The Ballad of Montana Red Dog

A frightening tale of the Old West.

Whiskey Bill and One-armed Jack

Were doggin' red-eye in the back,

When Evil, ridin' on the wind,

Blew wide the door and entered in.

A ghostly essence chilled the room--

Smoke-like it mingled with the gloom.

Its presence prophesized their doom.

It smiled at them, and then...

 

The spectre glided to the bar

As swiftly as a falling star.

He ordered up a shot of rye

And held the barkeep with his eye.

He drank it from an hourglass

Then fouled the atmosphere with gas.

Forever did the moment last--

Yes, Time itself did die.

 

He drew a deck of mystic cards--

{The puzzled patrons swallowed hard}

‘Just seven souls are all I need--

Just seven sinners to be freed’.

He cut and shuffled seven times

And mesmerized them with his rhymes.

His cunning was itself a crime.

He catered to their greed.

‘Just match the pot and beat the card’--

His bluntness caught them all off guard.

The suckers eyed each other then,

A bit reluctantly, gave in.

They anted up a dollar each--

{Not much, perhaps, but within reach}

Then waited for the cards to speak

And for their chance to win.

 

The demon dealt to every man

An upturned card then round again.

Their luck progressed from bad to worse--

As each fell victim to his curse.

Hand after hand, with sickening ease,

The stranger brought then to their knees.

‘Just one more hand,’ they begged him. ‘Please?’

He smiled and said, ‘of course’!

 

For hour after lusty hour

They played on stomachs sick and sour.

They matched the pot with every throw,

Yet Lady Luck refused to show.

Their passions like a cancer grew.

They bet a dollar, then bet two.

They sold their souls and never knew.

He dealt the final blow.

Too late the realization came

Of what was riding on their game.

The swinging of the tavern lanterns

Reduced his eyes to empty caverns.

With gathered souls the stranger rose

Then in a vapor decomposed.

In shock the soul-less puppets froze

And watched the spirit go!

 

On wind arrived, on wind returned--

A fiery vortex 'round him burned,

And no one yet has suffered fright

As chilling as that dreadful sight!

"Montana" was the range he rode.

And "red" the red-eye that had flowed.

The "dogs" were those who blindly sold

Their souls that fateful night.

Reviews

[willweb]

Very, very good. What a cool poetic story. Gambling literally with their lives or souls. Beware of strangers bearing marked cards. That was great, it was a ballad that could almost be sung. Nicely done.

[Marlon Ferguson]

Thank you, sir!