Make your own free website on

Ghost's Tales Of The West

Welcome to the west...

  A place of ancient mystery and often violent clashes,
the old west holds an interest and intrigue for many that
is both inexplicable and enjoyable. Below, you will find 
a few of my offerings, in the area of western 
poetry/storytelling. Enjoy your trip back through time....

The Brave

The brave is up at dawn
     His duties to perform,
Sits by the cooking fire
     And lets his flesh get warm.
He'll hunt today for meat,
     Some game he'll seek to kill.
To feed the hungry ones,
     Make stomach growling still.
The camp has come to life,
     At war the children play.
The women talk and laugh
     While at their tasks they stay.
Other braves are up, too,
     Good-natured voices heard.
His people are as one,
     By daily need they're spurred.
The brave takes up his bow
     And arrows, hunting knife
He moves into the hills,
     So vital, full of life.

The Gunfight      
The vaqueros lounged at noontime
     In siesta beneath the sun,
They watched the 'Malo Hombre' go by,
     And never had seen such a one.
Though dusty and travel worn,
    His face was as hard as a flint
And beneath his heavy dark brows
    His icy blue eyes had a glint!
The gunman continued his pace
    Steadily down the long street,
In search of the town's lone lawman
    He'd waited for so long to meet.
At his side his Colt loosely rode,
    In its normal place on his hip,
Once again ready for action.
    His movement was lithe as a whip.
Yes, many a man had fallen
    To a well-placed shot of hot lead
From the faithful Colt in his hand,
    And into the dust they had bled.
At the first, in the beginning,
    The gunman was more than aware,
Death could take him at any time.
    He fought with great caution and care.
Yet through the long passing of years
    His heart had quite hardened to steel.
Death, to him, no longer held fear,
    Its clutches would he never feel.
A frightened woman's door was shut
    Cutting off the scene from the street.
She wished no part of this violence
    That so many men rushed to meet.
As the warrior clad in black broadcloth
    Continued on his fateful trip,
He passed two boys playing lawman
    And outlaw, toy guns on their hips.
As he passed they continued their game
    Unaware of drama that day.
A life taking shot would be fired
    And someone would then become clay.
Down there, at the end of the street
    By the jailhouse waited a man
Who wore a grey five-pointed star,
    A six-shooter close to his hand.
Sure of himself, yet quite aware
    A bullet could claim him one day,
The lawman stood fast his own ground
    Determined he'd not walk away.
When he first pinned on the tin star,
    The weight of it, yes, he did know,
The need to stand tall for the law
    Even if to dust he must go.
He stepped calmly into the street
    To meet the dark bringer of woe
Words of his wife came to haunt him
    Beseeching him just not to go.
He knew she could be widowed
    At the outcome of this cruel fight,
In spite of what may be the cost
    He had to stand up for the right.
The two continued advancing
    They steadily closed up the gap,
Each man moved to meet his own fate.
    One of them would end in Death's trap.
The space between them yet shortened,
    Their eyes locked together as one.
The time had arrived for the conflict,
    And soon the dread deed would be done.
The mothers of children sensed tension
    In the air, and slipped off the street
Taking their charges to safety
    As two men faced out in the heat.
Gunman and lawman stopped walking,
    Prepared there to play their own parts.
A stillness fell over the street
    With pounding of onlooker's hearts.
Then quick...with movements of lightning
    The two drew their pistols as one!
The jarring explosions of sound
    Announced that the battle was done.
"I got him!" gloated the gunman,
    Assured of a victory won.
He knew that the lawman would fall
    His purpose for coming was done!

Yet as he trumpeted vict'ry
    The dark gunman's vision grew dim.
The spreading wet stain on his shirt front
    Told all that the loser was him!
His belly was hot as by fire,
    His hand had just dropped his gun.
The lawman, still standing had turned
    To his wife, who started to run.
The gunman fell into the dirt,
    Would be buried inside of Boot Hill.
The lawman returned to his home,
    Continued to stand for right, still.           

My world of links

Ghost's Main Page
Mosey back on home....
Ghost That Walks
A warrior's search for magic
Indian Fighters
A prairie battle between mountain men and a war party