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Prospector Hank rode down the canyon cold
Ten years on the trail, out looking for gold,
Hank found a camp, not long abandoned then
In the dust lay tracks, of cows and of men.
Why cows would be here, it did not seem right
He figured somehow he was facing a fight.

So  Hank drew his rifle and he rode slow,
Watching the ground for the tracks of his foe.
By an old pine he saw something he knew,
Lost in the duff lay a woman’s small shoe.
It wasn’t  the shoe of a common, fallen whore
It belonged to young Jan, of the general store.

Around a corner he saw six young bandits,
And a half-naked Jan, coated in dirt and grit.
Hank gave a cry, and charged out from the scrub
The bandits they froze,  expecting no one.
Hanks drew bead and let loose with his rifle
His first shot hit home, he was not one to trifle.

He rode through to Jan, smashing a straight course
Her seized her am and flung her up to the horse
Hank drove on by, his mare steel and knotted oak
The bandits they chased, would not let Jan go.
But the weight of  two, it slowed Hank to a trot,
By a boulder he stopped, this would be his spot.

He slapped the old horse, it flew away with Jan.
He took aim once more, and drilled the head-man
Bandits dismounted, too big on horseback
They settled low, and planned the next attack.
Hank held his ground and waited for the rush,
To throw them off, he put his hat on a bush.

A shot hit the hat, and Hank answered back
Sharp-shooting a fool, stopped dead in his tracks.
The other three rushed, their pistols did blast,
Hank wondered how long his stronghold would last.
The first reached the boulder, gun in his hand
But Hank fired first, and left him in the sand.

The last two they closed, each from one side
Hank flinched as a slug bite deep in his thigh.
He fell to the earth, thinking he was done for
Then rose with a surge, and a bellowing roar!
What happened right them, he never did tell;
All we know is he sent those bastards to Hell.

Jan, in the village, related the tale
And spoke of poor Hank in a piteous wail.
The townsfolk sighed, and bowed their heads low,
Six-against-one, they knew how that goes.
But as they set about mourning the dead,
Hellroaring Hank limped in on one leg.

That’s how you great grandpa earned his great name,
And won the heart of a girl half his age.
Down in the some canyon, some people tout
You can still hear the echoes of his great shout,
And for three generations the story’s been told
Of how Hellroaring Hank finally found his gold.
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