'ry Gnaw Bone, 1898

Bar G-3 ranch hands could never get rich
Though they rode a range that was long and steep.
Their brand was an unpopular outfit,
And the best cowmen they never could keep.

Rex, the Bar G-3 foreman and trail boss
Was well known for his harsh corner cuttin',
A trait that gained no more pay for the men
So real good riders his outfit would shun.

Now Rex once got mired in a fix, while on
The fall '98 drive to Fort Russell.
He was hobbled 'cause cookie Jasper quit --
Rex was stuck in Rawlings, way off schedule.

He removed his "Boss of the Plains" Stetson,
Slumped on his trail-wise old jet black cayoose,
Scratched his tanned bald head, and gritted his teeth:
There just weren't any options left to choose.

He had asked Murphy, the hotel steak cook
If he wanted to join them on the trail,
But he declined the job, and the low pay,
And with all other town cooks Rex did fail.

The eight cowhands and the steers were waitin'
And Rex had no one to handle a pan --
But then Will, the Boise City waddie,
Remembered 'bout the town's new stable hand.

He had heard the hand was not from these parts
And he may have been some kind of a cook.
He got stranded when the stage was waylaid
And all of his money, plus his watch, got took.

So Rex rode to the nearby stable yard
Where a small bearded man sat on a cot.
Rex almost turned back and gave up his search,
But this thin stable hand was his last shot.

So he cleared his throat and gave a "howdy,"
Then asked the man's name and if he could stew.
The man grinned and said "I'm Henri Narbonne,
And I've had two years at Le Cordon bleu.

This confusin' answer to his question
Made the trail boss a mite more contrary --
This man's accent was way too foreign-like,
But he knew he couldn't in Rawlings tarry.

Yes, Rex was so desp'rate to get movin'
That he offered "Orn'ry Gnaw Bone" the post.
The man accepted, grabbed his carpetbag,
And walked from the stable with his new host.

The two joined the melee in the street, and
The new man climbed up in the chuck wagon
And lucky for him Rex's teen son Ned
Drove the two mules:  Angry and Sullen.

Many miles later they came to a stop --
Ned made a quick cold snack in the twilight.
The cowboys ate the hardtack and jerky
Loud gripin' as they bedded for the night.

Ned took care of both Angry and Sullen
While Orn'ry looked over the cookie's kit.
The stuff Jasper put in the Moline rig
Was strewn all about in the midst of it.

(Jasper was known for his clutter and sloth,
And for his thin soups and rock hard biscuits.
Rum interfered with his cookin' at times,
But his job never slowed his bad habits.)

Jasper had bought some caribou jerky,
Two big Dutch ovens and tins of hard tack;
Muslin bags of sugar, flour and meal;
Bottles of rum, a huge slab of fatback  . . .

Dry yeast packs, hops, saleratus soda,
Tins of pears, bags of 'taters and coffee;
Salt, pepper, chilis, flour and dried corn;
Vinegar, and jugs of Kentuck' whiskey.

There was a water barrel in the back
Next to the wagon box for the bedrolls;
A canvas sling for found-wood and kindling,
A coffee grinder, some beef with bug holes . . .

Wood butter churn; varied hooks, pans and pots;
Jars of molasses and blackberry jam;
A hodgepodge of bent flatware and tin plates,
And, gratefully, a whole bagged Smithfield ham.

Orn'ry had his own fine saucepans and whisks,
Plus rare spices brought from far away France:
Rosemary, brown cinnamon, and saffron;
Plus Mex'can vanilla, foods to enhance.

There was fresh milk, from a cow that was towed,
Honey from a hollow oak tree they passed,
Chukar eggs, plus six rabbits the men shot
On the trial, with their six-guns drawn so fast.

That evening Orn'ry and Ned did not sleep.
They first put the ovens in the camp fire,
Then rummaged through the creek woods with a torch
More wild cuisine growin' there to acquire.

Orn'ry's grateful heart yearned to make a stir
When the trail gang got up for the new day.
He wanted these untaught, cob-tough cowpokes
To discover the joys of the gourmet.

Oh, how his soul soared to be standin' there
Out of the stable and before a pan.
He relished the joys that can only come
To an artist in touch with his elan.

The cowhands and Rex awoke that next morn
And entered a strange world new and so rare
The chuckwagon meals were never the same
After Orn'ry had a night to prepare.

He had rendered fat back to get clear lard,
Sifted flour, some with sugar, in deep trays,
Then folded in the fresh eggs with his whisks,
To make flaky croissants and sweet bignets.

He also brewed strong coffee, pippin' hot
(Orn'ry well knew not to change this staple),
and served them then thin-sliced peanut-fed ham
Topped with a star-shaped candied wild apple.

He fashioned for each man a tall scone
Basted with a rich molasses cream sauce,
And toast points with white icing Bar G-3's
Perched gently on the top of each, crisscrossed.

In the neat lunch packs the men were given
As they all mutely rose from their dawn fare
Were fluffy buttered cinnamon biscuits
And in an oil sack: a baked rum-glossed pear.

The men, still mute, returned back that evening
To a meal designed to make a big splash.
The supper that Orn'ry had concocted
Was crafted with a king's kitchen panache.

The obligatory coffee was served,
And an appetizer for each was there:
Dandelion greens, with roasted pine nuts,
Mixed with vinegar and light juice of pear.

One entree was pan-fried deboned rabbit
In browned Wellington crust and stuffed with ham;
Accompanied by a big round yeast roll
He injected with warm blackberry jam.

As a second main course Orn'ry steeped up
A bean-chili-corn and wild garlic stew,
Served thick (and flavored with minced escargot,
Which he could not tell the men, Orn'ry knew).

He dished up hot mashed saffron potatoes
Laced lavishly with fresh butter and cream.
Dessert was vanilla ladyfingers
Split lengthwise with pecan chips in the seam.

The cowboys all looked 'round at each other,
As they silently consumed  this fine feast,
Then they took their plates to the chuckwagon,
Washed the dishes and the pots did police.

(Now in all the history of the West
From flat prairie to farthest mountain top,
No gang of rough cowpokes ever did that --
It was almost as if time itself stopped.)

By end of the trail the men were robust
When usually they'd be ill and thin.
The amazing meals that the French chef made
Caused them all to enjoy the trial again.

Orn'ry stayed on with the Bar G-3 brand
And with the hard men he grew to respect.
Rex even sprung for a decent cook's wage,
And fine fixin's for Orn'ry to perfect.

And though Bar G-3 men still don't get rich
And their hard trail is just as long and steep,
Now Bar G-3's the top brand on the range,
And the best of the cowmen it does keep.

© 2003, Gary Crum

 

We asked Gary how he came the write this poem and he told us: The poem is on its face a fun look at some gruff cowpokes getting something so much better than expected that they are totally shocked.  (By the way, the famous Le Cordon Bleu French cooking school mentioned started in 1895,
and saleratus soda was a predecessor to baking soda.)  On another level, the poem is a parable about those managers - whether trail bosses or office bosses -- who deny employees job satisfaction in the blind pursuit of excessive frugality. When Rex accidentally hires a top quality employee who takes pride in his job, it turns out not to be a waste, but rather a much-needed investment in the health and self-worth of the Bar-G-3 workforce.

 

About Gary Crum:

I enjoy the history of the Old West.  My mother was born on a homestead in Chester, Montana, but moved East as a child so I am more of a city boy.  I run a local health department in Northern Kentucky and have two hobbies besides writing cowboy poetry:  hunting wild turkeys and fly fishing for bluegills.

In 2003, Gary Crum published A Cowboy's Star:

 

and it is available exclusively through SilverCreek Books & Music.