Maxon Hadcock's Long Ride, Part I
Maxon Hadcock roused himself form dozing
on the back of a dun quarter-horse,
found the dim light in the far distance,
’twas his only way of staying on course.
He did not know what awaited him there,
but his gut screamed that he had to go,
though he and his horse, so long on the trail,
kept the pace both measured and slow.
So much did he want to find a cool spot,
spread his blanket out beneath desert stars,
but he had a job, and it had to get done,
and the town really wasn’t that far.
As he drew near, the lights grew much brighter,
yellow bulbs mounted high on tall poles,
cars all lined up, just like a small train,
the air tinged by the desert night's cold.
Inside buildings the people ate and drank,
they paid no heed to the lonely Maxon,
vehicles drove by, just swerving around,
ignoring the man with both horse and gun.
It was always this way, for decades now,
he was only noticed by a select few,
some higher power made sure of that,
gave him space for the task he must do.
His gut told him to turn down Sycamore,
on this quiet side street he then rode,
towards a warehouse on the edge of town,
in darkness was the big building cloaked.
He could see nothing, but could hear the grunts
of several me caught up in a brawl,
so he pulled his Colt, jumped off his horse,
and went to learn the source of it all.
Inside he found two rough-looking men
punching a paler man all to hell.
“We don’t take kindly to cheating gringos,
you’ll learn never to cross the cartel!”
One pulled a knife, then smiled viciously,
ready to carve the beaten man into bits,
Maxon cleared his throat, and pointed his gun,
said,”Boys, you know I can’t allow this...”
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2018
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