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...He turned back to see all four of his gang
staring at him, in anger and shock.
“That boy was worth thousands,”seethed out mad Bret,
his hand shifting towards his rifle stock.

Chester pull his gun in a blur of speed,
sent two slugs into the nearest forehead,
the bandit went down, but the others drew,
the air crackling with muzzle flashes and lead.

Chester hit another, straight in the heart,
then felt something bite deep into his side,
he stumbled backwards, then fired again,
his shot hit home and another man died.

Then Bret’s rifle roared, shattering his shin,
he collapsed down to the group in a heap,
but he still had his Colt, two bullets left,
aimed upwards and let fly with a screech.

Two shots hit Bret right in the sternum,
soon too he collapsed down to the dirt,
both men bleeding heavy, both wounds mortal,
they faced their last minutes on this earth.

Bret choked through blood, croaked out a rough,”Why?
I though this gang meant everything to you?”
Chester coughed,”Yes, that is what I thought,
but that boy you seized was my nephew.”

Bret never said anything ever again,
Chester slumped back, and looked up at cold stars,
praying that Ronald still sprinted away,
that his horse had kept pace long and hard…

A whole day passed, then the Marshall came out,
with a posse, Ronald, and Tim Miller,
they looked at the scene, shook their heads slowly,
said,”A fine final scene for these killers.”

But Tim found his brother, his face at peace,
hoisted the body higher up on his horse,
the other men grumbled, but Tim would not
let his kin be brought in for a reward.

He had heard everything Ronald has told,
and though his brother down dark paths had roamed,
he’d shown he hadn’t lost everything good,
and would rest quietly beneath a stone.

Back on the ranch he carved into granite
so all that who might ride by it would know,
‘Here lies Chester Miller, who lived a rough life,
but in the end managed to die a hero.’
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