Old Bill's Henry
North of Silver City, where the Gila bends and falls,
is true Apache country, where many a lonesome spirit calls.
The rocky heights and sandy bottoms struggle through the hills,
rising into Ponderosa glenns and glades, where your spirit can be fulfilled.
Cochise and Geronimo, and Mangas with Victorio, hid in those canyons,
while General Hooper and his troopers tried to kill them and their companions.
Al Sieber scouted these rare places, and Tom Horne strung along,
Looking for Apaches, and killing was their song.
But don't think the Indians were the victims, though sometimes it's true they were,
But they were pretty good at killing too, you'd best believe that for sure.
And kill they did, with wild abandon. Not only killing, but in most horrific ways,
they'd make their victims suffer long, wishing they could die for days and days and days.
Miners, trappers and settlers, into those lovely hills did sneak
and many wished they hadn't, and watched their own life-blood leak.
In later days, the Lovington stage accomodated some less bold,
and Black Bart thanked them for their trouble, and relieved them of their gold.
This is the country of the Gila, a place sometimes blessed by God,
but sometimes God turned his back, leaving evil on the prod.
Into one dark canyon ventured lonely Bill McBlum
Looking for "color," he had a burro, a pan, and a gun.
The canyon he prospected had only one fine feature,
and that was a pretty glade where the sun often couldn't reach 'er.
Bill built a small cabin, he needed his own home base.
He built it stout, in case trouble was about, with shooting slots just in case.
One fine Fall morning, Bill went out to find his gold,
he knew it was there, just not quite where, and the morning air was cold.
An elk bugled in the distance, and Bill's heart grew warmer,
if the choice was cold and full or cold and hungry, Bill always chose the former.
Carrying his fancy new Henry, in those days it was very clever,
fourteen rounds of 44-40, it would shoot as fast as he could work the lever.
"A bit small for elk," thought Bill, "but if I shoot it twice,
and hit it right, I can have backstrap for dinner, and any meat will be right nice."
The wind was in his face as the elk moved down the canyon, so Bill slipped
behind a small tree for cover; as he waited, the cold his fingers nipped.
As he stood waiting for the bull, his gun rested in the nock of the tree,
he heard a thump and his hands went numb, and for some reason he couldn't breathe.
He tried to move but something held him against the trunk
"What's this?" he thought, and then he coughed, and gore came out in a chunk.
He pushed away hard, and that's when he saw, the arrow stuck in the bark.
Straight through his chest, he was pinned there as things went dark.
Tae-wan-ho-nee watched Bill fall to the ground, and no smile crossed his face.
"White eyes don't love the land and should not be in this holy place."
The bull elk bugled again as it continued its quest for lust,
but it died a virgin moments later, death by arrow considered just.
Now perhaps you don't believe my tale, I can understand if not.
But I can prove part of the story by showing where Bill was shot.
Go North of Silver City, on past the canyon called Sheep Corral,
and there in a dark old canyon, is where this all happened, I tell you, my fine old pal.
Drop into the Gila Basin, and on the third canyon to the West,
You'll find a rotted cabin somewhere below the crest.
And just above the cabin, if you look hard you'll see,
Old Bill's rotted Henry, grown into a cottonwood tree. |
