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Poem

Cyril Flint walked Buckton’s center street,
the new sheriff of this Nebraska town,
he walked his beat, pacing up and down,
content to take in the cool morning’s peace.

A shot rang out, Cyril turned his head,
nobody ran throughout the small ville,
no people into the dusty street spilled,
instead more shots came, flying lead.

He raced for McCrullers's great bank,
it was from here the shots had come,
he heard screams amidst the guns,
his stomach rose, and courage sank.

A scatter-gun blasted out a window,
Cyril drove behind a large horse-trough,
said,”Where the hell is Deputy Scott?!
He should be here, where did he go?”

Voices laughed amidst the madness,
Cyril could hear three storming outside,
he knew he should shoot, but much as he tried,
the fear struck him with paralysis.

“The damn bastards are getting away!”
That was the shout that came at him,
from the town’s barber, Old Dandy Jim,
but Cyril’s gun hand would not raise.

Another cried,“They killed deputy Scott!”
It came from the widow Allandale,
she stepped out of the bank, so frail
that she teetered about like a top.

Cyril finally managed to stand up,
walked gingerly to the bank’s door,
saw six bodies lying on the floor,
then heard voices, loud and rough:

“Where were you, oh Sheriff Flint?
Hiding down low like a damned snake,
when lives and money they did take,
and you could not even go in!”

The words from Jim struck him hard,
He said,”I, uh, see, my deputy—”
“Don’t even try that stuff with me!”
Charged Jim,”You yellow coward!”

Cyril couldn’t speak up for himself,
he felt the knives of probing glares,
wanted to run away from there,
so he slinked back behind the hotel...

CONCLUDES IN PART II

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