Cursive Kills, Part I
Malcolm Higgs sat in his office,
still writing a brief for a case,
and doing it by oil lamp
since the sun had left with the day.
Outside, in the Montana town
the cowboys had come in for drinks,
to spend their money on a spree,
on booze and hookshops, one would think.
Malcolm paid little heed to them,
cowhands rarely used barristers,
but when he saw ‘Wolf’ Michaelsen
his unease fast began to stir.
Wolf was a rancher outside town,
and most people called him a snake,
said he was fond of changing brands,
all mavericks he found he would take.
Some whispered that his cowpunchers
also worked as a bandit gang,
rustling steers and robbing stages,
but no evidence tied the man.
some even said that Wolk himself
had been there at Barton place
when Mack Barton has been shot dead,
his wife and young daughters disgraced.
Malcolm had his own suspicions,
but was most annoyed by the fact
that his own plot backed up to Wolf’s,
and Michaelsen just hated that.
He’d try to buy him out three times,
but Malcolm had always refused,
then shots had stuck high on his house,
and he’d found his sheep-dog abused.
Then one of his horses vanished,
and it became quite clear and plain
that Wolf did seek to drive him off,
so he could move in and stake claim.
And now that poltroon wandered drunk,
out painting the town with his crew,
until he stared through the window,
then Malcolm came into his view.
Some idea came into his mind,
so he stomped up on the boardwalk,
flung open the front door with force,
then into Mal’s office did stalk.
He smelled of the priciest whiskey,
mixed with some soiled dove’s perfume,
pounded his fist on a desk and said,
“Now Higgs, I’m about done with you!
I’ve tried not to be hard on you,
since there’s just one lawyer in town,
but I ain’t fooling anymore,
I want your land, I want it now!”
He pulled a gun from off his hip,
spun it once, so Malcolm could see,
said, “Sign the deed over right now,
write it up, and make it fancy!”
“Fancy?” said Malcolm, much confused,
and at the brief Wolf then pointed,
Malcolm looked down and only saw
his handwriting in plain cursive.
He’d long known that the man was not
the type who had seen lots of school,
he had survived by being tough,
with his fists and gun he was cruel.
So Malcolm just gave a deep sigh,
“No land is worth being dead,”
then pull out a sheet of paper,
and Wolf dictated what it said...
CONTINUES IN PART II
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